The first folder I opened was titled "Gioffre." I could not help but pause as I thumbed through its pages—each document confirmed what I had read in an ancient, tattered book.
According to that book, Gioffre was once an illegitimate child of a duke, a scion who, by fate's cruel hand, ascended to the dukedom following the mysterious, untimely death of his family. The book had only mentioned that his mother was a gypsy— nothing more than a single, provocative line.
A gypsy? The word stirred unsettling images in my mind. Was she meant to be nothing more than a dancer or a fortune teller in that narrative?
In my world, the term "gypsy" carried all the charm and mysticism one would expect: a life on the margins, filled with passionate art, whispered secrets, and the occasional dark magic.
