The sky above the Linton estate simmered in a late afternoon hue, a bleeding canvas of pink and gold. Gravel crunched under the wheels of the black Rolls-Royce as it swept up the long, winding driveway toward the towering manor. Inside the car, Thatcher sat rigidly beside his mother, his palms slightly clammy despite the cool air-conditioned chill.
Mr. Linton stood at the grand entrance, his sharp silhouette cutting against the brilliance of the setting sun. Though older now, his figure remained imposing — an iron will wrapped in a tailored suit. His gray hair, combed neatly back, gleamed like steel, and his eyes, those piercing blue sentinels, were locked onto the car pulling up.
As the door opened, Thatcher stepped out, smoothing the wrinkles from his blazer. At seventeen, he carried the awkward grace of youth, tall but not yet filled out, with curious eyes that mirrored his mother's softness more than his grandfather's cold fire.
"Thatcher," Mr. Linton said, his voice a gravelly rumble edged with unexpected warmth. "Come."
Without further pleasantries, he turned, expecting them to follow. Thatcher exchanged a look with his mother — a silent confirmation that there was little room for casual conversation in Mr. Linton's world — and hurried after the old man.
The corridors of the estate stretched out like the arteries of some ancient, slumbering beast. Oil paintings of somber ancestors glared down at them, their heavy frames casting long shadows on the parquet floors. The house smelled of leather, dust, and something deeper — a kind of ancestral authority that was difficult to name.
"It's good that you've come to visit," Mr. Linton said as they walked. "This place... it's part of who you are. You should know it."
Thatcher nodded, feeling the vastness of the house pressing in around him. His mother walked a step behind, silent as a shadow.
Mr. Linton's tone shifted, growing graver.
"But there are dangers, boy. Family dangers." His voice lowered further, and he glanced over his shoulder. "Particularly from your uncle, Peeta Brian."
"My uncle?" Thatcher asked, frowning.
"Your granduncle, to be precise. My brother," Mr. Linton growled. "A serpent. A cunning one. You are never to be alone with him. You see him, you turn away. You hear his name, you remember what I say."
Thatcher nodded, puzzled by the intensity in his grandfather's eyes.
"He's after things that don't belong to him. Always has been," Mr. Linton continued. "Greedy, patient. Dangerous."
They reached a large oak door at the end of a dim corridor. Mr. Linton produced a heavy iron key and turned it in the lock with a metallic groan. The door swung inward, revealing a room unlike any Thatcher had ever seen.
Statues filled the chamber, hundreds of them, arranged on pedestals, shelves, and tables. Some were life-sized marble heroes, others were tiny bronze warriors, delicate and fierce. The room had the sacred hush of a museum, dust motes drifting lazily in the shafts of light slanting through narrow windows.
Mr. Linton strode with purpose to a smaller table near the back. On it rested a miniature statue of a knight, no larger than a man's hand. The knight stood poised in mid-charge, his armor exquisitely detailed, his sword gleaming under the light.
Beneath the statue, carved into the wood of the pedestal, was a single word: Getty.
Mr. Linton picked it up carefully, weighing it in his hand as if measuring its worth beyond gold. He turned back to Thatcher, his expression unreadable.
"This," he said, voice almost reverent, "is not just a statue. It is an heirloom. One of the rarest in the world."
Thatcher stepped closer, entranced by the craftsmanship. It looked almost alive, as if the knight might leap from the pedestal at any moment.
"There are only three like it in the world," Mr. Linton said. "One with me. One with the King of England. And one... with the King of the Emirates."
"The Emirates?" Thatcher echoed, awestruck.
Mr. Linton nodded. "It's a symbol. A token of loyalty, of legacy. Whoever possesses it holds a kind of invisible power."
Thatcher reached out hesitantly, and Mr. Linton allowed him to take the statue. It was heavier than it looked, cold and somehow thrilling against his skin.
"I want you to have it," Mr. Linton said.
Thatcher blinked, stunned. "Me?"
"You are the future of the Linton bloodline. It's only fitting."
"But…" Thatcher glanced at his mother, who stood quietly by the door, offering no guidance.
Mr. Linton's gaze darkened. "Guard it well, Thatcher. This statue is not just valuable. It is powerful. In the wrong hands — in his hands — it could cause ruin."
Thatcher swallowed, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over him with the statue.
"Never let Peeta Brian near it. Never."
The warning was sharp, slicing through the room like a knife. Thatcher nodded solemnly, gripping the knight tighter.
Mr. Linton seemed satisfied. He turned back toward the door, his voice fading into casual command once more.
"Come. Dinner awaits."