The journal of Salvadaro Harbin Glumbo contains years of entries, but only the two most recent carried information vital to the investigation of the D'Albergaria Estate. These were written in the wake of the crash of O Nazerack Expresso and the subsequent days spent in Aldeia de Raiz.

Entry 1 - Night of the Crash

I arrived today in the village of Aldeia de Raiz, escorted not by fanfare, but by tension. A murder had just occurred in the square, so instead of a proper welcome, I was guided past a knot of frightened villagers and grim-faced guards. Still, Rodrigo de Mayo, the mayor, pushed through the crowd to greet me. He seemed genuinely pleased—relieved, even—to finally meet the so-called Lord of Mag Duinn. I tried to match his warmth, though inside I felt hollow. I can usually sense the emotional tides of others, but without my powers, everything is simply… noise. Confusing and painfully human.

Rodrigo spoke briefly of the estate prepared for me, a place of old stone and ancestral weight on the outskirts of Raiz. He mentioned its importance, its legacy, but whenever I asked the hired staff about its history, they stiffened or changed the subject entirely. The halls feel crowded with whispers I cannot hear, shadows I cannot command. Once, I would have known every secret by simply existing within the walls. Now I lie awake listening for creaks in the floorboards like any powerless man who fears the unknown.

I have pretended strength for the sake of others who think of me as a god, but since wreck of the Nazerack Expresso, I have been no more than a man - perhaps even less, as I am not practiced in mortal ways. They look to me for guidance—perhaps out of habit, perhaps because I foolishly still carry myself like something more than flesh. But here, in these pages, I admit the truth: I am frightened. My wife, Magda, has begged me to return with her to our home in Ayodar where she believes I might recover, or at least be safe. She is afraid for me, and I understand why. I am afraid too. Every divine ember in me feels cold.

Yet… when I looked upon Raiz today—its crumbling houses, its strained faces, its people living on the edge of something bleak—I felt a hand close around my heart. Have I truly been so absent all these years? This is my land. These are my people. Power or no power, I cannot simply leave them to whatever hunger is gnawing at this place. So I will stay. I will help however I can. Perhaps the gods have stripped me bare so that I may finally see what I should have seen long ago.

Entry 2 - This Evening

The voices have grown worse. I hear them everywhere—behind the walls, beneath the floorboards, whispering from rooms I haven’t yet found. Some speak in tones I almost recognize: old courtiers from Ayodar, the strangers from the wreck, echoes of companions long dead. Others are unfamiliar, muttering in languages I cannot place, speaking of grievances and hungers. But one voice rises above all the rest—a crackling, brittle feminine rasp that seems to come from the bones of the house itself. She speaks as though she is watching me. As though she has waited a long, long time for my return, though I have never set foot here before. The noise is constant. I have barely slept since arriving in Raiz.

This morning, while exploring the study, I found a staircase I swear had not existed the day before. The staircase led upward to an attic—dusty, candlelit, arranged as though someone had prepared it mere moments before my arrival. I felt the same presence there that I feel pressing against my skull at night: the house, breathing.

Magda has taken to her spirit board again, tracing circles with a trembling planchet as she communes with whatever entities linger within these walls. They speak to her more readily than to me—perhaps they sense I am diminished. Perhaps they simply prefer her mortal openness. Tonight they warned her of murder and bloodshed. Her fear was sharp enough that I felt it in my teeth—but beneath it, there was something else. A spark. Excitement. She has always had an unsettling affinity for the macabre; prophecy only feeds it.

Despite her trembling, she agreed to investigate the attic with me. I am grateful. Whatever waits above is beyond my understanding in my current state, and I no longer trust my senses. The voices grow louder each hour, and I cannot tell which are real. Perhaps none of them are. Perhaps all of them are. But the house—she—wants something from us. And I fear we are already too deep within her to turn back.