The days that followed Lucien's departure were deceptively calm. The manor's halls no longer echoed with footsteps of the unseen, the nights passed without wails or whispers, and Eleanor almost convinced herself the curse had weakened.
Yet Nathaniel remained watchful, his every glance toward the moors sharpened with suspicion. He spent long hours locked away with ledgers and ancient tomes, as though seeking answers buried in parchment.
One morning, Eleanor found him in the library, his hair unkempt from sleepless nights, ink smudged on his hand.
"You exhaust yourself," she said gently, laying her hand over his.
He looked up, eyes shadowed but softening at her touch. "I would sooner burn my soul than see you bound to this place. There must be a way to break the covenant without blood."
Eleanor's heart ached. "And if there isn't?"
His jaw tightened. "Then I will bind myself in your stead. If a sacrifice must be made, let it be mine."
