The Chateau revealed its secrets slowly—like scratching at your skin until it bled.
Lucian's Grimoire fluttered again the next morning, long after the others had begun exploring the halls. Its pages were warm. Not glowing, not urgent—expectant. A low hum traced through the echochords in its binding, as though it were remembering something it had never seen.
He followed it down a long corridor of shattered glass and snow-dusted carpet, past a half-frozen mirror that reflected no one and a staircase that ended in mist.
Eventually, the hall narrowed and pressed inward, like lungs holding breath. At the very end: a sealed parlor door, etched with silver glyphs too old to parse. His Grimoire pulsed softly, and with a murmur, it opened the lock.
The door groaned open.
Inside, warmth. Actual warmth.
