Lyra
By the time I reached the main hall, I couldn't remember why I felt cold.
Not the kind of cold that touches your skin. The other kind—the one that coils low in your spine, making you forget how to breathe right. I'd wandered back without realizing it, my feet silent against the polished floors, my hand clenched so tightly I'd left crescent moons in my palm.
I don't remember opening the door. I don't remember walking away. But I remember the eyes.
Judging. Waiting.
The estate was beautiful in that hollow, deliberate way—like a painting that looked back at you. Everywhere I turned, someone was already watching. Guards with polite smiles. Maids that never blinked. And the windows—so many damned windows—let in light but offered no warmth.
It wasn't a home. It was a cage that looked like a palace.
By noon, I was sure of one thing: I wasn't alone, even when I was.
---
Later That Day...
I tried not to think about the door with the phoenix carved into it. Not about the voice that sounded like mine. I tried to pretend it was stress, exhaustion, or my imagination cracking beneath the curse. But even my lies felt like someone else's thoughts.
I skipped lunch and walked the estate instead, trying to make sense of the layout. It wasn't built like a normal house—it shifted, subtly. A hallway I swore curved left now went right. A staircase I passed earlier now led nowhere.
At one point, I found myself standing at the threshold of that west corridor again. The same air—dry, humming with a static that curled against my skin. But this time, I didn't cross it. Not yet. Something in me knew better.
Something in the house was trying to pull me back.
I left the wing. I made it halfway to the courtyard before a shadow peeled from the wall behind me.
Tristan
She doesn't know I'm watching. Not really.
I don't do it because I care—at least, that's what I keep telling myself.
It's because the estate responds to her. And it shouldn't.
When I inherited this place, it was dead. Quiet. Obedient.
Now, the halls shift. The wards tremble. And yesterday, a sealed door tried to open—for her.
She's dangerous. Not because of her curse. Because the house seems to think she belongs to it.
And I don't know why.
-----
Lyra
I told myself I was just walking. Just stretching my legs.
But I was lying. I was searching.
Not for anything in particular—just something that made sense, something that didn't feel like it was watching me back.
The western wing was quiet again. No servants. No guards. Just that breathless hush, like the house itself had paused mid-sentence.
I stopped at the same corridor, staring into the dim light that slanted in from stained-glass windows. It looked...longer than I remembered. Narrower.
I took one step in.
The temperature dropped—not by degrees, but all at once, as if I'd stepped into someone else's memory. The stone beneath my feet no longer echoed. My heartbeat was the only sound, and even that felt muted.
Another step. Then another.
Doors lined the hallway, but none of them looked the same. Some were old wood etched with unfamiliar symbols. One was scorched black like it had survived a fire. Another had no handle—just smooth, flawless stone. But they were all...breathing.
Not literally. Not really.
And yet—
The air pulsed in rhythm, like the corridor itself had a heartbeat.
I stopped at the door I knew was the one from before—the one with the phoenix. But the carving was gone.
No emblem. No glyphs. Just smooth, pale stone.
For a moment, I wondered if I'd dreamed it. But my palm still ached, and when I reached for the surface, I flinched—the cold seared through my skin like ice splintering beneath the flesh.
Something was still here. Hidden.
I backed away. Turned around.
That's when I noticed it.
There were four doors when I entered.
Now there were five.
I hadn't heard anything open. Hadn't seen it appear. But it was there—slightly ajar, just enough for a sliver of shadow to stretch across the floor like a reaching hand.
Something moved behind it.
Not a person. Not anything human.
I blinked, and the door was closed again.
This time, I ran.
By the time I reached the garden balcony, my breath was ragged and my mind was splintering into fog.
I leaned against the stone railing, willing the nausea to pass.
There were only four doors.
That was what I kept telling myself.
There were only ever four.
---
The breeze didn't help. Neither did the sunlight. It all felt wrong—off-tempo, out of place. Like reality had tripped and was still pretending it hadn't.
I let out a shaky breath, pressing my palms against the cold stone.
And then I felt it—again. The weight of unseen eyes.
I turned my head, slow, cautious.
Across the lawn, partially hidden in shadow near the edge of the eastern balcony, Tristan stood—still as stone, arms crossed, watching me.
He didn't speak. Didn't flinch.
He simply observed.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Like he already knew where I'd been.
And he was waiting for me to confess.