[Duke's Gothic Estate]
The carriage was a gilded prison—beautiful on the outside, but built to control, not comfort. Its gold-trimmed exterior sparkled with fancy designs, a show of wealth and power. But inside, it was quiet and suffocating. Thick velvet curtains the color of dried blood lined the walls, swallowing both light and sound, as if trying to erase any trace of protest or hope.
The cushions were so plush they felt threatening, like they could pull you in and never let you go. The air was thick with an overpowering scent—sweet bergamot, almost too much to bear—hiding something darker underneath. There was a sharp metallic bite in the smell, like fresh blood or rusted iron, clinging to the back of the throat with every breath.
Elena didn't move. Her back was stiff and straight, every muscle tight with tension. The leather seat pressed hard against her, its fancy pattern digging into her skin like a quiet warning. Chains wrapped around her wrists—too bright, too perfect to be ordinary iron—catching the dim light in a way that made them feel alive.
These weren't ordinary shackles meant just to restrain—they were tools of control, shifting and twitching like silver snakes with a mind of their own. Every time Elena moved, even just a little, the chains responded, slowly tightening—as if they could sense her fear and fed off it. Strange symbols were carved deep into the metal, glowing softly with an otherworldly light.
That glow didn't just shine on her skin—it sank in, bleeding through her flesh, spreading like lightning through her veins. She felt it inside her, not just outside. It was as if her whole body had become part of some ancient spell, marked with lines and paths she couldn't understand, leading to places she didn't want to know existed.
Outside the barred windows, the world twisted into something out of a nightmare. The forest they rolled through no longer looked real—if it ever had. The trees were warped and ancient, hunched like they were carrying centuries of secrets. Their bark was cracked and blackened, leaking thick, amber sap that glowed like melted gold in the moonlight.
But the light wasn't warm. It felt wrong—like something dead that refused to rot. The trees' branches stretched toward the carriage with claw-like limbs, scratching at it with soft, scraping sounds that echoed like fingernails on bone. Even the shadows were strange. They were too long, moved in the wrong directions, and trembled as if alive, even when the wind stood still.
Above them, the sky hung heavy and bruised—deep violet and swollen with thick, swirling clouds the color of midnight ink. It looked as if the sky itself were rotting. The moon loomed low and bloated, sickly yellow, its cratered face twisted into a mocking grin. It seemed to watch the carriage pass, almost amused by the fate playing out below.
Across from Elena, the Duke lounged like a man completely at ease. His posture was lazy, almost casual, but there was power in it—a quiet, deliberate control. One leg stretched toward her, the tip of his polished boot close enough to brush her thigh. It looked accidental, but it wasn't. Every part of him was intentional.
He wore his pride like armor, tighter than his expensive coat. And everything about him felt wrong—the way the lantern light carved shadows across his sharp cheekbones, the cruel curve of his lips, the way he hadn't blinked once. He just stared. Watching her with eyes like molten gold, bright and cold. There was no kindness in them, no pity. Just the steady, quiet focus of a predator already deciding exactly when to strike.
His silence wasn't empty—it was heavy, charged, like the moment right before a blade comes down. He didn't need to speak. Elena could feel the weight of the words he didn't say, pressing on her just as surely as the chains around her wrists.
"You're quieter than I expected," he said at last, his voice low and smooth, curling into the silence like smoke. He tilted his head, studying her with sharp interest, like a puzzle he was eager to break apart. "Most scream. Or beg. Or lose control." His mouth curled into a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. "But you... you just watch. Like you're waiting for something."
Elena's throat ached with words she couldn't force out. The chains weren't the only thing holding her still—something deeper had taken her voice, stolen it and buried it. She swallowed hard. Her fingers curled into fists, the chains clinking faintly in the quiet.
Suddenly, the carriage hit a deep rut in the road. It jolted, hard, and Elena was thrown forward, her hands bound, nothing to catch her fall. But she didn't hit the ground. Time seemed to slow. And then—he was there. The Duke's hand caught her, pressed flat against her ribs, his fingers spread wide like he was feeling every frantic beat of her heart. His touch burned through her dress, hot and electric, sinking into her skin like a brand.
The moment hung in the air, frozen.
And then—everything shattered.
"ERROR—Soul Thread Active. Forced Proximity Boost Engaged."
The words flared across her vision in jagged red, dripping like blood. A wave of dizziness hit her hard. The air in the carriage grew thick, heavy—every breath felt like she was choking on fire. The walls around her seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Shadows in the corners twisted and shifted into monstrous shapes—long, grasping fingers, open mouths, hollow eyes that watched her with quiet hunger.
The Duke's scent surrounded her—aged leather, the sharp bite of gunpowder, the cold edge of winter. But under all of that was something darker, something that reminded her of bones buried deep underground.
Then his thumb brushed lightly under her breast. The touch was slow, deliberate—claiming.
"I know you're afraid," he murmured, his voice soft but dangerous, like silk wrapped around a blade. His breath was cool against her burning skin, as if he was pulling the heat from her body with every word. His tone wasn't meant to be loud—it was meant to sink in, to wrap around her, to stay. There was something intimate in it, something personal. This wasn't for anyone else. Just her.
"You've always been here," he said quietly, like it was a simple truth. There was no threat in his voice—just certainty, like this was something they both already knew. "In this carriage. In these chains."
His gloved hand tightened, the leather creaking faintly as his fingers pressed just enough to feel her pulse. Not enough to hurt—but enough to remind her how easily he could.
"In my hands," he finished.
Elena lifted her gaze—not out of defiance, but drawn by something deeper. And when her eyes met his, her sense of reality began to unravel.
His pupils weren't human anymore. They had narrowed into vertical slits, reptilian and cold. The gold in his irises had darkened, streaked with veins of black that moved like shadows trapped behind glass. His eyes were alive, but not with anything mortal. They shimmered with something ancient—something that should have terrified her.
And yet… she didn't flinch. She didn't scream. She didn't try to escape.
She should have.
But her body didn't listen.
Instead of fear, a slow, dangerous heat stirred low in her belly. It spread with each shaky breath, curling through her like smoke. Her heart pounded loud and fast, echoing the glow of the runes on her chains as they blazed brighter. Her spine arched toward him without thinking, drawn to his presence, his scent—bergamot, yes, but now mixed with something deeper, darker. Him.
The chains responded. They moved slightly against her skin, warming to her touch. The runes flared with light, pulsing like lightning caught in metal, as if whatever power bound her was waking up.
He leaned in closer, and she felt it—the raw force in him. It wasn't just power. It was dominion—the kind that bent the world around it without effort. The space between them buzzed with magic, memory, and something else… something just out of reach.
And then, through the window, the estate came into view—rising from the night like a wound torn open in the earth.
The estate didn't rest on the land—it bled from it. A dark cathedral of impossible angles, its jagged spires pierced the sky like the bones of some forgotten, godless titan. Its walls were made of black stone slick as obsidian, glistening as if weeping some thick, unnamed fluid. Moss clung to it in damp, rotting patches, and sharp-edged gargoyles crouched along the eaves, their faces twisted in endless agony.
The windows didn't shine with light. They pulsed with a sickly green glow, each one like an unblinking eye, set deep into the stone and alive. They blinked slowly—inhale, exhale—like something breathing in its sleep.
The iron gates groaned open with a sound that scraped the night apart, like the death rattle of something too broken to die. It wasn't a welcome. It was recognition.
The carriage rolled forward, its wheels clicking over the threshold with a faint jolt—like passing into a place that knew them.
Inside the gates, the air changed. It grew thicker, pressing in around her, as if they had passed through more than just a wall. Elena felt it at once. A weight, invisible and ancient, settled on her skin. It tasted her. It remembered.
The Duke leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed her ear—but the words he spoke didn't come from his mouth. They slipped straight into her mind, smooth and cold, coiling through her thoughts like smoke in still water.
"You don't remember me…" The voice echoed through her, not just in her ears but deeper—into her chest, her blood, her bones. "But your soul does."
And something inside her moved.
Not just a feeling. Not just a memory. Something older.
Buried beneath lifetimes of silence, a door stirred. It hadn't been locked. It had simply been forgotten. But now it trembled in its frame, groaning softly as time itself shifted around it.
And from the other side — something knocked back.