The silence on the other side of the silver-lined library door was not empty; it was the kind that presses against your eardrums until you start to hear your own heartbeat as something foreign. Mael stood there, his palm hovering inches from the cold wood, feeling the faintest vibration in the air, as though something within was breathing slow and heavy in the dark. His eyes traced the silver inlay along the doorframe — metal that shimmered faintly even without light, etched into the wood like veins holding back a sickness. This had once been his father's sanctuary, filled with the warm smell of paper, candle wax, and the comforting weight of stories. Now, it was a sealed tomb that still drew breath.
Memories rose unbidden, threading themselves into the present until Mael could barely tell which was real and which was only echo. He saw himself as a boy, perched on the edge of his father's chair, head leaning against that broad shoulder while a quiet voice read to him. The candlelight had made shadows dance on the shelves like living things, but they were harmless then — only playful illusions. Tonight, the shadows felt heavier, purposeful, as if waiting for the door to open so they could slip free. A faint metallic tang reached his nose, not strong enough to choke, but enough to whisper the truth: there was still blood in the air inside that room. He didn't know if it was fresh or days old.
A sound, faint but deliberate, stirred in the darkness within — claws dragging once across wood. Mael froze. It was not frantic scratching, not an attempt to escape. It was slower. Testing. Measuring. Then, like water through cracks, a voice seeped through.
"…Mael…"
His breath caught. The voice was hoarse, as if dragged over gravel, but the shape of his name was still his father's. For a heartbeat, hope flared.
"It's… cold…" came next, muffled by the heavy door. Then a sound between a sigh and a growl.
Mael's hand twitched toward the lock before he forced it back to his side. The curse was patient. It could mimic. It could beg. And it would wear the skin of his father's voice to make him falter.
Somewhere in the stillness, there came another whisper. This time softer, almost tender: "Son… help me…" It coiled around his ribs like smoke, pressing at the part of him that remembered warmth and safety. But layered beneath was something else — a faint rumble, not unlike a predator's purr. Mael gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. The door stayed closed.
A prickle along the nape of his neck pulled his gaze to the hallway, where the windows looked out into the night. The moon was high, swollen and pale, wrapped in thin clouds that moved too fast. The trees beyond swayed without wind, their leaves whispering in a language that didn't belong to the forest. And there — just beyond the tree line — stood a figure, tall, still, draped in something faintly shimmering. It could have been silver. It could have been shadow. When he blinked, it was gone, replaced by the slow sway of branches. But the cold in his chest didn't fade. That kind of stillness belonged to watchers. To hunters. And though he didn't yet know their name, he would one day learn it: Kael's kingdom.
He turned back to the library door, torn between two dangers — the one locked inside and the one waiting beyond the walls. The air in the hall seemed thicker now, as if the house itself sensed what was moving toward it. Then came another whisper, almost too soft to catch: "Open it, Mael… they're coming for you…" His father's voice — or something wearing it — pressed at the edges of his will. A soft creak echoed from the ceiling, followed by another, farther away. He'd grown up here; he knew the sound of settling beams. This was different. It was the sound of weight where there should be none.
Somewhere far beyond his home, a low horn sounded — deep, rolling, and not of this world. It was a call that didn't need to be loud to be heard. The walls seemed to hum with it, the silver in the door trembling in delicate protest. Mael felt it in his bones, a vibration that pressed against something ancient in him, something the curse recognized. From inside the library, a guttural laugh rumbled, low and satisfied. Then, in a voice suddenly clear and sharp, his father's voice said: "You can't keep them out."
When he opened his eyes again, the night beyond the window had changed. The moonlight was redder, bleeding through the clouds in thin streaks, as if the sky had been clawed. Mael tightened his grip on the dagger at his hip, the one edged in silver and iron. His father's breathing inside the library grew heavier, as though he, too, could sense what had awakened outside. There would be no safe night tonight — not for the man behind the door, and not for the son standing guard before it. And as Mael took his first step toward the front of the house, the final whisper followed him, so close it felt like it was breathed against his ear: "Let me out, and
I will save you."