The Blackwood house was not built for comfort.
From the outside, it rose like a shadow against the night sky, its towers and chimneys stabbing at the clouds. The stone was weathered, blackened by rain and time, and ivy clawed up its walls as if desperate to reach the windows. Even the moonlight avoided it, glancing off the sharp rooflines and leaving the mansion wrapped in darkness.
The drive that led up to its iron gates was narrow and winding, swallowed by trees that whispered in the wind. Most people would have turned back long before reaching the house itself. That was the point. The Blackwoods had never been interested in welcome. They had been interested in power , always.
