The moment the manor doors closed, the world outside ceased to exist.
Elara gasped softly as darkness swallowed her. No candles lit the vast entrance hall, and yet, she could see. The shadows themselves seemed alive, twisting, breathing, whispering across the walls.
The Shadow King walked ahead of her without a sound. His footsteps made no echo, though hers clattered against the marble floor.
It was as though the house recognized him… and was deciding whether to accept her.
Elara's eyes darted upward. Massive chandeliers hung from ceilings so high they disappeared into shadow. Ancient portraits lined the walls—faces of kings and queens who all had the same piercing silver eyes. Their gazes seemed to follow her every step.
Her heart raced. She had heard the rumors, but to see this place with her own eyes was worse than any nightmare she'd imagined.
The Shadow King stopped at the base of a black marble staircase. He turned slowly, and the silver glow of his eyes pinned her in place.
"No bride before you has survived this night," he said flatly. "Do you understand what that means?"
Elara's lips trembled, but she forced them into stillness. "It means I should be afraid."
"It means," he corrected, his voice sharp as a blade, "that your courage is nothing but a death sentence."
The shadows at his feet stirred restlessly, as though eager for her fear.
But Elara took a single step forward, her gown dragging across the floor like spilled blood. "If you expect me to kneel, I won't. If you expect me to weep, I can't. And if you expect me to run, I have nowhere left to go."
For the first time, silence cracked. A faint smirk tugged at the Shadow King's lips. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until his breath ghosted across her ear.
"Careful, little bride," he whispered. "The manor feeds on defiance."
A sudden gust of cold air swept through the hall. The candles in the chandelier burst alight—thousands of flames flickering to life all at once. The shadows screamed, then retreated, curling into corners.
Elara flinched, but held her ground.
The Shadow King straightened, his expression unreadable. "If you wish to live until dawn, you will follow my rules."
Her chest tightened. "And if I refuse?"
His silver eyes darkened, gleaming with something otherworldly. "Then the manor will claim you before I can."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Then, without waiting for her reply, he turned and began climbing the stairs. The shadows curled around his feet, pulling back as though worshipping their master.
Elara exhaled slowly, forcing her trembling hands into fists. So this is my wedding night, she thought bitterly. A war of wills against a monster cloaked in shadows.
But as she followed him into the depths of Blackthorn Manor, she vowed silently to herself:
I will not be the bride who dies screaming.
Chapter 3: A House of Whispers
The corridors twisted like a labyrinth, each lined with heavy velvet drapes, ancient suits of armor, and cracked portraits. The longer Elara walked, the more she felt the manor was alive—its walls breathing, its floors shifting beneath her steps.
She could hear faint whispers. Sometimes they sounded like weeping. Other times, like laughter.
The Shadow King stopped before a tall door carved with black roses. He pushed it open, revealing a grand chamber lit by a single candelabra.
"This will be your room."
Elara blinked. The room was massive, lined with bookshelves, a canopy bed draped in velvet, and a window that looked out into endless mist. Yet it felt… wrong.
The shadows in the corners pulsed, stretching like fingers eager to reach her.
Elara swallowed. "Is it safe?"
"No room in this house is safe," he said coldly. "But if you value your life, do not open the wardrobe. And do not look under the bed."
Her heart nearly stopped. "Why?"
His silver eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "Because that is where the manor keeps its secrets."
And with that, he turned and left, the door closing with a final, echoing thud.
Elara stood frozen, the silence of the room pressing in on her. The candle flames shivered, though there was no wind.
She stepped toward the wardrobe. The carved roses on its wooden doors seemed to twist under the flickering light.
Her hand hovered near the handle.
"No room in this house is safe," his warning echoed in her head.
And yet—curiosity burned in her veins.
With trembling fingers, she reached out—
Click.
The wardrobe door creaked open.