The rain had not ceased. For three days it lashed mercilessly against the cliffs, swelling the river below into a furious roar. Ravencroft Manor groaned beneath the weight of the storm, its shutters rattling, its chimneys sighing as though the house itself mourned. Isolde had not slept well during those nights. Dreams—black and feverish—coiled around her, filled with shadowed figures moving through corridors, whispering in languages she could not understand. Each time she woke, the taste of iron lingered on her tongue.
The morning light on the fourth day was gray, the kind that brought no comfort. She stood before the tall mirror in her chamber, her reflection blurred by a thin veil of condensation. Dark circles marked her eyes. Her skin was pale, almost spectral. It unsettled her to see how quickly the house seemed to leech warmth and color from her body, as though it were feeding upon her vitality.
A knock came—measured, deliberate.
"Enter," she said, her voice rough with sleep.
Margery, the housekeeper, stepped inside. Her sharp features seemed carved from granite, and the candle she carried did little to soften them.
"Breakfast is served, my lady," she said.
Isolde studied her closely. Margery had always spoken with a brisk, almost clipped tone, but there was a stiffness now, a tension she could not ignore.
"You've not been sleeping either, have you?" Isolde asked.
The older woman paused. The candle flame trembled. "The storms make the nights long," Margery said, but she avoided Isolde's gaze.
When she left, Isolde turned back to her reflection. Something tugged at her memory—something she had seen last night in her half-waking haze. A face. Not Lord Ravenhallow's, nor any of the servants'. It was pale, almost luminous, with eyes that glowed faintly in the dark like coals beneath ash. She shuddered and forced herself to leave the chamber.
---
The dining hall was dim, the storm outside casting restless shadows across the floor. At the long table, Lord Ravenhallow sat alone, his posture regal, untouched by the chaos of weather or sleepless nights. A single candelabrum burned before him, casting a gilded halo around his raven-dark hair.
"You look unwell, Lady Isolde," he said, as she entered. His voice, deep and velvety, carried both concern and possession.
She sat opposite him, fingers curling around the stem of her goblet. "The house unsettles me," she admitted. "I dream of things I cannot name."
A flicker of something crossed his face—quick, gone in a breath. "Ravencroft is a house of many centuries," he said. "Its stones remember. Sometimes they… speak."
She studied him, unnerved. "And what do they say?"
"That depends on who listens." His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
Silence stretched, punctuated only by the relentless hiss of rain. She felt the weight of his gaze—intense, unyielding—as though he could read beneath her skin. It both thrilled and terrified her.
---
Later, wandering the east wing, Isolde found herself drawn to a locked door at the end of a long corridor. She had noticed it before, but today the pull was different—stronger, insistent, as though something behind it called her name. She tried the handle. Locked, cold. Yet when she pressed her ear against the wood, she swore she heard movement—slow, deliberate, like the shifting of chains.
A chill seized her.
"Curious places invite dangerous answers."
She spun around. Lord Ravenhallow stood at the corridor's mouth, his black coat flowing like a shadow at his heels.
"Why is this room locked?" she demanded.
"Because what sleeps inside should not be disturbed."
Her breath caught. "What do you mean?"
He walked toward her, each step echoing against the hollow corridor. "You came to Ravencroft seeking shelter. Do not mistake it for sanctuary. This house hungers. It tests those who dwell within its walls. Some withstand it. Others…" He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. "…are consumed."
She shivered. He was too close, yet some desperate, reckless part of her did not want him to move away.
"Then tell me," she whispered, "which will I be?"
His eyes, shadowed yet glimmering with some hidden fire, locked with hers. "That is what I intend to discover."
---
That night, she could not sleep. Every creak of the manor set her nerves alight. At last, restless, she slipped from her bed and padded into the hall. The storm had lessened; silence pressed heavy against her ears. She descended the stairwell, guided only by the faint silver wash of moonlight through the high windows.
In the library, she found him.
Lord Ravenhallow sat before the great hearth, though no fire burned within it. Instead, a single candle sat on the mantle, its light pale and wan against the cavernous room. His gaze was distant, fixed upon something unseen.
"You haunt this house as much as it haunts me," she said softly.
He turned, startled—not by her words, but as though dragged from some abyss. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then: "I was dreaming awake."
"Of what?" she pressed, stepping nearer.
His eyes darkened. "Of the cost of love."
The words hung between them like a blade. She trembled, caught between fear and fascination.
"Do you believe," she asked carefully, "that love is worth such a cost?"
He rose, the candlelight casting his figure in tall, jagged shadows against the walls. "Only a fool would pay it," he murmured, yet there was a crack in his voice, a fracture that betrayed the strength of his longing.
When he reached her, she felt her pulse leap wildly. His hand hovered near her face, not touching—never touching—yet the heat of his presence burned like fire.
"You should leave this place," he whispered. "While you still can."
She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. "And if I do not?"
He closed his eyes briefly, as though battling something within. When he opened them, the storm she had seen before—the hunger, the torment—surged in their depths.
"Then you will belong to Ravencroft," he said. "As I do."
---
Isolde stumbled back into her chamber hours later, though she could not recall how she had left him. Her body ached with confusion, her heart torn between dread and desire. She lay awake until dawn, the storm beyond the manor finally breaking into silence.
But when the first pale light of morning crept through her window, she saw it: scratched into the frost on the glass from the inside, as though by an unseen hand, were words that chilled her blood.
LEAVE OR BE LOST.
Her breath fogged against the letters. She reached out, trembling, but before she could trace them with her fingertip, the frost melted away—leaving only her reflection, pale and terrified, staring back.