The corridors of Ashthorne Hall seemed to shift with every hour of nightfall, as though the house itself were restless, whispering its secrets through the sighing drafts that curled beneath the doors. Eleanor had begun to walk them often, not out of comfort but compulsion, as if some unseen hand drew her from her chamber each evening and sent her steps echoing across the stone floors.
Tonight, the candle she carried trembled with her grip, its flame bending toward unseen currents of air. The sconces lining the walls had long gone cold, and the hall lay in near darkness save for the fragile circle of her light.
At the end of the passage, a door stood half-ajar. One she did not recall ever noticing before.
She hesitated, listening. A low, indistinct sound pulsed beyond it—faintly rhythmic, like the pounding of a heart muffled by earth. Gathering her breath, she pushed it open.
The room within was small, cloaked in shadows. The faint glint of iron chains dangled from the wall. At the center stood a wooden chest, ancient and scarred. Upon it lay a bundle of old letters tied with a velvet ribbon, darkened with dust and age.
Her pulse quickened. She reached for them—yet before her fingers brushed the ribbon, a voice broke the silence.
"You should not be here."
Eleanor spun, candlelight leaping. Adrian stood in the doorway, his features carved by shadow, his eyes alight with something unreadable.
"I—I only…" Her voice faltered beneath the weight of his stare.
"You only sought what you were never meant to find." His tone was soft, yet carried the bite of warning. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and the air in the chamber seemed to draw taut.
Eleanor's throat tightened. "These letters—they belong to someone. To her, don't they? Lady Catherine."
For the briefest instant, his mask of control slipped. A shadow crossed his gaze, raw and fierce. Then it was gone.
"You speak her name too freely." His hand brushed the ribboned bundle, then withdrew, as though even he dared not touch it. "Some truths are poison, Eleanor. They do not nourish—they consume."
"But they are truths nonetheless," she whispered.
The silence that followed was thick with danger, and something else—something that burned just beneath the surface.
At last, Adrian turned toward her, the dim light tracing the angles of his face. "Do you not fear me? Most would."
Eleanor met his gaze, her candle trembling but her voice steady. "I do. And yet I cannot stay away."
The words escaped her lips before she could call them back, and in their wake came a silence that pressed upon her chest.
Adrian's jaw tightened. He moved closer—so near the faint heat of his body brushed her skin. "You tempt shadows best left sleeping," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
"Perhaps the shadows are what I was meant to find," she breathed.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then he stepped back, abrupt as a door slammed against the storm. "Go, Eleanor. While I can still bid you."
His command was sharp, but beneath it ran a thread of desperation—an edge that hinted he fought himself as much as he fought her.
Eleanor backed toward the door, the candle quivering in her grasp. Her breath came fast, her heart a frantic drum. She turned, slipped through the threshold, and fled down the corridor, the echo of his voice following her like a brand upon her soul.
Yet even as fear coursed through her, so too did something more perilous—an unshakable certainty that whatever truths Adrian sought to bury, they bound her fate to his in ways she could no longer deny.
The house moaned in the wind as if in warning, but Eleanor knew there would be no turning back.