Sleep did not come easily after Adrian's visit.
Elena lay awake in the great four-poster bed, her mind unraveling with questions. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Adrian's piercing gaze, suspicious yet oddly protective. And then—Damien, emerging from the shadows, his silver eyes burning with truths he refused to fully give.
By dawn, she gave up on rest altogether.
She dressed in her grandmother's old wool coat and descended into the library again. Dust motes drifted through the slanted morning light. She had avoided this place after discovering the strange journals, but now it called to her like a pulse.
She found more records—handwritten ledgers, birth certificates, and faded letters tied with ribbon. Generation after generation of Morgans had lived in this house, though many names were crossed out prematurely, their deaths noted as "sudden" or "unexplained."
One passage, written in Margaret's hand, chilled her:
> The pact was made long before me. Blood for blood. The heir must always return, lest the circle break and darkness spill beyond the bay. He is the guardian. He is the curse.
Elena traced the words with trembling fingers.
The guardian. The curse.
"Damien," she whispered.
As if summoned, the air stirred.
She turned, and he was there—leaning against the tall shelves as though he had been listening all along. His black coat blended with the shadows, his silver eyes unblinking.
"You shouldn't read those," he said softly.
Her breath caught. "Why? They're my grandmother's. My family's. My answers."
"They are chains," he replied, his tone a mixture of sorrow and warning. "Every word written only tightens the circle that binds me."
Elena rose, clutching the letter. "Then tell me the truth yourself. What is this curse? What is my family's role in it? Why are you bound here?"
For the first time, something flickered across his expression—a fracture of pain. He stepped closer, his voice low. "Because your blood called me. Your family made the pact centuries ago. And now, you are the last Morgan left to keep it."
Her throat closed. "A pact with… with what?"
He hesitated, then turned away, his jaw tight. "Some truths are more dangerous than silence."
Anger sparked through her fear. "You appear in my room, whisper my name, haunt my steps, and now you tell me nothing? How am I supposed to live like this?"
Damien turned back, and for a heartbeat his face softened. "You are not meant to live like this, Elena. You were never meant to stay."
The words stung more than she expected.
Later that afternoon, Elena ventured into town. The air smelled of salt and smoked fish, gulls wheeling above the harbor. Yet the townsfolk's eyes followed her with suspicion. Conversations hushed when she passed.
At the inn, she found Adrian seated near the fire, a cup of black coffee steaming before him. He looked up sharply as she entered.
"Miss Morgan." His tone was cordial, but his eyes searched hers. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"I needed supplies," she lied, clutching her basket tighter.
He gestured for her to sit. After a pause, she did.
"I've been asking around," Adrian said. "The people here—they don't trust outsiders. But they fear something else more. Something tied to your estate."
Elena forced a steady breath. "And you believe them?"
Adrian leaned closer, his voice low. "I've seen bodies, Miss Morgan. Strong men, dead without a mark. Eyes wide like they stared into the abyss itself. Science doesn't explain that. And neither does superstition."
Her heart pounded.
"Whatever's happening," Adrian continued, "it's not random. And I think your family knew more than they let on."
Elena lowered her gaze to her basket. Her grandmother's journal burned in her memory.
He watched her a moment longer. "If there's something you're not telling me, now would be the time."
She swallowed hard, words trembling at the edge of her tongue. She wanted to confide in him, to unburden the weight of Damien, the whispers, the pact.
But even as she opened her mouth, a cold shiver ran down her spine.
She knew he was here.
Damien.
Though unseen, she felt his presence in the inn's corner, the same way she had felt it in the library, the drawing room, her bedroom. Watching. Listening.
And she knew if she told Adrian the truth, Damien would never allow it.
So she forced a smile. "I wish I knew more. But it's just an old house. That's all."
Adrian's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe her.
Outside, the fog rolled in thicker, swallowing the harbor. And in the silence between heartbeats, Elena wondered which was more dangerous—Damien's truth, or Adrian's suspicion.
The storm came without warning.
By nightfall, rain battered the cliffs in a frenzy, wind howling through the estate's cracked shutters. Elena stood by the window of her bedroom, watching the lightning carve jagged scars across the sea. The house groaned under the gale as though alive, every creak echoing through its ancient bones.
She pulled the curtains tight, but the storm pressed against her skin, demanding her attention.
Something felt wrong.
Too wrong.
The lamps flickered, then died, plunging the house into shadow.
"Elena."
Her name was a whisper, so close she spun around—yet the room was empty. Her breath fogged in the air, unnatural in its chill.
She knew he was here.
"Damien?" she whispered.
But no figure stepped forward, no silver eyes glowed in the darkness. Only silence.
Then—a scream.
Not from inside the house, but beyond. Out in the storm.
Her heart lurched. She grabbed her coat, stumbling into the hall. The sound came again—sharper, strangled, carried on the howling wind. Without thinking, she ran through the grand entryway, wrenched the heavy door open, and plunged into the tempest.
The cliffs were treacherous. Rain stung her face, and the path turned to mud beneath her boots. The scream echoed again, pulling her toward the jagged rocks above the bay.
And then she saw him.
Adrian.
He was on his knees, his lantern shattered in the mud, his hand clutching his temple. Around him, the storm swirled unnaturally, the wind shrieking like voices layered over one another.