The manor stood on the edge of the forgotten valley, where the mist never lifted and the sun seemed reluctant to rise. Its stone walls, blackened by centuries of storms, jutted out like jagged teeth from the ground, each tower casting a shadow that seemed too alive for comfort. Travelers seldom passed this way, and those who did never lingered.
Inside, silence reigned—broken only by the distant creak of old beams and the faint hiss of the wind sneaking through shattered stained glass. The halls smelled of aged wood, damp stone, and something faintly metallic, like dried blood hidden beneath years of dust.
He sat by the window in the western chamber, watching the storm roll in across the valley. Raven-black hair spilled across his shoulders, contrasting with the pale cut of his face. His eyes—too sharp, too unearthly—glowed faintly in the dim candlelight, amber burning with the hunger of something not quite human.
This was Lord Kaelith D'Arameth, heir to no mortal throne, master of no simple estate. The villagers who whispered of him called him the "Shadow Prince," though no one dared to say the name near his gates. A man, yes—but also something else. A predator dressed in elegance, hiding behind the fragile trappings of nobility.
The chamber he occupied was not warm. Even with the fire crackling low in the hearth, the room breathed coldness, as if the walls themselves refused to surrender heat. Old portraits watched from the walls, their painted eyes glinting eerily whenever the lightning flashed. Most depicted men and women with the same strange, amber gaze.
Kaelith let his finger trace the rim of a glass of deep red liquid resting at his side. Wine, perhaps, though it clung too thickly to the crystal. When he lifted it to his lips, the taste was rich, metallic, and very much alive. A sigh left him, not from satisfaction, but from longing—the endless ache of something deeper than thirst.
Tonight, the manor groaned with presence. Not footsteps, not servants—there were none left to serve—but shadows that stirred like restless souls, filling the corners, bending to their master's will. His kind did not keep to mortal hours; the dark was his solace, his playground, his prison.
He rose from the chair, tall and severe, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the pale storm-light. His coat swept across the floor, dragging whispers of silk and shadow with it. As he moved, a low growl echoed faintly through the rafters. Not his voice. Not human.
The storm outside pressed closer, battering the shutters, rattling the old bones of the estate. Kaelith welcomed it. The world always seemed more honest when wrapped in thunder.
He descended the long spiral staircase, his hand brushing against the banister carved with serpents and wings. Each step echoed hollowly, as though the house had been built to amplify loneliness. The great hall spread before him—vast, cathedral-like, its chandeliers webbed with dust. At the far end, tall double doors led to the courtyard, though no one ever came knocking.
He paused at the center of the hall, lifting his gaze toward the arched ceiling, where faded murals told stories of angels and demons locked in eternal war. His lips curved—not into a smile, but something darker. He knew better than any priest how false those stories were. He was living proof that the line between angel and demon had long blurred.
The candles guttered suddenly, as though unseen breath had swept through the room. The shadows along the walls grew longer, sharper, almost eager. Something stirred in him at the sight—a whisper in his blood, a call older than memory.
And then—
The iron knocker on the front door sounded, heavy and deliberate.
Kaelith stilled, his amber eyes narrowing. No one came here. Not willingly. Not alive.
The knock came again, reverberating through the vast chamber. He felt it like a heartbeat, steady and bold, as though whoever stood outside knew exactly whose domain they trespassed upon.
Slowly, Kaelith began to move, his steps echoing like the toll of a distant bell. Shadows pooled at his heels, following him, answering him. By the time he reached the door, the storm had swallowed the manor whole, rain pelting the roof, wind howling like the cries of the damned.
His hand closed over the iron handle. Cold. Ancient. Heavy.
The knock ceased. Silence fell, so complete it seemed unnatural.
With a slow pull, he opened the door.
And there, on the threshold, stood a figure cloaked in midnight, water dripping from their garments, face hidden in the hood's shadow. A stranger who should not have been able to find this place.
Kaelith's lips parted, his voice low, smooth, and dangerous.
"You are either lost… or very brave."
The storm roared behind the stranger, but they did not move. Instead, a soft voice slipped from beneath the hood—calm, steady, and chillingly certain.
"I have come for you."