The path to the manor was no path at all. It was a wound carved through the valley, where the earth had long since withered to gray and the trees stood lifeless, their branches reaching like skeletal fingers to the sky. Few mortals ever dared to step foot here. Fewer still survived.
Yet the cloaked figure walked with steady steps, their boots sinking into the mire left by endless rains. The storm had been following them for hours, as though the sky itself wished to keep them company—or to test their resolve.
The valley air was heavy, suffocating with silence. Only the occasional cry of a crow pierced the stillness, each sound echoing far too loudly in the emptiness. The figure's cloak was soaked through, dripping water in rivulets, but they did not falter. Their pace was deliberate, their direction sure, as though they had walked this cursed road before.
In truth, few ever found the manor without being led. Travelers could circle the valley a hundred times and never see its spires rise against the storm. The estate chose who could approach it. It opened only for those it wished to ensnare.
And tonight, it had opened for them.
The figure paused at the broken archway that once marked the entrance to the D'Arameth lands. The stone was cracked, ivy long dead and crumbling, but faint etchings remained visible beneath the wear of centuries—sigils half-angelic, half-demonic. Power still hummed there, subtle but sharp, as though warning trespassers of the doom that lay ahead.
The cloaked stranger raised a gloved hand, pressing their palm lightly against one of the runes. For the briefest moment, the mark pulsed with faint red light, then went dark again, as though recognizing them. As though acknowledging their right to pass.
Their lips curled faintly beneath the hood, not into joy, but grim satisfaction.
Beyond the arch, the road narrowed into a twisted corridor of dead trees. The shadows between the trunks seemed to breathe, shifting, following the traveler's movements. They whispered faintly, voices too soft to understand yet too close to ignore.
"Do you hear them?" the figure murmured, their voice barely more than a breath.
The whispers rose for a heartbeat, as though answering.
They did not slow.
Hours passed—or perhaps minutes; time lost meaning within the valley's embrace. At last, the manor revealed itself, its silhouette jagged against the lightning. Its spires clawed at the storm, its walls looming with an authority that no mortal construction could command. The house did not sit upon the land—it grew from it, an extension of shadow and stone.
The stranger's steps grew heavier as they neared the gates. Not from fatigue, but from the weight of what awaited them. Every instinct, every whisper of survival in their blood, urged them to turn back. And yet, they pressed forward.
For this was not a journey of chance.
It was a summons.
At the gates, iron twisted into shapes of wings and serpents, the stranger lifted their hand once more. Their knuckles struck the knocker with deliberate force. The sound rolled like thunder through the courtyard, reverberating against the stone, rattling the silence awake.
They waited. Rain poured down, soaking the hood, running cold rivers down their spine. The manor itself seemed to lean forward, as though studying its guest. The shadows along the walls shifted, stretching, reaching.
The knocker fell again—one, two, three strikes. Each echo louder than the last.
When at last the door creaked open, revealing the shadowed figure within, the stranger lifted their chin. They met those burning amber eyes without hesitation, as though this moment had been carved into destiny long before either of them breathed.
And when Kaelith spoke—his voice smooth and dangerous—the cloaked stranger did not flinch.
"I have come for you," they said again, the words carrying not just intent but inevitability.
For no one ever reached the manor by accident.