The air in Blackwood Manor was thick with the scent of decaying roses and old regrets. Elara Vance stood before the massive oak door, her simple woolen dress a stark contrast to the grotesque carvings of snarling wolves that framed the entrance. The letter in her hand, now crumpled and damp with sweat, had been her father's final, desperate act. A debt, unpaid in gold, was to be settled in flesh and blood.
She pushed the door open, its groan echoing through a cavernous hall lit by a single, massive fireplace. Shadows danced like specters on the stone walls. And in the center of it all, he stood.
Lysander Blackwood was not a man; he was a storm given form. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was clad in dark, tailored clothing that did little to soften the raw power he exuded. His hair was the color of raven wings, and his eyes… his eyes were the pale, chilling grey of a winter sky, holding a depth of ancient coldness that made her shiver.
"Elara Vance," his voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. "You are late."
"I… I came as the letter demanded," she said, forcing her voice not to tremble. "To honor my father's debt."
"Your father's debt," Lysander repeated, stepping closer. He moved with a predator's grace, silent and deliberate. "Was his life. A life he forfeited when he betrayed my family. A life you will now repay with your service."
"Service?" Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. "For how long?"
A cruel, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "For as long as I deem fit. You are a prisoner here, Miss Vance. A pretty little bird to be caged within these walls. You will tend to the manor's library, you will remain within the grounds, and you will stay out of my way. Is that understood?"
Anger, hot and sharp, cut through her fear. "You cannot simply own a person."
"Can I not?" He closed the final distance between them, his presence overwhelming. He didn't touch her, but she felt the heat of him, smelled the wild, forest scent of pine and frost that clung to him. "Everything within a day's ride of this manor is mine. The forests, the villages, the lives within them. And now, you are mine."
His words were a brand. She wanted to defy him, to spit in his face and run, but the stories of the Blackwoods held her frozen. They were whispered about in the village—a cursed lineage, rulers who were more than men, who held a dark pact with the woods that surrounded their estate. People who entered these forests after sundown rarely returned whole, if they returned at all.
"Your room is in the east wing," Lysander said, turning his back on her as if she were already dismissed. "Do not wander the halls at night. The old house… has its own life. And it does not take kindly to strangers."
He left her then, standing alone in the vast, shadowy hall. Elara wrapped her arms around herself, the weight of her new reality settling like a shroud. She was a prisoner, yes. But as she looked at the towering, grim portrait of a wolf hanging above the fireplace, its eyes seeming to gleam in the firelight, she felt a terrifying certainty. This was not just about a debt. There was a deeper, darker game at play, and she, unwittingly, had just become a central piece.
The first howl echoed in the distance, long and mournful, seeming to vibrate through the very stones of the manor. It was a sound of profound loneliness and savage hunger. And as Elara climbed the cold, stone stairs to her prison, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that the howl and the master of Blackwood Manor were one and the same.