He left without a sound, without a promise. But I knew that if I whispered his name, he would return to me. He has ears in the eaves and the keyholes, watches from the hem of every shadow. Even the snow would carry him my whisper.
And yet, I did not call.
The path to the manor felt cruel, as if to remind me that no pact with darkness could warm me within those prison walls; darkness offered no shield for the cruelty that awaited me. The wind pressed against my back like a warning, urging me to turn, to run toward the fog where he had vanished. But his absence was a verdict. I must learn what it is to survive without him.
The snow swallowed my footsteps as though eager to erase any proof I had ever left. My cloak trailed behind me, heavy with frost, its hem darkening where it brushed the blood still staining the path. The air was sharp, every breath cutting like glass, every exhale curling through the darkness like smoke from a dying altar. The night's silence pressed closer the nearer I came to the manor, until even my breath sounded like blasphemy against its walls.
I could still feel him — the phantom warmth of Vladimir's gaze, the echo of his voice threading through the wind. The night seemed to remember him, its silence heavy with what had not been said. If I whispered, I knew the air itself would tremble to deliver my call. But I did not dare. The space between us was sacred and dangerous, like a wound that still bled light.
As I walked, the path narrowed, winding toward the manor that loomed like a mausoleum in the distance. The closer I came, the more the world seemed to hold its breath. The trees stood motionless beneath their burden of snow, their branches bending as if in pity. The sky above was pale and bruised, the color of forgotten prayers.
I felt the cold press through my skin, cruelly intimate, as if winter itself wished to claim me in his absence. I wondered if he felt it too — the ache, the pull — somewhere beyond the forest, beneath a sky that had never known mercy.
The gates loomed ahead, black iron twisted into shapes that resembled thorns. I touched them as I passed, and the metal burned with frost, though I could not decide whether the sting came from cold or guilt. Each step closer to Elias felt like descending into a tomb I had once mistaken for home.
I hesitated, watching the manor rise from the mist like a great carcass of marble and memory. Its windows were blind eyes, dark and unrepentant. The snow clung to the stone as if to silence it, to keep its walls from speaking of all they had witnessed. I could almost hear their whispers still—muffled, like the last gasps of confessions never forgiven.
A single candle glimmered in the upper window, faint as a dying pulse. It should have offered comfort. Instead, it felt like surveillance—a reminder that nothing in this house slept, least of all the sins within it. My heart thrummed against my ribs, betraying its fear with every beat. Even the air seemed to tighten around me, tasting of iron and remembrance.
I stopped at the threshold of the courtyard. Beneath the snow, the earth groaned, the sound faint but real, as though the soil itself remembered footsteps it wished to forget. I thought of the roses that once bloomed here—pale pink and fragrant, tended by my mother's gentle hands. Now only thorns remained, black and brittle under the frost. They looked like the bones of prayers that had died unanswered.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. Not from the manor, but from the village below—it's sound slow, deliberate, mournful. For a moment, I let myself believe it was tolling for me.
The wind shifted, and with it came the faintest trace of him—Vladimir. That impossible scent of snow and iron and something older, something sanctified by sin. It brushed against my cheek like the ghost of a touch, and my body betrayed me with a tremor. The memory of his voice lingered at the base of my throat, low and smooth as smoke, promising both ruin and deliverance.
If I whisper, he will hear me.
The thought flickered through me like a fever. My lips parted, his name trembling upon them—but I swallowed it. To summon him now would be to admit weakness. And I could not afford to be weak within these walls.
So I kept walking.
The courtyard stretched before me, vast and silent. Every window seemed to watch, every shadow to listen. My breath fogged the air, a fleeting proof of life soon stolen by the cold. The marble angels that flanked the entrance were coated in ice, their wings weighed down, their faces eroded into mourning. Even divinity seemed ashamed to look upon this place.
When I reached the steps, my legs faltered. The air here felt thicker, heavier, as if drawn from another world entirely. My cloak clung to me, soaked through with melting frost. Beneath the layers of wool and lace, my skin burned from the memory of his touch—the coldness of it, the restraint trembling beneath. I should have feared that memory, but it steadied me instead.
It was strange how the touch of a monster could feel more merciful than that of a brother. I glanced once more toward the forest, the mist curling in the distance where he had vanished. The moonlight glinted faintly upon the snow there, a silver thread marking the place where I had left him—or perhaps where he had left me. For a heartbeat, I imagined I saw movement, the faintest shift of shadow, as though he lingered still, unseen but not gone. My pulse leaped at the thought.
"Don't look back," I whispered to myself.
The words tasted bitter. Every part of me wanted to. The silence between us stretched thin across the miles, a thread that might snap if I turned too soon.
The great doors of the manor loomed ahead. I had crossed this threshold countless times, but never had it seemed so wide, so waiting. I placed my hand upon the carved oak—felt the deep grooves where time had bitten into it, where perhaps my own fingernails once clawed for escape.
The metal handle was freezing, its chill running through my arm and settling in my bones. I hesitated once more. The air behind me whispered, Call him. The house before me whispered, Obey.
I did neither.
Instead, I closed my eyes and listened to the faint crackle of frost, to the snow shifting upon the roof, to my own heart counting what might be its final moments of freedom. Then I pushed the door open.
The hinges groaned, protesting like ancient mourners disturbed from prayer. The scent of roses and dust spilled out, thick and cloying. The warmth inside was false—suffocating rather than soothing. The walls seemed to inhale as I entered, as though the house itself had been holding its breath for my return.
I stepped across the threshold, and the door closed behind me of its own accord. The sound echoed through the corridors, final and solemn, like the sealing of a crypt.
The corridors inside the manor had their own silence—different from the hush of the snow. Outside, silence had been vast, almost holy. Inside, it was claustrophobic, intimate, and heavy with old breath. It pressed close, whispering the weight of every secret the walls had swallowed. The air smelled of extinguished candles and aged oak, the ghost of lavender drifting from forgotten linen chests. What others would call refinement—polish, grace, noble restraint—felt to me like rot disguised in velvet. This was a house embalmed, not preserved.
My footsteps sank into carpets that yielded soundlessly, as though they had long accepted their servitude. The longcase clock in the gallery marked time with a sovereign's composure—each tick a reminder that obedience has rhythm. Somewhere, a shutter tapped against its frame, discreet but deliberate, as if keeping time for a waltz no one dared begin. The damask on the walls, once the color of cream, had faded to the shade of old parchment, soft with resignation. The gilt moldings still shimmered faintly beneath a veil of candle smoke—less from neglect than from shame.
Every object here performed a kind of loyalty—obedient, polished, blind. Yet I could feel beneath it a slow decay, patient and polite, eating away at the grandeur. The house was still beautiful, yes, but the way a corpse might be when dressed for its own funeral.
Servants learned to vanish when I entered a room. Their absence was an art form, perfected by fear. I saw only the lift of a silver dome withdrawing through a doorway, the faint whisper of skirts caught in retreat, the stifled crackle of a candle being pinched out mid-flame. Sometimes I would catch the brief gleam of polished brass buttons as a servant turned a corner too quickly, their breath held as though even exhaling near me might draw his attention. Their silence was not loyalty—it was survival, and survival here meant reverence to the sun that burned in Elias's eyes.
I paused in the music room. The air smelled faintly of dust and rose oil, that sweet perfume that clings to rooms long unvisited. The piano lay closed beneath a muslin shroud, the lace yellowed, the keys beneath gleaming faintly where the cloth did not meet the fallboard. The stool was set at a precise angle—as if someone had risen between measures and would return at the exact bar. Through the wood, I fancied I could still feel the echo of the last note—trembling, waiting, refusing to fade. It was as though the house itself held its breath, unwilling to disturb the memory.
My mother used to play here at dusk. Her music would fill the manor, curling through the corridors like incense, softening even my father's sternness for a moment. When she died, the silence became unbearable, as though every chord she ever played had turned inward, haunting the walls. Now, even the dust looked arranged—as if her absence had been carefully preserved, the ghost of melody pressed between layers of stillness.
I traced my fingers along the edge of the piano. The wood was cold, but beneath the chill there lingered warmth, like the pulse of something remembered. My reflection in the lacquered surface looked pale and wavering, more shadow than flesh. A part of me wished to lift the cover, to strike one key—just one—to prove the instrument still breathed. But I could not. To do so would summon his voice, remind him that I existed again. And tonight, I wished to remain invisible.
Beyond the doorway, I caught the faint rustle of movement—the whisper of servants returning to their corners once I had passed. The manor existed as it always had: soundless, obedient, watching. Yet beneath its obedience, I felt the pulse of something buried alive, something restless, straining against its lace and law.
Somewhere deep within the manor, a floorboard creaked—slow, deliberate, too intimate to be an accident. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The silence that followed was unbearable—so complete it hummed, vibrating through the air like the held note of a song that dared not resolve.
He knows I'm here.
The thought crawled beneath my skin, spreading like frost. My fingers trembled against the clasp of my cloak, and I forced them still. Fear is a scent Elias always found intoxicating. I would not feed him. Not even this small trembling.
And yet, the weight of it pressed down until I could scarcely breathe. The air itself seemed to curdle with awareness, each inhalation thick, tasting faintly of candle wax and dust. My heart betrayed me, pounding too loudly, its rhythm echoing off the marble like footsteps in pursuit. I stood there, poised between flight and surrender, my pulse ringing through the stillness like a bell calling for mercy.
If Vladimir were near, he would hear it. He would know. Perhaps even now, somewhere beyond the trees, he does—his senses reaching through shadow, his silence bending toward mine. I could almost feel his attention, cold and unwavering, stretched thin across the distance between us.
But I cannot call him. Not yet.
The candlelight flickered along the walls, its glow restless and unsteady. The flame bent sharply, as though recoiling from something unseen. Shadows lengthened, overlapping in strange shapes that shifted when I did not. My reflection in the gilded mirror near the staircase startled me—it looked ghostly, lips pale, eyes wide and hollow. I had the face of a woman already haunting her own home.
For a moment, I hardly recognized myself. I looked like a creature who had stepped out of time, walking willingly toward her ruin, her heartbeat the only sound defying the stillness.
I began to climb the stairs, each step a betrayal of silence. My hand trailed the banister; the wood felt almost warm, as though the house breathed beneath my touch. My footsteps made no sound—the carpet devoured them greedily, the same carpet that had swallowed years of secrets, pleas, and apologies never heard beyond these walls.
Halfway up, a draft stirred the air, carrying the faintest scent of roses and decay—the twin perfumes of the life I lived here. I tightened my grip, steadying myself as my skirts whispered around my legs.
The higher I climbed, the thicker the air grew. The house seemed to inhale with me, exhale when I did not. I could feel it—his awareness—sliding through the halls like a cold hand pressed to the back of my neck. It prickled across my skin, testing my resolve, waiting for me to falter.
I swallowed, though my throat was dry as bone. "Don't look back," I whispered again, softer this time, a prayer disguised as a command. The words fogged in the air before fading into nothing. I clung to them as though they could save me.
But even as I reached the landing, even as the door to my room came into sight, my gaze strayed once more to the window. The forest was gone now, swallowed whole by the mist—but I felt it watching. I could almost sense him there—the quiet, watchful cold of Vladimir—listening, waiting, his unseen gaze tracing the path I walked. His presence hovered at the edges of my dread, a benediction made of shadow and breath.
I imagined him standing beneath the same moonlight, head tilted toward the wind, hearing the echo of my heartbeat through the dark. I imagined the way he would move if I spoke his name—silent, sure, the snow yielding to him as though even winter worshipped his tread. The thought made my pulse quicken until the air itself seemed to vibrate with it.
The house groaned around me—timbers settling, walls sighing in secret. Every noise felt sentient, aware, listening. I thought of his promise: I will keep you safe, but safety is never gentle in my hands. Is it wrong of me to crave it?
And though the walls leaned close and the cold pressed in like a body, a strange calm slipped into my chest. Perhaps it was foolishness. Or perhaps it was the beginning of courage.
Because courage and terror are sisters—they share the same pulse.
The corridor behind me seemed to pulse with faint life, each shadow bending toward the warmth of my fear. I thought I heard a breath that wasn't mine—a sigh that lingered at the edge of the dark. My hand hovered on the latch, trembling between dread and desire. Somewhere outside, the wind howled like a thing mourning its master. I wondered if Vladimir could hear it too, if the storm itself had learned to whisper my name.
I stood before my chamber door, my hand hovering over the latch, the silence behind it dense and waiting. I closed my eyes and breathed once, slow and deliberate. The scent of iron lingered faintly in the air, and my heart stuttered—part fear, part recognition.
For if fear could summon him, then courage might keep him near.
And tonight, I would need both.