Arden woke to the sound of breathing.
Not his own.
The air around him pulsed with a slow, rhythmic exhale, like a giant creature sleeping just beneath the floor. For a long moment he lay still—eyes half-open, lungs tight—listening to that unnatural inhale and exhale echo through the darkness.
Warm ash drifted down from somewhere above, settling on his hair, his eyelashes, the hollow of his throat. It felt soft, almost velvety, but tingled like it was alive.
He tried to remember where he was.
He tried to remember who he was.
Nothing came.
His chest tightened. Panic crawled up the back of his throat, sharp and cold. His hands flexed in the ash, fingertips scraping over cracked stone. This place felt wrong. Heavy. Watching.
And then, like a spark in a void, a single thought flared inside him.
Find Seris. Protect her.
The name hit him like a heartbeat—familiar and intimate, sharp as lightning. He clung to it as if it was the last rope dangling over a chasm.
Seris.
He rolled onto his side, coughing as more ash sifted down. The faint light revealed a high ceiling disappearing into shadows, held up by arching beams like a ribcage. The floor beneath him looked like charred tiles—blackened, cracked, and faintly warm.
The place felt like the aftermath of a long-dead fire that refused to fully die.
Arden pushed himself up slowly. His limbs trembled, not with exhaustion, but with the strange sense that they weren't fully his. Like his bones remembered moving in certain patterns he hadn't lived yet.
Another breath rippled through the floor, stirring the ashes. His skin prickled.
"Hello?" he called, though his voice felt too soft for the space.
No answer. Only the slow, steady inhale of the house.
He stood on shaking legs. The ash clung to him like gray snow, blending into the tattered shirt and dark trousers he wore—clothing he didn't recognize. He brushed at the fabric, but the ash only smeared.
A long corridor stretched ahead, lit by dim, flickering candles suspended in metal cages along the walls. Their flames leaned toward him—not swaying with air, but bending purposefully, like they were smelling him.
A chill slid down his spine.
"Seris," he whispered to himself. "Find Seris."
The name warmed him from the inside. He tried to picture a face to match it, but his mind remained blank. No memories. No images. Nothing except the strange, undeniable certainty that he needed her.
And that something terrible would happen if he didn't reach her soon.
He took one step forward.
The house exhaled again.
And the corridor shifted.
The floor trembled, the walls elongating as if stretching their bones. Candle flames elongated into thin blue slivers. The corridor's end opened into new doorways that hadn't been there before—like the house was unfolding itself just for him.
Or trapping him.
Arden swallowed hard.
He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain:
This place was alive.
And it was watching him.
He moved. Slowly at first, then faster as the oppressive silence pressed in around him. The corridor narrowed, walls drawing closer until he could feel their warmth against his arms, like body heat. His heart pounded.
A whisper brushed against his ear.
"…Arden…"
He spun.
Only darkness behind him. Dust falling quietly.
But the voice—gentle, soft, feminine—sent a shock through him.
Seris.
He didn't know how he knew, but he was sure it was her voice… yet it felt wrong. Like an echo. Like someone else wearing her mouth.
He hurried forward, driven by instinct more than reason. Every step stirred ash into little spirals, as if his footsteps pulled at the memories buried there.
The corridor opened suddenly into a circular chamber lined with tall, shattered mirrors. He froze, breath catching.
Each mirror reflected versions of the room—except none reflected him.
The glass was cracked, webbed like frozen lightning, and in every fracture he saw shapes moving. Human-shaped shadows that twisted and dissolved when looked at directly.
He stepped carefully into the room, gripping the frame of the nearest mirror.
"Seris?" he whispered.
His reflection flickered for the first time—not a full image, but a silhouette, blurry and gray. It leaned closer from the other side of the glass, as if straining to see him.
A whisper drifted from nowhere and everywhere at once:
"Find her… before I do…"
Arden stumbled back. A cold sweat ran down his neck.
He didn't know who the voice belonged to—but he knew he feared it. He spun, scanning the chamber. Shadows clung to the corners like spilled ink.
The breathing beneath the floor quickened, matching his heartbeat.
He needed to get out.
He turned toward an archway partially hidden by a curtain of chains. They clinked softly as he brushed past them, entering another hallway.
This one felt different.
The air here was colder, thick with something he could taste—like snow and old grief. The candles were dimmer, their flames no longer reaching toward him but shrinking away.
He whispered her name again:
"Seris…"
The house reacted.
The walls shuddered in answer, as if the name itself stirred its bones.
A loud snap echoed behind him. He spun to find that the chain curtain had sealed itself closed, links merging into a solid plate of cold metal.
He wasn't going back.
Arden took a breath and moved forward.
The hallway sloped downward, drawing him deeper into the house's heart. As he descended, the ash grew thicker underfoot, muffling his steps. The candles began to gutter out one by one.
Soon, only darkness remained—except for a faint blue glow ahead.
He walked toward it.
The glow came from a door slightly ajar. Light seeped through the crack, hazy and trembling like a ghost's breath.
Arden pushed the door open.
He froze.
Inside was a small room—barely larger than a closet. But its walls were covered in charcoal drawings. Hundreds of them. Faces, bodies, scenes. Layer after layer.
And at the center of them all was one repeated image:
A woman with dark hair.
Eyes like rain just before it falls.
A face that felt like home and heartbreak all at once.
Seris.
His breath hitched painfully in his ribs. He touched the drawing closest to him. The charcoal smeared under his fingertips, warm like fresh ash.
His mind fluttered with something like memory—heat, a storm, a hand gripping his—and then it vanished.
He pressed his forehead against the wall, trembling.
Who was she?
Who were they?
And why did the sight of her make his chest ache like a wound?
A soft creak behind him made him turn sharply.
The door had closed on its own.
Arden stepped backward, pulse racing. He reached for the handle.
A voice whispered very close to his ear:
"Arden…"
He jerked away, heart hammering.
And then—
A faint silhouette appeared in the corner of the room.
A woman's figure.
Shoulders delicate. Hair falling like dark water. Eyes glowing faintly blue, watching him with a mixture of pain and longing.
She raised her hand, reaching out.
"Seris." His voice cracked around the name.
But her expression twisted—fear flashing across her features. She stepped back into the shadows, shaking her head.
Then she spoke in a trembling whisper:
"You shouldn't have come here."
Before he could move toward her, the walls shivered violently. The charcoal drawings rippled as if stirred by an unseen wind. The woman's figure flickered—then shattered into blue fragments like broken glass.
The room plunged into darkness.
Arden slammed his palms against the wall, breath shaking, desperate to bring her back.
"Seris! Wait!"
Only silence answered.
And then—
A new whisper, deeper, colder, brushing the back of his neck:
"She remembers what you did."
Arden froze.
"What… what did I do?" he whispered.
The house seemed to laugh—soft and cruel.
The floor shifted beneath him. The wall behind him melted into open air. He stumbled out into a long hallway illuminated by pale blue lamps.
Behind him, the small drawing room vanished completely—absorbed into the house like it had never existed.
Arden pressed a hand over his pounding heart. His breath came in ragged bursts.
"Seris…" he whispered again. "Where are you?"
The lights flickered.
Far down the hallway, a door creaked open on its own, spilling a soft golden glow.
He moved toward it cautiously. Every step echoed as if the house listened greedily.
The moment he reached the doorway, the breathing beneath the floor stopped.
The silence was total.
Arden pushed the door open.
Inside was a bedroom—cleaner than the rest of the house, lit by a single lantern hanging from a hook. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and burnt feathers. On the bed lay a book, its cover old and cracked.
His fingers trembled as he touched it.
The moment his skin brushed the cover, the lantern flickered violently. The air thickened. The book burst open.
Pages flipped on their own—furiously—until they stopped at one, written in elegant black ink.
Arden stared at the words.
They were written in his handwriting.
"I will find you again.
Even in death.
Even when this house devours us both."
A sound escaped his throat. Half a sob. Half a breath.
The book slammed shut in his hands.
Then the lantern went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Arden backed away, pulse thundering, searching for the doorway with desperate hands.
A soft voice whispered behind him.
"You promised."
He spun.
A figure stood inches away—barely visible in the darkness, but unmistakably her. Seris. Her eyes glowed faintly, cutting through the shadows.
This time she didn't look like a vision.
She looked real.
He reached out. "Seris—"
Her fingers touched his.
For a heartbeat, warmth pulsed between them—recognition, longing, pain.
Then her expression twisted into fear.
She whispered, voice breaking:
"Arden… don't touch me. Not in this life. Not yet."
Before he could speak, the house roared—walls trembling, floor cracking, air rushing like a hurricane.
A violent force tore them apart.
Ash exploded through the room.
When Arden could see again, she was gone.
And carved into the wall where she had been stood four words:
YOU WILL KILL HER.
Arden staggered back as the house exhaled around him—slow and hungry.
He didn't know who he was.
He didn't know what he had done.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
This house wanted him to remember something awful.
And Seris wanted him to forget.