Suddenly, the light within the throne hall dimmed slightly. Somewhere above the ceiling, a sound echoed—like fire breathing through stone lungs.
Melissa turned toward me and spoke softly, her voice calm but firm. She told me that there was too much danger outside, that I should stay here for the night and leave when morning came.
Dimitri rose slowly from his throne.And at that very moment, it felt as if something dark stirred deep within the fortress itself, as though an unseen power had shifted. Melissa began walking forward, and I followed a few steps behind her. She was leading me toward the guest quarters. As we moved through the vast hall, my breath caught in my throat.
The room was alive with a dance of light and shadow. Deep blacks, muted grays, and cold bluish tones shaped an atmosphere that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. Pale, frigid light filtered through the gothic windows high above, like the shadow of a dead moon slipping into the hall. A thin mist floated throughout the space, giving the unsettling impression that life had long ago abandoned this place, leaving only memories to wander like smoke.
At the center stood a grand, ornate staircase, likely carved from black wood or dark stone. Its steps were tall and heavy, the railings adorned with deep, intricate carvings. The staircase seemed to rise toward darker levels above, as if ascending into layers of shadow. Though most of the floor was cloaked in darkness, a faded carpet lay beneath the staircase—perhaps once deep red or black—its patterns worn away by time. On both sides of the hall, upper-level balconies stretched along the walls, their railings equally elaborate and heavy, giving the architecture a sense of solid power and dark nobility. Above the staircase, near the ceiling, a massive gothic window divided into countless small glass panels allowed the cold light to pour into the hall. Along the walls, small chandeliers and wall-mounted sconces glowed faintly, their yellowish flames trembling and deepening the sense of mystery.
Old, layered chandeliers hung from above, their glass dulled by dust, casting blurred, weary light. But what drew my eyes most were the framed photographs. On the left wall beside the staircase hung a large portrait, tall and bound in a dark wooden frame. It depicted a family—a father, a mother, and their young daughter—dressed in old, traditional clothing. The father wore a hat, the mother a long gown, and the child stood between them.But the portrait was no longer whole.Each of their faces had been burned away, reduced to blackened, charred hollows where life once existed. Around them, sparks of fire lingered, suggesting that the destruction was either recent or that its curse still clung to the image.
The interplay of light and shadow made the scene unbearably dramatic.
I stopped walking.
These must be… Dimitri and Melissa—but who was the little girl?
The question reached the edge of my tongue, but I swallowed it. Asking too much of strangers felt improper, and honestly, something in Melissa's eyes stopped me. There was something hidden there—a story, a grief, or a terror she had not yet spoken.
Melissa turned slowly and looked at me.
"Come," she said gently.
I followed her in silence. To the right of the portrait stood a heavy wooden table with several objects placed upon it—perhaps candles or glasses. To the left, near the corner, sat an old-fashioned armchair and a piano. The furniture was sturdy, antique, and burdened with the weight of abandoned history.
Melissa pushed open an arched door. Torchlight flickered inside, and as I stepped into the room, cold air brushed against my shoulders like a hand.
The walls were made of heavy, uneven gray stone, as if they had been collecting stories for centuries. Dark tapestries hung there, nearly invisible in the shadows. The stone floor was rough and cold beneath my feet. At the center stood a raised stone platform, upon which rested a tall bed framed in black wood. The sheets were thick, their colors suffocatingly dark. A fireplace burned nearby, its orange flames twisting the shadows along the walls into grotesque shapes. Beside the bed sat a wooden barrel and a small table, candle flames trembling softly.
This room was not merely a room.
It was a memory.
A mystery.
Melissa stood at the doorway and said softly that I should rest here, and that I could call for her if I needed anything. There was an unusual tenderness in her voice. But when she left, a quiet chill settled deep in my chest.
I closed the door and looked around once more by the torchlight. Every brick, every corner of this fortress seemed to whisper stories of the dead. I was exhausted—utterly drained. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I could realize it, sleep claimed me.
Forty-five minutes later, the room lay silent as I slept.
Suddenly, I felt something heavy pressing down on my body. Breathing became difficult. A cold yet gentle hand brushed across my chest, my arms, my throat. Pain flared at my neck, a burning sensation spreading rapidly.
I forced my eyes open through the blur.
On top of me was a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen years old, her hands wrapped tightly around my throat. Blood stained the corner of her lips.