The vision of the woman, gaunt and otherworldly, flickered in Liora's mind, her voice sharp and prophetic. It hadn't felt like a mere dream—more like a warning, a message from the depths of something darker than the night itself.
Liora pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to shake the images away. She had to focus. She had to push through the weight of it. This manor, this place—it was driving her to the edge of her sanity.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet sinking into the cool stone floor. The silence in the room felt oppressive, like something was waiting for her, just beyond her reach. The air had thickened somehow, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should, creeping along the walls and across the floor, whispering without sound.
No. It's just the house.
But even as she thought it, her body didn't believe it. A shiver ran down her spine as her gaze flickered to the corner of the room where the shadows seemed to be gathering. She could feel them—alive, watching.
She didn't want to stay here. She didn't want to stay in this room, in this house. But where could she go? The manor had swallowed her whole, its labyrinthine halls and endless rooms a maze of uncertainty. She had no way of escaping it.
The air grew colder, and she could hear the faintest creak of the wooden beams above. The softest sound, but it was enough to make her freeze in place. She strained her ears, listening for anything that didn't belong, but there was nothing—only silence, as if the house itself were holding its breath.
Liora moved to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains. The moon was high, casting pale silver light across the overgrown grounds of Blackthorn Manor. The wind had died down, but the air still carried the faint scent of rain, a storm lurking just beyond the horizon. The garden outside was eerily still, the ancient trees bending in the direction of some unseen force. Everything felt... wrong.
With a resigned sigh, Liora turned from the window and made her way toward the door. Her footsteps were soundless on the cold stone floor, but the creaks of the house filled the silence, whispering with secrets she wasn't ready to hear. She paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle, her pulse quickening. Every instinct screamed at her to stay in the safety of her room, but a different kind of pull—the same one that had led her to Blackthorn in the first place—urged her forward.
She had to know what was really happening here. What Dante was hiding.
Without another thought, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor. The walls were shrouded in darkness, the low light of flickering candles casting long, grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe in the corners of her vision. The house was alive, breathing, groaning beneath the weight of its own history.
Liora walked, one step in front of the other, down the endless hallways. Each door she passed seemed to watch her, as if the rooms themselves held memories of her footsteps, the creaking floors and the cold drafts only reinforcing the oppressive weight of the manor. The silence of Blackthorn was more than just the absence of sound—it was a presence, a weight that pressed against her chest with every breath she took.
She didn't know where she was going, or if she was even meant to be here. But something deep within her pushed her forward, guiding her steps. The house, it seemed, had a way of pulling her in, making her follow its twisted path.
As she moved through the halls, the sounds of the manor seemed to grow louder. The creaking floorboards beneath her feet, the whisper of the wind through the cracks in the windows, the faraway murmur of voices she couldn't place—it was as if Blackthorn itself was calling to her. The sense of being watched returned, stronger this time, prickling across her skin like invisible eyes were tracing her every movement.
And then she heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible sound. A groan. A low, guttural creak that seemed to come from the bowels of the house itself. Her breath hitched as she instinctively turned down a narrow passageway. There, at the far end of the hall, a door loomed—old and worn, as though it hadn't been opened in years.
Liora hesitated. She could feel the weight of the air pressing down on her, heavy and suffocating. Every part of her screamed to turn back, but something inside her—something deep, something darker—urged her to go on. The door beckoned.
With shaking hands, she reached for the brass handle, cold against her fingertips, and turned it.
The door creaked open with a low groan, revealing a room unlike the others she'd seen. The space inside was dark, the air thick with dust and decay. Old furniture stood against the walls, covered in sheets that looked as if they hadn't been touched in centuries. A large, cracked mirror hung crookedly on one wall, its surface reflecting only darkness, as if it were a window to nowhere. The room felt wrong—stifling, oppressive. As though something had been locked away, hidden from the world for far too long.
But it was the presence in the room that sent a chill down her spine.
She could feel it before she saw it—the weight of eyes upon her, the unmistakable sensation that someone—or something—was watching her from the shadows. She stepped inside, her heart pounding, the door slowly swinging closed behind her with a final, ominous thud.
There, in the corner of the room, she saw him.
Dante.
He stood, his tall figure cloaked in shadows, his eyes glowing with a strange intensity. The moment their gazes locked, a current of heat ran through her, sharp and electric. She could feel his presence pressing in on her, like a storm that threatened to consume everything in its path.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, a growl in his throat, but there was something darkly amused beneath the surface. "You shouldn't be in here."
Liora took a step back, her pulse racing. She had not expected him to be here, not in this room. But his presence was inescapable, undeniable, as though he was a part of the very walls of Blackthorn.
"I..." Liora's voice faltered. "I needed to know."
His lips curled into a slight smile, though it was laced with something dangerous. "You don't understand, Liora. This place—this house—it's not something you can just walk away from."
Her breath caught in her throat as the shadows around him seemed to draw closer, the room growing colder. Dante stepped toward her, his movements predatory, like a wolf closing in on its prey.
"I think you've already figured that out."
Before she could react, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in a vice-like grip. Liora gasped, but her body didn't resist. The magnetism between them, the pull that had been growing since the moment she stepped into Blackthorn, was undeniable.
Dante's grip tightened, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs. For a brief moment, everything was still—the air, the shadows, even her heartbeat, as though the world was holding its breath.
"You belong to this place now," he whispered, his voice a dark promise. "And you'll never leave."