The storm outside Blackthorn Manor continued to rage, its fury intensifying with each passing minute. The wind howled through the cracks of the manor, rattling the windows, while the rain lashed against the stone like a thousand tiny whispers. Liora stood in the middle of the room, her heart still racing from the encounter with Dante. His words echoed in her mind—You belong to this place now. And you'll never leave.
She could still feel the press of his grip on her wrist, the weight of his gaze, the darkness in his voice. He had made it clear that her presence in Blackthorn had irrevocably bound her to this house, to him.
The room felt smaller now, suffocating. She had to move, had to find a way to make sense of the tangled emotions and strange pull she felt toward Dante, but the fear that had gripped her moments ago lingered like a shadow. It wasn't just him. It was the house itself, its oppressive atmosphere that seemed to watch and whisper, like a living thing.
Liora took a deep breath, steadying herself. She had to know more—about Dante, about this house, about what had happened here. She couldn't allow herself to be trapped in ignorance, not after everything that had happened.
With resolve, she turned toward the door, stepping into the dim corridor. The shadows stretched along the walls, twisting and contorting with every flicker of candlelight. She had no clear direction in mind, but the pull of curiosity was stronger than any hesitation.
Her footsteps were quiet, but the weight of every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the distant thunder, the low hum of wind—felt too loud, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for her to make the next move.
She reached the end of the hall, where an old, unmarked door stood slightly ajar. A faint light flickered within, its pale glow casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. Something about the room called to her, a sense of urgency gnawing at her chest, urging her to step closer.
Liora pushed the door open, the hinges groaning with age. The room inside was small, its shelves cluttered with dust-covered relics, forgotten memories, and strange artifacts. It was a place abandoned, frozen in time—just like the rest of Blackthorn. But the heavy air, thick with something ancient and dangerous, made her heart beat faster.
As she stepped inside, her gaze fell on a book resting on a pedestal in the center of the room. The pages were yellowed with age, the cover dark and worn, as though it had been touched by countless hands. She approached it slowly, drawn by the same force that had brought her to this house in the first place.
The moment her fingers brushed the cover, the room seemed to shift. A low, dissonant hum filled the air, and for the briefest moment, she thought she saw something—someone—in the corner of her vision. She spun around, but there was nothing there. Only the shadows, stretching further than they should.
With a shaky breath, Liora opened the book, her eyes scanning the pages filled with neat, careful handwriting. It was a journal, a record of someone's thoughts, someone who had lived within these walls. The name at the top of the page caught her eye—Eveline.
As she read, the story began to unfold. Eveline had been a woman trapped in Blackthorn, bound to it by a love that was as dark as the house itself. Her words spoke of a connection with Dante, a love that had twisted into something darker, something that consumed her. There were hints of madness, of obsession, and of a love so powerful it had turned into something else entirely.
Liora's hands trembled as she turned the pages, her heart racing with each word. She read of Eveline's descent into despair, of her desperate plea for freedom, and of a presence—something dark—that had taken hold of her, dragging her into the depths of Blackthorn's secrets.
Then, she came to the final entry, the last words written in a frantic, scrawling hand:
"He is no longer the man I knew. Dante has become something else. Something darker. And I fear it is too late for both of us."
Liora's breath hitched in her throat as the words sank in. Eveline had known. She had known that Dante was no longer the man he once was. And now, Liora was in the same position, trapped in Blackthorn, with Dante's dark legacy hanging over her like a shadow.
Suddenly, a sound interrupted her thoughts—a soft creak of the floorboards behind her. Liora turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat.
Dante stood in the doorway, his presence as overwhelming as ever. The shadows seemed to cling to him, wrapping around his form like a cloak. His gaze was fixed on the book in her hands, and for a moment, there was an almost imperceptible flicker of something—regret? Anger?—that passed across his features.
"You shouldn't have read that," he said, his voice low and tense.
Liora stood frozen, the book still clutched in her hands. "Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What happened to her? To Eveline?"
Dante stepped into the room, the darkness around him thickening. "Eveline," he said, his voice quiet, almost distant, "was the last to believe she could escape the grip of Blackthorn. She failed."
His gaze never left her, and Liora could feel the weight of his words, the history they carried.
"You think you're different," he continued, his voice laced with a cold, detached sadness. "But you're not. You can't escape, Liora. This place is part of you now, just as it was part of her."
Liora's chest tightened, a sense of doom settling over her. "And what does that mean for me?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Dante's eyes darkened, his gaze intensifying. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. With a sudden movement, he reached out and took the book from her hands. "It means," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, "that you'll never escape what's already bound you."