The weight of the days had begun to settle heavily on Liora's chest. Time in Blackthorn Manor passed in a suffocating, relentless rhythm. The same halls, the same rooms, the same oppressive silence. The house itself seemed to breathe in tune with her unease, its shadows stretching longer with each day, its walls whispering secrets she wasn't yet ready to hear.
Dante's distance, once a source of attraction, had grown into a barrier she couldn't break. He was everywhere and nowhere at once. He would cross her path in the hallways or stand just outside her door at night, his presence lingering like a shadow, but every time she tried to approach him, to bridge the gap between them, he retreated further into his world of silence and darkness.
It was as if he were testing her, watching her with a detached amusement, daring her to push further while keeping her at arm's length. And Liora, despite everything, couldn't stop herself from trying. The frustration that built within her was sharp and constant, gnawing at her as she found herself drawn deeper into the mystery of the man who both terrified and intrigued her.
It was in these moments of frustration that Liora found some semblance of peace in her painting. It was her one escape, the only way she could express the turmoil brewing inside her. Each stroke of the brush, each blend of color, pulled her deeper into the world she was creating. It was a world of twisted trees and barren landscapes, of shadows and light that bled together into something both beautiful and haunting. She poured her soul into every canvas, the pain and confusion bleeding onto the surface. The manor, with all its eerie allure, found its way into her work. The twisted forms of its architecture, the darkness that seemed to cling to every corner, took shape beneath her fingers.
Her latest painting, one that had consumed her for days, was of the manor itself. But as she worked on it, something strange began to happen. The more she painted, the more she felt connected to the house, as if her art was unlocking something within it. She would see shadows flicker in the corners of the room, fleeting glimpses of shapes that vanished before she could make sense of them.
One evening, as she was putting the finishing touches on her piece, Liora felt a familiar presence behind her. Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn't turn around. She knew who it was. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the temperature dropping, and then Dante's voice broke the silence.
"Your painting," he said, his tone flat, "It's as though you're trying to capture something… alive."
Liora's fingers froze, brush still in hand. His words sent a chill through her, the sensation too familiar, too close. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting his. He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark as they studied her and her work.
"It's just a painting," Liora said, the words feeling weak, empty in the face of his scrutiny.
Dante stepped into the room, his gaze never leaving the canvas. "No," he said softly. "It's more than that. It's a mirror."
Liora's breath caught in her throat. "A mirror?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "Of what?"
He took another step closer, his form towering over her. She could feel the tension between them, the weight of unspoken words, the distance that stretched between them, a chasm that neither of them had yet dared to cross.
"The manor," he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "You've painted its soul."
Liora looked at her work again, her eyes tracing the familiar lines—the way the manor seemed to twist and warp, how it loomed like a dark entity, full of secrets and sorrow. She had been so absorbed in her own emotions while painting it, in the pull the house had on her, that she hadn't seen it for what it was—a reflection of everything she didn't yet understand.
She shook her head, her hands trembling as she set the brush down. "I don't understand," she murmured. "It's just a painting. It's only how I see things."
Dante studied her for a long moment, and then he spoke, his voice grave. "And how you see things is exactly the problem."
Liora looked up at him, her confusion mounting. "What do you mean?"
His gaze softened, though the coldness never fully left his eyes. "The house... it has a way of drawing people in, Liora. It reveals things, but not always in the way you expect. Sometimes, it brings out what's buried deep inside you."
She took a step back, the words lingering in the air between them like a warning. "You think I'm being pulled into something? Into the house's... influence?"
Dante's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary flicker of something almost human. "The house doesn't need to pull you. It just needs you to listen. You've already started hearing it."
Liora swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. She had always known that there was something wrong with Blackthorn Manor, something unsettling about the way it felt alive, as though it had its own mind, its own desires. But hearing Dante speak of it so plainly… it was as if the weight of the truth had finally come crashing down on her.
"You think I can hear it now?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Dante nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her. "Yes. And it's only just beginning."
Liora felt her chest tighten. The house—its shadows, its whispers—was no longer something she could ignore. It was a part of her now, and she couldn't escape it, not any more than she could escape Dante himself.
With that, he turned and walked out, leaving Liora standing alone in the dim light, her painting staring back at her like a reflection of the house itself—dark, foreboding, and full of secrets she was only beginning to uncover.