The road to Blackthorn Manor wound like a serpent through the jagged hills, its edges veiled in thick, silvery mist. Vivian Stone tightened her grip on the wheel as her car's headlights sliced through the darkness, illuminating ancient oaks that seemed to lean closer with every turn. Her chest felt as heavy as the duffel bag on the seat beside her, filled with tools of her trade—brushes, solvents, and a set of chisels she'd inherited from her late father. But for all her expertise in repairing history's scars, she couldn't shake the gnawing sense that she was driving straight into one.
The villagers had called her foolish for coming here. "The mirror doesn't need restoration," the old innkeeper had told her, his voice barely above a whisper. "It needs to stay broken. Some things are better that way."
Vivian had dismissed his warning with the same practiced indifference she applied to all her jobs. Superstition didn't pay the bills. Her career had been built on bringing life back to forgotten relics. She had worked on priceless canvases, ancient manuscripts, and even the shattered remains of a stained-glass window said to have survived the Great Fire of London. An obsidian mirror would be no different—or so she told herself.
As the manor came into view, her confidence faltered.
Blackthorn Manor loomed in the distance like a beast waiting to devour the moonlight. Its spires pierced the low-hanging clouds, and its stone façade was pocked with time and weather. No lights glowed in the windows, yet the air around it seemed alive, pulsing with an unnatural energy that made her skin prickle.
Vivian parked at the base of the long, winding driveway, her car's engine sputtering to silence. She stepped out into the cold night, clutching her coat tight around her. The silence here was suffocating, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional cry of an unseen bird.
"Miss Stone."
The voice startled her. She spun around to find a man standing near the iron gate, his silhouette sharp against the mist. Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded a quiet authority that made her uneasy. His black coat billowed slightly in the wind, and his face was shadowed under the brim of a wide-brimmed hat.
"You must be Sebastian Veyne," she said, composing herself.
"I am," he replied, stepping closer. His face came into focus under the weak moonlight—a striking visage of sharp cheekbones, dark stubble, and piercing green eyes that seemed to see straight through her. He tipped his hat. "Welcome to Blackthorn Manor. I trust the journey wasn't too troubling?"
"Not at all," Vivian lied, though the tightness in her jaw betrayed her.
Sebastian's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Good. Shall we?"
He turned and pushed open the iron gate, its rusted hinges groaning like an old wound. Vivian hesitated before following, feeling as though she were crossing an invisible threshold into something she couldn't quite name.
Inside, the grounds were overgrown, the gardens overtaken by wild ivy and thorns that seemed to reach for her ankles. The air smelled of damp earth and decay.
"Blackthorn has seen better days," Sebastian remarked, as if reading her thoughts.
"And the mirror?" she asked, eager to shift the conversation.
His smile faded. "It waits."
They entered the manor through a set of massive oak doors, which creaked under their weight. The air inside was cold and thick with the scent of mildew and old wood. Candles flickered in sconces along the walls, their flames casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance of their own accord.
"This way," Sebastian said, leading her through a labyrinth of hallways. The house felt alive, its walls breathing, its silence pressing in on her ears.
When they finally reached the study, Vivian's breath caught.
The obsidian mirror stood at the center of the room, taller than she had imagined, its frame ornate with carvings that seemed to shift as she stared at them. The glass itself was impossibly dark, swallowing the weak candlelight and reflecting nothing back at her.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, though the word felt wrong.
Sebastian stood beside her, his voice low. "Beautiful… and dangerous."
Vivian turned to him, a sharp retort on her lips, but stopped. His expression had changed—his confident demeanor was gone, replaced by something that looked almost like fear.
"The mirror isn't just an object, Miss Stone," he said, his voice barely audible. "It's a door. And doors… are meant to stay closed."
For a moment, the room felt impossibly still. Then, from the corner of her eye, Vivian thought she saw movement in the glass—a flicker of something too quick to name. She turned, but the surface was empty, as dark and impenetrable as before.
"Did you see that?" she asked.
Sebastian's eyes never left the mirror. "You'll see much more before this is over."
The weight of his words settled heavily in her chest, and for the first time in her career, Vivian wondered if she had made a mistake.
To be continued...