The morning sunlight touched the edge of her bed like a ghost—warm, golden, and cold all at once.
Lyra hadn't slept.
She couldn't.
Not after that dream.
Not after those words.
> "You made a promise before you were even born."
What did that even mean?
What promise?
To whom?
And why did his voice sound like a memory she shouldn't have?
She sat up slowly, the bedsheets tangled around her legs like vines. Her body trembled—not from fear, exactly, but from something harder to name.
Something older.
She reached for her journal. The one she always kept by her pillow. It lay open, its creamy pages whispering silence. At first, it looked untouched.
But then she saw it.
One new line.
Not in her handwriting.
Not in her pen.
> The door never stays closed forever.
She froze.
The ink was dry. The letters careful. Elegant. Not smudged by sleep or rushed by panic.
It didn't make sense.
Who had written this?
She hadn't heard anyone enter. The door had been locked from the inside. The windows shut tight. The fireplace cold. There had been no footsteps. No flick of shadow. No voice.
Except in her dreams.
So what was it?
A hallucination?
A prank?
Or… a warning?
The silence in the room felt thicker now. Watching her. Waiting.
Her pulse quickened.
She had to get out.
---
Lyra stepped into the hallway, clutching the journal tightly to her chest. The air outside her room wasn't just cold—it was still. Like the entire mansion had paused mid-breath.
Even the chandeliers seemed to hang lower than before.
Where was everyone?
No maids bustling. No servants whispering behind doors. No faint echoes of breakfast being prepared.
Just… silence.
And mist curling at the windows, despite the sun.
Was this what Adrian meant by privacy?
Or was there something deeper here?
She found herself drifting—feet moving without thought—through winding halls that all looked the same: pale walls, dark rugs, strange tapestries embroidered with creatures she didn't recognize. Some with wings, others with too many eyes.
But it was the paintings that stopped her.
They lined the eastern corridor like silent sentinels. Dozens of them. Each one stranger than the last.
One showed a woman veiled in black lace, holding a mirror that reflected not her face—but a field of burning trees.
Another depicted a child sleeping beneath a staircase. The shadows around him looked like wolves.
She paused at a third.
A boy in the middle of a frozen lake, staring down into the water. His reflection showed something different.
Something older.
Something with horns.
Was it Adrian?
She looked closer.
The boy had Adrian's eyes. But they were full of fear.
And then—just as she blinked—the painting changed.
The ice cracked beneath the boy's feet.
The water turned red.
Lyra gasped and stumbled back.
Had she imagined it?
She looked again.
Now the painting was still.
Peaceful.
Frozen.
Was the mansion playing with her?
Or was she changing?
---
She kept walking.
Somewhere deep in her mind, a voice whispered: Go west.
She didn't know why. She didn't even remember hearing about a west wing. But something called her.
The walls grew darker there.
Colder.
The light faded as if the sun no longer cared to follow.
She came to a door—twice her height, carved from blackened wood and veined with silver.
Symbols adorned it. Symbols that pulsed faintly.
She didn't recognize them.
And yet…
She did.
A strange pull pressed against her chest. Like a string from inside her heart tugging toward the other side.
She stepped closer.
The air grew warmer.
Then came the voice.
"Lyra…"
She froze.
It was a child's voice.
Soft. Fragile.
Lonely.
"Lyra… don't leave me here…"
She stared at the door.
Who was behind it?
A child?
A spirit?
A piece of herself?
She reached for the doorknob—then hissed in pain. It was burning hot.
She pulled back.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Then silence.
The voice was gone.
But something else was there.
A presence.
Watching her.
She turned—
And collided with a body.
Strong arms caught her before she fell. Fingers like ice wrapped around her wrist.
Her breath caught.
She looked up.
Adrian.
His expression unreadable.
Eyes colder than ever.
But not indifferent.
No.
There was a flicker of something in them.
Fear?
Anger?
Pain?
"What," he said slowly, voice like broken velvet, "do you think you're doing here?"
---
And just like that—everything inside her stilled.
Was he angry?
Was he afraid?
And most importantly…
What exactly was he trying so hard to hide?
---