The house had known joy once more.
Lyra's coming-of-age had kindled a rare warmth. The feast had been radiant, filled with laughter and light. Candles shimmered, musicians played, and nobles from every corner of the region filled the halls. Even the stone walls seemed to breathe easier, if only for a night.
But joy, unguarded, draws shadows.
While the estate danced, something slipped inside. Not with footsteps or fanfare—but with silence. It wound through the walls and drifted beneath doorways. It watched. It waited.
No one noticed—not at first.
The first sign was small. A dead sparrow in the courtyard.
Then a fox, its eyes wide with terror, its neck broken clean.
And then more.
Day after day, animals began to appear in the yard—silent offerings of unnatural death. Ravens. Deer. A hound. Their wounds bore no claw, no tooth. Just… wrongness.
The laughter died away.
Servants began to cough. First one, then three, then seven. They clutched their stomachs, spat black blood into cloth, and whispered of seeing things—shadows with teeth, eyes in the well water.
One fell into a fever and died. Then another.
Most claimed it was coincidence. A plague, perhaps.
But the old ones knew better.
A council convened in secret. Guardians. Lorekeepers. Mages. And what they whispered behind closed doors confirmed the worst: the darkness had returned. Not just at the edges—but in the heart of the house.
The only hope was purification.
A month of ritual, fire, and invocation. Perhaps longer.
And so, Lyra was sent away.
Auren's decision was swift, his eyes heavy with unspoken fear. Lady Siora was to accompany her, along with select cousins and trusted guards. They would journey west, to the family's sea-bound estate of Aelthwyn, perched above cliffs and carved into saltstone.
To the children, it was an adventure. To Siora, an exile. To Lyra—it felt like abandonment.
They arrived after three days' ride, the coastal wind pulling their cloaks like playful spirits. Aelthwyn rose like a cathedral of stone and sea-glass, silent but grand, watching over the ocean's roar.
The young ones scattered joyfully through its halls. They sang on the cliffs. Picked wildflowers from crevices. Played hide and seek in forgotten chambers.
But Lyra watched the waves. And listened.
There was something in the wind. Not a sound. A pull.
She hadn't told Siora everything. Not about the dream of the chained man. Not about the voice that kept whispering when she was alone.
At night, she slept lightly. Half expecting the shadows to take shape.
One morning, a courier arrived on a white mare, bearing two letters.
Siora read the first at breakfast:
"The purification continues. Delays inevitable. Remain in Aelthwyn until further instruction."
The children cheered.
But that night, in the privacy of her chamber, Siora opened the second. She lit a beeswax candle, placed the letter against her tall mirror, and let the flame's warmth reveal the hidden ink.
Words bled into the glass:
"The darkness is rooted. More deaths. The inner circle compromised. Block all exits. Let no one leave. Especially Lyra."
Siora's hand trembled.
She drank deeply from her wineglass, hoping to quiet the hammering in her chest. Then she stepped onto the balcony for air.
The sea wind kissed her face.
But across the cliffs, something moved.
A shadow—too tall, too still—stood beneath a withered tree, watching. Then it vanished.
Siora ran. Through corridor after corridor, until she reached the children's wing. She found them asleep, safe, curled in blankets and dreams.
Still, the unease would not leave her.
She sealed the gates. Tripled the guards. Read the old wards aloud each dawn.
But peace is a fragile thing.
A week passed. Then came the restlessness.
"We want to explore!" the cousins pleaded one morning. "Just a small walk!"
At first, Siora refused.
But eventually, with some grumbling, she allowed them to visit the forest bordering the estate—the Whispergrove. She sent three guards with them and strict orders not to wander too deep.
The Whispergrove was an ancient wood, its trees high and hushed, as if they kept secrets for the dead. Moss clung to roots. Birdsong was rare. A cold hush lingered, even under daylight.
They wandered under the green canopy. Laughed nervously. Looked for mushrooms and fox dens.
But Lyra felt it again—the shift.
A pulse beneath her ribs.
Then came the rustle.
From behind a darkened tree, a man emerged.
Or what used to be a man.
His skin looked scorched. His fingers bent the wrong way. His mouth—horribly torn open—hung slack, revealing teeth filed to jagged points. Chains trailed from his wrists, embedded into the skin like roots.
The guards tensed. "Behind us," one ordered.
The man stared, swaying slightly.
Then he screamed.
A blood-curdling, bone-twisting scream.
And charged.
Steel clashed. The guards met him—but more came.
Three. Seven. Nine.
Each figure twisted. Scarred. Some with glowing eyes like dim lanterns. Others dragging golden chains or bearing crescent-moon scars over their hearts. All of them smelled of rot and ruin.
"We can't hold them all!" a guard yelled. "Run!"
The children turned to flee—but the trees had changed. Paths disappeared. Even the wind felt wrong.
Panic rose.
Then Lyra heard it.
"Come here."
A voice, soft and sharp as a blade in water.
"They'll die if you wait."
She turned.
There—between two ancient birches—a narrow trail, almost invisible.
Without a word, she ran.
"Lyra!" her cousins cried. "Where are you going?"
"This way!" she shouted. "Trust me!"
They followed. All of them.
The creatures screamed behind them, close now, faster than they should be.
Lyra didn't know where she was going.
But she knew this:
The forest wanted them dead.
And something—or someone—did not.