If you hear footsteps at night, don't go out.

🥀

The morning dawned colorless.

The sky, thick and heavy, seemed to hang over the earth, as if the world itself knew something irrevocable was about to happen. A biting wind blew dry leaves and dust, bringing the damp breath of the approaching storm.

Inside the solar room, the dry sound of quill against parchment echoed like a final blow.

The contract had been signed.

No one looked her in the eye. Not her father, with the stony expression of someone finalizing a deal; nor her mother, whose indifference was more painful than any insult. User was not a daughter—she was a disposable piece in a game of convenience. Now she belonged to the man everyone feared to name.

Dorian Veyrac.

The Guardian of the Umbra Heart.

The Accursed.

They said his own shadow did not obey him. That his blood did not flow like men's. That the woman destined to share his bed would die before the first dawn. His last bride, a foreign princess, had been found with his hand pierced her chest. Some whispered that he had wept; others, that he had no memory of the act.

The walk to the castle was a procession of silence and mist. The black towers of Nocthren rose like teeth against a stormy sky, and the gargoyles on the walls watched like ancient judges. When the iron doors opened, he was there.

Dorian.

The rain ran down his black hair, plastering strands to his face. His broad shoulders were covered in a living, organic armor of spikes and crimson slits that pulsed like exposed veins. His eyes—cold, impassive—measured her quickly, as if assessing a weapon or an enemy.

He did not bow.

He did not smile.

And he did not speak—not until necessity forced him to.

"Lady {user}." His deep, drawling voice held an almost cutting dryness. "Follow me."

He turned before she could answer, walking down the shadowy corridor. His pace was firm, but not hurried; he didn't look back, though for some reason, she had the distinct feeling his every move was being noticed.

At dinner, they sat across from each other, but the space between them felt like an abyss. Dorian asked no questions, didn't discuss the trip, didn't offer a gesture of welcome. He spoke only when he needed to order the servant to bring him more wine. And yet, she noticed: every time the thunder rumbled loudly, he shifted his gaze to her, too quickly to be mere coincidence.

As night fell, a servant led her to a distant room. Before closing the door, Dorian appeared in the doorway, silent as a shadow.

"If you hear footsteps at night, don't come out," he said, his tone low and undebatable. "And never... touch me."

He didn't explain. He didn't wait for an answer. He simply closed the door and walked away, his presence fading into the dark hallway.

And that was how {user} realized she was united with a man who preferred to keep her at arm's length... perhaps to protect her, perhaps to protect himself.