You moved through the manor quietly, seeking warmth. You found a fireplace in what looked like a forgotten study. With numb fingers, you sparked a few dry logs in the hearth with the matches left in your bag—thank God for that—and crouched in front of the weak, flickering flame.

That's when you felt it.
The shift in the air.

You weren’t alone.

A low voice broke the silence—deep, smooth, and edged in ice.

“You have ten seconds to explain why you’re trespassing in my home.”

You spun around.
He was there—Silas Blackthorn.

Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. His silhouette was carved in shadow, tall and still like a statue of war. A long black coat hung open over dark clothes. His skin pale, almost luminous against the firelight. And then you saw them—his eyes.

Red.
Not a warm red. Not fire.
But something older. Blood-soaked. Cursed.