The mansion greeted Lysander like a beast that knew its master.
Its towering archway loomed against the fading dusk, and as he stepped through, the grand doors closed behind him with a whisper that sounded suspiciously like breath. Not wind. Not wood. Breath.
Familiar shadows crawled up the marble walls like old memories refusing to die. The chandelier above flickered to life—flameglass catching and refracting twilight into golden shards that danced across the high-vaulted ceiling like imprisoned stars.
But none of it soothed him.
He moved through the hall with practiced indifference, his black cloak trailing like a second shadow stitched from grief and habit. The scent of ash and ancient magic clung to the air—thick, metallic, alive. But Lysander had long since stopped noticing.
This place was part of him.
Just as broken. Just as cold.
A sound of laughter rang from the upper floors—light and wild. Emily.
Ophelia's softer footsteps followed, hesitant and careful, as though each step was a question left unanswered.
Lysander paused at the base of the staircase, his gaze lifting just long enough to catch a glimpse of the slave girl disappearing down the servant corridor. She was walking with her head slightly bowed, her fingers curled inward at her sides, like she was bracing for pain.
Like she didn't trust silence.
Like she knew too much.
His jaw tightened.
He hadn't intended to bring her here. He didn't plan things like this anymore. Plans were for people who believed in control. In order. In fairness.
He has past that illusion.
The study was untouched. It always was.
No one entered without his permission—not even Emily, not even his mother. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air thickened with secrets and the scent of old leather and ink. Shelves lined every wall, stacked high with books bound in dragonhide, human skin, and materials unnamed.
The room pulsed like a heart. Quiet. Contained. Dangerous.
He moved to the fireplace and struck a match. Threw it in. Flames came to life with a sharp hiss, devouring the cold with unnatural hunger.
Then, finally—he allowed himself to breathe.
The weight of the day slipped from his shoulders, only slightly. He poured a drink from the decanter near the hearth, hands trembling just enough to betray the calm mask he wore in public.
He didn't sit.
He just stood there, the firelight casting flickering shadows over his face as he sipped the drink and stared into the flames.
His thoughts circled around the girl. Ophelia.
A girl he didn't need.
A girl he shouldn't have brought.
And yet...
A knock broke the silence.
Not loud. Measured. Precise.
He knew who it was already. Only one person in the mansion knocked like that.
"Come in." he said, sharper than intended.
The door opened.
She entered like a ghost sculpted from starlight—tall, poised, her presence both regal and terrible. The Lady Grey. His Stepmother.
Her gown trailed behind her like mist, silver and sheer, adorned with runes that shimmered subtly in the firelight. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, carved from winter ice.
She didn't speak right away. She never did unless it mattered.
"You brought a girl," she said at last. No curiosity in her tone—only judgment.
Lysander raised the glass to his lips. "A slave," he corrected.
"Really?" Her brow lifted. "A female, at that."
He said nothing.
She stepped closer, the shadows pulling away from her path as though they knew better. "We have hundreds of slaves and servants. Male. Female. Trained. Broken. Useful. Why bring this one?"
"I don't owe you an explanation," he said calmly.
"That's true," she replied, voice lower. "But I wonder if you owe one to yourself."
He stiffened.
She tilted her head slightly. "You're not sentimental. You're not foolish. So… why?"
Silence stretched between them, tense as a drawn wire.
"It's none of your business, Mother," he said finally.
Her lips thinned. "I see."
She turned to leave.
But then—softly, almost too quietly—she said, "You always say that. 'I'll take responsibility.'"
He glanced at her over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.
"And still," she continued, "Martin is dead."
The name hung in the air like poison.
He gripped the edge of the mantle hard enough for the veins in his arm to surface.
"Don't," he warned.
But the damage was done. She had said it.
Martin.
His brother.
His guilt.
She didn't press further. She never did. She didn't have to. She had mastered the art of stabbing without drawing blood. She left hurriedly, knowing how dangerous Her stepson can be when provoked.
He was back in the past, walking through blood and smoke, remembering Martin's last breath—how it had sounded like forgiveness.
And how that was the worst part.
He should have hated him.
But Martin had loved too much. Trusted too easily.
Much later that day, Lysander stood in the garden alone.
The bloodroses had bloomed again. Red as spilled secrets, their petals pulsed faintly in the moonlight like living hearts. Each flower was a curse—sown with forbidden magic, watered with shadow, blooming only for those who bled.
He reached out and touched one.
It burned him.
The pain was sharp. Immediate. And oddly comforting.
Pain reminded him he was still flesh. Still breathing.
Still here.
He drew his hand back, watching a single bead of blood slip down his palm.
A gift, the roses seemed to whisper. A price paid.
He looked up, eyes traveling to the high tower window. A faint flicker of candlelight. That was where she slept.
Ophelia.
She wasn't special. He kept telling himself that.
She was frightened. Soft-spoken. Human. Nothing about her should've lingered in his thoughts. And yet... her presence rattled something in him.
Why had Malrec wanted her so badly?
And why had he, Lysander Grey—cursed creature, broken blade—cared enough to stop him?
He didn't have the answer.
But the wind whispered that it was coming.
And when it did—
It would ruin everything But Lysander didn't care.
Or maybe...
Maybe there was something pushing him he couldn't understand. Couldn't name. A thread tugging in the dark, threading fate to blood and blood to fire.
And as he turned to leave the garden, a shadow detached from the edge of the overgrown garden pat h—a figure cloaked in tattered gray, watching.
Waiting.
Not for him.
For her.
Ophelia.
And Lysander felt it in his bones—
The ruin had already begun.