Episode 1

The invitation arrived on the first day of snow.

It was nestled between the folds of a dead black rose, wrapped in crimson silk and sealed with a wax stamp bearing a symbol she didn’t recognize—an ornate “V” entwined with thorns. Seraphina Vale stared at it for a long while before opening it, her breath fogging against the frosted windowpane. Outside, the wind howled like a beast too long caged, and inside, the silence of her tiny apartment pressed in around her like a second skin.

The message was short, written in elegant script:

“Dearest Seraphina,

The holidays are lonely without friends. Come spend them with me at Blackmoor Manor. It’s time you met the family.

Yours,

Casper Whitlock”_

Seraphina hadn’t seen Casper in over a year. They’d met in an old bookstore, bonding over obscure poetry and strange Victorian novellas. He’d always been… peculiar—dressed like someone out of a different century, with a boyish grin and an air of delightful madness. And though he had vanished mysteriously one day, just as quickly as he’d appeared, she never truly forgot him.

Still, something about this felt off.

She should have said no. Should have thrown the letter into the fire, poured a cup of tea, and gone on pretending that the world wasn’t haunted. But instead—

She packed a bag.

⸻

The carriage that arrived for her was jet black, pulled by horses with eyes like ink and breath that misted unnaturally cold. No driver was in sight.

“Charming,” Seraphina muttered, clutching her coat tighter. The city faded behind her as the vehicle rolled through winding, forested hills. Snow deepened. Trees thinned. Fog curled like ghostly fingers along the road.

Then came the gates.

They loomed tall and rusted, crowned with coiled iron thorns and gargoyle heads. As the carriage passed through, something shifted in the air—heavier, older. Her skin tingled.

And then… she saw it.

Blackmoor Manor.

It was less a house and more a palace sculpted from stone and shadow. Gothic spires pierced the sky, windows stared blankly like empty eyes, and roses—blood red—bloomed in impossible clusters along the iron fences. A black cat watched her from the gatepost, its golden eyes gleaming with recognition.

The carriage came to a stop.

Seraphina stepped out, boots crunching in the snow. Before she could knock, the grand double doors groaned open, revealing a tall figure in a charcoal-gray tailcoat. His hair was silver at the temples, his gloved hands folded with grace.

“Miss Vale,” he said in a voice smooth as velvet, “we’ve been expecting you.”

“…You must be Sebastian,” she replied warily.

He bowed. “Indeed.”

The moment she crossed the threshold, the doors slammed shut behind her with a sound that echoed like the closing of a crypt. The warmth inside was stifling, perfumed with old wood, wax, and something… coppery.

“Casper will be down shortly,” Sebastian murmured. “May I take your coat?”

She handed it over, watching as he drifted away like a phantom into the shadows. She was alone in the grand foyer, which stretched so high above her that she couldn’t see the ceiling. A blood-stained cross hung crookedly on the wall. A fireplace flickered without heat.

“Well,” Seraphina whispered, “this isn’t creepy at all.”

Just then, a familiar voice called out—“Seraphina!”

She turned—and there he was.

Casper Whitlock bounded down the spiral staircase with his usual wild charm, his hair a tousled mess, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. He looked exactly the same. No older, no different… except for the faint paleness to his skin, the subtle shimmer of something not entirely human behind his grin.

“You came!” he said, nearly tackling her in a hug.

She stepped back instinctively—then paused.

He wasn’t touching the ground.

“…Casper?”

“Oh!” he blinked, looking down. “Right. Sorry—haven’t fully solidified yet. Still adjusting.”

Her mouth went dry. “You’re… floating?”

“For the moment. Don’t worry, I’m not dead. I think.” He floated to the ground with a sheepish grin and took her hand. “Come on. You have to meet Valerian.”

“Who?”

“You’ll see.”

⸻

They moved through candlelit hallways lined with ancient portraits. The eyes of the painted figures seemed to follow her. The house moaned under its own weight, wood groaning, wind whispering in unintelligible tongues.

And then, as they passed a tall mirror, Seraphina noticed something.

She could see her own reflection.

She could see the walls.

She could see the flickering candles.

But… she couldn’t see Casper.

She froze. “Casper…?”

“Yes?” He turned.

“You don’t have a reflection.”

He laughed softly. “Ah, yes. Don’t worry about that. Minor detail.”

“Minor—?! Casper, what is this place?”

He paused, then leaned in close, voice low. “A sanctuary. A prison. A memory. Maybe all three. But it’s safe here… for now.”

Before she could demand more, double doors swung open ahead of them. A grand hall unfolded, lit by chandeliers shaped like iron spiderwebs. At its center stood a man.

He wore black like it was sewn into his soul. His hair was dark, shoulder-length, and his pale face was carved with an ethereal elegance. He turned slowly, his eyes locking with hers—ancient, silver, and unreadable.

“Seraphina Vale,” he said. “At last.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Valerian,” Casper introduced, “this is Seraphina. Seraphina—this is the lord of the house.”

Valerian stepped forward, eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”

“…Have we met before?”

A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “In a manner of speaking.”

And then, without warning, the chandeliers flickered.

A gust of wind blew through the room—though no doors were open.

Somewhere deep in the manor, a piano began to play itself.

Casper tilted his head. “Ah. That’s the dinner bell.”

⸻

Seraphina stared at the two men before her—the charmingly dead friend, and the dangerously beautiful stranger—and realized, for the first time, that she might not survive the holidays.

But a deeper part of her whispered:

You were never meant to survive.

You were meant to remember.

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