Episode 4

The heavy drapes in Seraphina’s room absorbed the soft moonlight, folding the small chamber into a cocoon of muted shadows. Outside, the wind whispered against the ancient windows, carrying a scent of frozen earth and forgotten things.

She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the letter from Casper—its crimson silk now worn from her restless fingers. The delicate wax seal with the thorned “V” had long since cracked, but the weight of that invitation still pressed against her like a secret too large to carry.

The manor was alive. Not with people, not really—not yet—but with something older, something ancient and restless. She could feel it in the walls, in the floorboards beneath her boots, in the flicker of candlelight that refused to fully warm the chill that settled in her bones.

Seraphina’s mind wandered back to the echoing library, to the shifting ink of those impossible books, and to Valerian’s eyes—silver and unreadable, like pools of storm-dark water hiding storms beneath.

What had he meant when he said fear fed the shadows? Was the manor itself hungry?

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to hold the darkness at bay.

⸻

Morning broke, pale and gray. Snowflakes drifted slowly, each one a perfect whisper falling silently to the earth. Seraphina dressed carefully, layering wool and lace, then descended into the manor’s depths once more.

The grand halls were quieter in daylight, but no less eerie. Sunlight filtered weakly through stained glass, casting fractured rainbows across stone floors slick with ancient dust. Portraits lined the walls—faces with eyes that seemed to flicker with life when she wasn’t looking directly at them.

“Good morning,” came a voice as smooth and cold as polished marble.

Seraphina started, turning to find Sebastian waiting in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, his posture perfect, like a statue carved from shadow.

“Breakfast is served in the East Wing,” he said, inclining his head. “Shall I escort you?”

She hesitated, then nodded, and he led her through winding corridors that twisted like the roots of a buried tree.

They entered a vast dining hall where a long table was set with fine china and silverware that gleamed despite a thin layer of dust. The air smelled faintly of roses and something sharper—iron, perhaps.

At the far end of the table sat Valerian, alone and still, his eyes closed as if in meditation.

“Good morning, Seraphina,” he said without opening them. “Sleep well?”

She swallowed, uneasy under his gaze. “As well as one can, in a place like this.”

Casper was nowhere to be seen.

⸻

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Valerian spoke little, his voice low and precise whenever he did. Sebastian moved like a shadow between shadows, refilling cups and arranging plates without disturbing the fragile silence.

Seraphina’s thoughts drifted, looping around questions with no answers.

Why had Casper summoned her here? What did Valerian truly want?

And beneath it all—the question she dared not voice even to herself—was she safe?

⸻

After breakfast, Casper finally found her in the sunroom—a glass-walled space overlooking the frozen gardens, where black roses bloomed defiantly against the snow.

He hovered just above the floor, pale and insubstantial as ever, but there was a flicker of urgency in his eyes.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low.

Seraphina studied him, wary.

“About the manor. About Valerian.”

He hesitated, then continued, “This place… it’s not just a home. It’s a prison. And we’re all trapped here, in some way.”

“Trapped?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Casper nodded. “Each of us has a past tied to Blackmoor. A debt unpaid, a secret buried. And now, with you here… things are starting to stir.”

He glanced toward the shadowed corners of the room, as if expecting unseen eyes to be watching.

Seraphina felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air.

⸻

That night, she couldn’t sleep. The manor was restless, alive with a thousand silent murmurs. She wandered the halls, drawn again to the grand staircase where the first flicker of candlelight still lingered.

At the top, a narrow corridor led to a door she had not yet dared to open.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the cold brass knob.

Inside was a small study, cluttered with maps and papers yellowed with age. An oil lamp cast a warm glow over the desk, where an open journal lay waiting.

Seraphina’s breath caught as she recognized the handwriting.

It was Casper’s.

⸻

To whoever finds this,

The manor remembers. It never forgets.

We are bound by blood and shadow, by promises made in silence.

Beware the family you meet here. Not all wear their true faces.

And trust… is the rarest thing of all.

Her eyes flicked to the next page, where a sketch of a woman with eyes like hers stared back.

A name was written beneath:

Evelyn Vale.

⸻