The oppressive silence of Willow Creek after Briarly's frustrated shouts felt heavier than the ancient stone walls of the same Willow Creek. Dallas stalked through the shadowed corridors, the name Enchantante Fabrics burning like a brand in his mind.
Ember. Here. Now. Sewing his coats, living a life parallel to his own in this cursed past, a life he had no memory of. The implications were a vortex threatening to swallow him. Erased memories? Time itself unraveling? Lydia's intricate, poisonous web tightening around them all?
His boots echoed with rigid purpose as he navigated the labyrinthine manor. He knew where she'd be at this hour – the old conservatory repurposed as her alchemical den. The air grew tensed, mixed with the cloying sweetness of crushed herbs, the acrid tang of sulfur, and the metallic scent of something far darker. Maybe spells. He wasn't really familiar with the era and what it smelt like.
