Dawn crept over the rooftops of Krasvale like a weary mourner draped in gold, its light pale and cold despite the promise of morning.
Crooked spires and leaning chimneys cast long, skeletal shadows across the cobbled streets, where dew clung like tears to splintered shutters and ivy-choked fences.
The town, still haunted by the tremors of the night before, stirred slowly.
Shutters groaned open. Crows, fat with secrets, scattered from the eaves with ragged cries.
Somewhere, a bell tolled—three languid chimes that echoed like a dirge across the hollow air.
In the distance, the mayor's manor gates creaked open.
A few riders approached along the gravel path—Mayor Aldrich, Callum, and a handful of men.
They rode in silence past the workers. Their faces were tight with fatigue, their bodies smeared with mud, marked with scrapes and bruises—but thankfully intact.
The mayor dismounted with a crunch of gravel beneath his boots. His voice, hoarse with urgency and worn down by a sleepless night, broke the stillness. "The messenger said my son has returned. Is it true?"
From beneath the manor's stone archway, a tall, gaunt man in a charcoal waistcoat emerged.
His posture was impeccable, as though the chaos of the previous night had not dared touch him.
A silken cravat clung to his throat like a noose of dignity, and a thin monocle glinted at the bridge of his nose.
"Yes, my lord," the man said, bowing with mechanical precision. "Master Gale arrived shortly before dawn. Shaken, but unharmed."
He paused, his lips twitching as though restraining some unspoken concern. "He is in his chamber. A fire was drawn and tea prepared, though I suspect it was the wine that steadied him more."
Mayor Aldrich's breath hitched—just for a heartbeat, a flicker of something fragile crossing the iron lines of his face.
He nodded once, sharply, then strode up the steps two at a time, leaving muddy prints on the marble.
Callum lingered at the foot of the stairs, brushing dust and dried mud from his coat.
The butler—Sebastian, appropriately named—watched the mayor disappear into the manor before turning his attention to Callum. "Would you care for some refreshment, Sir Callum? You look as though you've been wrestling ghosts."
Callum exhaled, the breath fogging despite the morning sun. "More like buried by them," he muttered. "The messenger also mentioned a girl. Where is she?"
Sebastian narrowed his eyes—barely a twitch beneath the polished lens of his monocle.
"Ah. Yes. The girl," he echoed, voice thin as parchment. "She arrived with Master Gale. A curious one—pale as ash, dressed in garments I hesitate to call proper. Though certainly… memorable."
He turned with the silent grace of a man long accustomed to shadows, gesturing for Callum to follow.
"She is in the guest room. This way, Sir Callum."
They passed through the yawning mouth of the manor, the high arched doorway swallowing them into a hush of cool stone and stale candle wax.
The grand hall lay in darkness, save for slivers of stained-glass light casting fractured saints in crimson and violet across the walls.
Their footsteps rang out on the marble floor like distant gunshots.
"She refused the service of maids, and insisted on bathing alone," Sebastian remarked as they climbed the side stair, his tone a measured blend of disapproval and bemusement. "Any idea why, Sir Callum?"
Callum gave a weary grunt. "If I had to guess? She doesn't trust anyone who breathes."
"How… intriguing." Sebastian hummed, neither agreeing nor disputing.
They reached the landing, where a long, dim corridor stretched beneath a row of somber oil portraits.
The silence here was heavier—curdled, as though the air itself held its breath.
Sebastian stopped before a lacquered oak door, its surface smooth but for the faintest scratch marks near the handle, as though a cat had tried to escape—or gain entry.
"She's inside," Sebastian said softly. "Requested solitude. And a mirror." He cleared his throat delicately. "Not, I suspect, for vanity."
Callum raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He stepped past the butler and knocked once.
No response.
He knocked again—louder.
Before the third knock could echo away, the door creaked open like a confessional stirred by ghosts.
Freya stood in the doorway, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders in tangled waves.
The borrowed nightgown hung off her like it had lost a fight with a pair of scissors.
Her crimson eyes, faintly glowing and bleary with sleep, narrowed at Callum with all the warmth of a knife's edge.
"Can't a girl get some decent sleep in this manor?" she rasped, voice hoarse with irritation. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"
Callum blinked. "Good morning to you too."
"Figured you'd still be alive." Freya scoffed, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand. "What do you want?"
Sebastian, who had wisely kept his distance, cleared his throat. "My lady, we did not mean to disturb you. Sir Callum was merely—"
"Worried about who I killed last night?" she interrupted, one eyebrow arched with predatory grace.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between the two men. "Well? If you're here to ask questions, make them quick."
Callum exhaled, voice softer now. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't hurt. And… there's something important we need to talk about. Later."
Sebastian glanced between them, his expression unreadable. "May I suggest," he said delicately, "that we all get presentable before beginning the morning?"
Mayor Aldrich's footsteps echoed through the second-floor corridor, each one heavier than the last.
Portraits of his ancestors glowered from the walls, their eyes accusatory in the early light.
He stopped outside a familiar door. The scent of rose oil and lavender drifted faintly through the crack beneath it.
He didn't knock.
Inside, the room was still. Drapes of burgundy silk muted the daylight, casting the chamber in a wine-dark hue.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, its warmth fighting the morning chill.
By the window stood a woman in a pale blue gown, her hair pinned with meticulous care that hadn't survived the night.
She turned as he entered. "You're finally home, my love. Are you hurt? You really had me worried."
Aldrich stood just inside the threshold, the door swinging shut behind him with a muted click.
For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes traced the silhouette of his wife—Seraphine—in the dim light.
Even weary and undone, she held herself with the poise of someone who had long ago learned to survive worry by turning it into grace.
He exhaled slowly, the breath trembling more than he wanted. "No, Seraphine. I'm not hurt. Not by anything with claws, at least."
She crossed the room with a rustle of skirts, her slippers soundless against the velvet carpet.
Her fingers reached for his face—hesitant, reverent—brushing the mud-caked stubble along his jaw.
"Your eyes," she whispered, as if seeing them for the first time. "You look like you really had a tough night."
He leaned into her touch. Just a little. Just enough to remember what softness felt like. "Yes, I did," he admitted. "I almost didn't make it out from the tunnels."
Seraphine's mouth tightened. "And Gale? Have you seen—"
"Yes, I have," Aldrich said quietly. "He's… rattled." His eyes fell to the floor, as though the truth might be hiding in the grain of the wood."And he came back with secrets. Something happened to him, and he's too afraid to talk about it."
She stepped back, her hands folding at her waist. "You mean the girl."
Aldrich blinked. "Yes, the girl. Have you gotten anything from her?"
"No. I didn't try to poke. After all, she did return Gale safely." Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rising sun painted fractured light across the frosted glass."And even if I did, I don't think I'd get anything from her either.""She was calm. Too calm for a girl her age."
Aldrich followed her gaze, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening. "...Well, at least we know she's not from around here. That much is obvious."
A silence settled between them.
"No matter who she is," Seraphine said at last, "we still owe her a debt. That's undeniable."
He didn't argue. Instead, he moved to the hearth and crouched before it, feeding another log into the dying flames. Sparks leapt like startled fireflies.
"Then what do you think we should offer as a reward, my love?"
Seraphine crossed the room again and stood behind him, her hand settling gently on his shoulder."Why don't we invite her for breakfast," she murmured, "and get to know her a little first."
Aldrich didn't respond immediately. The fire cracked, and the shadows danced higher across the walls.
"After we get you all cleaned up," she added, fingers brushing ash from his collar.
Aldrich stared into the flames, his voice barely more than a whisper. "And if what we find… is something we're not ready for?"
Seraphine's hand stilled.Then, softly: "Then we be ready anyway."