Isadora awoke in darkness, the same oppressive, heavy veil that had blanketed the castle since her arrival. Her clock ticked softly in the silence, the minute hand pointing to a time that meant nothing here. The window in her chamber looked out onto nothing but mist — thick, churning fog that swallowed every corner of the world beyond.
She dressed slowly in the somber garments provided: a black, high-collared gown that felt as though it belonged to a corpse. Dust rose from the fabric as she moved, and the buttons along the spine dug into her like teeth.
The corridors were silent, save for the faint hum of wind through cracks in the stone. The castle had too many halls, too many doors — all identical, all wrong. The air smelled of wax, mold, and something sweet beneath it. Like rot dressed in perfume.
She followed the long hall toward the west wing where the children resided.
As she passed an arched doorway, her eyes caught a flash of crimson—velvet curtains rustling when there was no wind. They whispered her name.
"Isadora..."
She turned, heart seizing. Nothing.
The castle was alive.
She found the nursery at the end of a long corridor, behind a pair of enormous wooden doors carved with angels—only their faces were scratched off, clawed into blind smears.
Inside, two children sat on a threadbare rug, surrounded by porcelain dolls with cracked faces and eyes too wide.
A boy and a girl.
The girl was brushing the hair of a doll whose scalp had come undone. The boy simply watched Isadora with a stillness that felt unnatural.
"Good morning," Isadora said softly.
Neither replied.
She knelt down. "I'm Isadora. I'll be your governess."
The girl looked up. Her eyes were too pale. Almost white.
"You shouldn't have come," she whispered.
The boy added, "He watches you already."
Isadora's skin crawled. "Who?"
The children turned as one, their faces suddenly void of innocence.
"The Crimson King."
The name came like a prayer spoken backwards. Isadora stumbled to her feet as the dolls around them shivered without touch, one of them falling over with a crack.
The girl laughed softly. "You'll see him. When you dream."
Later, in the dining hall, she found herself seated across from Lucien Dagonhart.
He ate nothing.
Instead, he watched her with that same obsidian stare. The fire behind him threw shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable. There were no servants. No food. Only a goblet of red liquid by his hand.
"Your presence disturbs the castle," he said softly.
"I was hired," Isadora replied, folding her hands. "I intend to do my duty."
"You'll find the castle doesn't welcome new blood."
She met his gaze, despite the cold rising in her chest. "And you? Do you?"
Lucien's lips curved into the barest suggestion of a smile. "I do not welcome anyone. But I remember everything."
He rose without a sound. As he turned to go, Isadora noticed the back of his hand — a black sigil burned into his pale flesh. A symbol older than language. It pulsed.
"Wait," she said. "The children. They're—"
But Lucien was already gone.
That night, she dreamt.
She stood in the castle chapel — long abandoned, pews covered in dust, crucifixes upside-down. The moonlight bled in through broken stained glass, painting everything in crimson.
A figure waited at the altar.
Not Lucien.
Something else.
Cloaked in shadows, tall, impossibly tall. Horns curled like twisted bone from his head. Skin like obsidian, glowing cracks running beneath it like lava.
Eyes the color of dying stars.
The Crimson King.
He stepped forward. The ground shook.
Isadora couldn't move.
"You are hers," he said, his voice like silk sliding across razors. "And yet you wear the body of mine."
He brushed a hand along her cheek — taloned, cold, but somehow sensual. The touch burned.
Isadora gasped.
"I have waited lifetimes," he whispered. "This time, you won't run."
She screamed.
She awoke in bed, gasping, sweat-drenched.
But she wasn't alone.
The candle beside her flared to life — without touch — revealing a bouquet of roses on the table beside her bed.
Dark red. Petals curling inward like lips in prayer.
A note tucked between the stems.
"Your soul is exquisite."
– L
Her breath caught. Lucien?
Or… something pretending to be him?
A whisper ran through her mind, not her own voice:
He always starts with roses.
And somewhere deep in the castle, a pipe organ began to play, though no hands touched the keys.