"This one," Asher said softly. His voice carried no hesitation.
He pushed the gate open. The metal creaked and flakes of frost fell away like bits of glass. The moment he stepped inside, the old manor seemed to wake up—a faint tremor running through the frozen ground.
The path to the entrance was lined with half-buried statues: angels with broken wings, scholars holding shattered staves, and a huge wolf-dragon carved from black stone. Their faces were worn smooth by time, but under the pale moonlight, they almost seemed alive, watching him as he passed.
The mansion itself was enormous—three floors tall, built from dark obsidian stone streaked with faint silver veins that glimmered faintly under the snow. Strange crystal roots grew along its walls, pulsing with weak, fading light.
