The snow-laced corridor was dead silent. Only the soft crackling of the wall sconces gave any indication that the manor still breathed.
Larissa's eyes remained locked on the portrait at the end of the hallway. It was of a woman—elegant, draped in ivory lace, her eyes painted so vividly that they seemed to glisten with unshed tears. But it wasn't her beauty that made Larissa's skin crawl. It was the way her gaze followed you.
Even as Larissa stepped sideways, the woman's eyes moved with her.
"You're staring," Lukyan's voice came, low and unreadable, from behind her. His presence didn't break the tension—it made it worse.
She turned slightly, her arms crossing. "Who is she?"
He didn't answer immediately.
The silence stretched.
"My mother," he finally said. "Though that painting does more justice to her than she ever showed to anyone in life."
Larissa looked back at the portrait. There was sadness there, yes. But there was also… warning.
"She looks—"
"Alive?" Lukyan finished. "That's the problem."
Before she could press him further, the light flickered. A gust of icy wind swept through the hallway, though the windows were shut. The flames in the sconces danced violently, as if disturbed by something unseen.
Larissa's breath hitched. "Did you feel that?"
Lukyan moved forward, his expression darkening. "Stay close."
The air had changed. It carried with it the faint scent of lavender and… something metallic. Blood?
Larissa's heartbeat thudded as they passed the portrait. And for a brief moment—too quick to scream—the painted woman's expression shifted. Her lips curled ever so slightly into a knowing smirk.
Larissa froze. "She smiled at me."
Lukyan's jaw clenched. "Don't say things like that in this house."
"I'm not imagining things—"
"No," he cut in. "That's exactly the problem. In Volkov Manor, imagination is a dangerous thing."
He reached for her wrist and gently tugged her down the hallway. His hand was cold, but steady.
They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, iron hinges groaning as Lukyan pushed it open. Inside was a room unlike the rest of the manor—warm, richly furnished, a fireplace already lit. The walls were lined with books, and the scent of old paper and cedar soothed Larissa's nerves.
Lukyan let go of her and moved to the window, pulling the curtain slightly aside. Snow still fell relentlessly outside.
She turned toward him, voice low. "Tell me the truth. Is this place… haunted?"
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Would it matter if I said yes?"
"Yes."
"Then it is," he said simply.
Larissa sat down, her knees weaker than she'd admit. "And the portrait?"
"She was the first to go mad in this house. But not the last."
There was something in his voice—an edge of grief masked behind indifference.
"Why bring me here, Lukyan?" she asked, softer now. "If this house is cursed… if your past is buried beneath ice and silence, why did you ask me to stay?"
He turned, walking back toward her. His eyes—storm gray and always so guarded—betrayed a flicker of something else.
"You weren't supposed to care," he said. "You were just supposed to stay."
Larissa stood, facing him. "But I do care. And maybe that's the curse."
A beat of silence.
Then, somewhere in the manor—far above them—came a long, sharp scream.
Lukyan's expression turned to stone. "That came from the west wing."
"I thought no one was there," Larissa whispered.
"There isn't."
---
Lukyan was already moving.
Larissa followed, her slippers soundless against the frostbitten marble. The air seemed to tighten around them, colder than before—clinging, almost sentient.
"The west wing is sealed," she whispered, her voice catching as they neared the hall. "You told me no one goes there."
"I lied," he muttered, not turning back. "Or maybe I wanted to believe that was true."
They turned a corner, past old velvet curtains and crumbling crown moldings. This part of the house was older, untouched by modern life. Every step echoed like they were walking through a mausoleum.
The door to the west wing loomed—massive, iron-bound, with intricate carvings of wolves, roses, and a bleeding heart at its center.
Lukyan placed his hand against the handle. He didn't open it immediately.
"You should go back," he said, still facing the door.
Larissa shook her head, stepping closer. "You brought me here. You made me part of this. I'm not leaving."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, and then the lock gave with a groan.
The door opened to darkness.
The hallway was cloaked in shadows, lined with portraits even older than the one of Lukyan's mother. Dust curled in the air like mist, and the scent of rot lingered beneath the scent of winter.
They moved forward, Larissa close behind.
Halfway down the corridor, another scream ripped through the air—this one sharper, guttural. Not from a human throat.
Lukyan froze. Larissa gripped his sleeve. "What was that?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped toward a door at the far end—slightly ajar.
A sickly yellow light bled through the crack. Lukyan pushed it open with a creak, revealing what looked like a nursery.
Toys lay strewn across the dusty floor. A rocking horse swayed slowly, though no one had touched it. The crib sat untouched beneath moth-eaten drapes.
And in the corner, facing the wall, was a small child's chair.
Occupied.
Larissa's blood turned to ice.
A figure sat there—small, motionless. Not quite right. She couldn't tell if it was a doll or…
"Step back," Lukyan said sharply, his arm across her chest.
He moved slowly into the room. The figure didn't move.
Then, in one horrible instant, the thing turned its head.
Its face was porcelain pale, too smooth, too wrong. Its eyes were pitch black, voids that devoured the light.
It smiled.
Larissa gasped. Her throat burned with cold.
"Lukyan—" she choked, "what is that?"
He didn't look at her. "A mistake," he said tightly. "A remnant."
The childlike thing opened its mouth. No teeth. Just darkness. And from it came a sound that wasn't a scream, but a calling—a language older than frost.
The sconces burst. Glass shattered. Shadows bled from the walls.
Lukyan reached for the locket around his neck and yanked it open. A soft white light exploded from it, throwing the creature backward.
It hissed. Smoke curled from its skin.
"Run!" Lukyan growled, grabbing Larissa's hand.
They tore out of the nursery as the thing shrieked behind them, the door slamming shut on its own as if the house itself wanted it caged.
Back in the east wing, Larissa stumbled into the library, heart racing.
She turned on Lukyan. "You lied to me. About the manor. About what's inside."
"I had to."
"Why?"
His jaw clenched. "Because I'm bound to it. And now—so are you."
She took a step back, fury and fear twisting in her chest. "You brought me here like I was a pawn."
"No," he said, voice suddenly raw. "I brought you here because you're the only one who can unmake this."
"What does that mean?"
He opened his hand—and in it lay a fragment of the portrait from earlier.
Burned.
Bleeding.
And still watching.