The snowstorm had grown cruel. It shrieked across the moors like a dying animal, beating its icy fists against the towering spires of Volkov Manor. Even in the great library—with its thick drapes drawn tight, its fire casting golden shadows—the cold had crept in like a phantom.
Larissa didn't remember sitting down. Only the sensation of wool against her skin and the teacup trembling faintly in her hand.
Across the room, Lukyan remained standing, his presence still, but his mind clearly racing. He stared at the scorched portrait fragment on the table as though it might whisper secrets if he looked long enough.
When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. "You said I'm the only one the house hasn't rejected."
"Yes."
"But what does that mean, Lukyan?" She stood now, her tone sharpened by fear. "What do you mean rejected?"
He looked up. His expression wasn't cold—it was weary. Haunted. "This house isn't just wood and stone. It's memory. Blood. Binding."
"Magic," she whispered.
He nodded once. "Old magic. Dark magic. Cast by the first Volkov—Alexei the Hollowed. He thought binding grief to a place would keep it from dying. He didn't realize that grief evolves. It doesn't want to stay buried. It wants to feed."
Larissa slowly sat again. "And what does it feed on?"
"Pain. Secrets. The things we refuse to confront."
The fire popped, throwing up sparks. Her hand unconsciously touched the mark blooming faintly on her wrist.
"I never asked to be part of this," she murmured.
"I know." Lukyan walked toward her, the soles of his boots silent against the carpet. "You were supposed to be safe. Our marriage—this contract—it was never meant to intertwine you with this house."
"Then why bring me here at all?"
He stopped before her. His voice dropped. "Because the house chose you first."
Larissa's heart thundered. "What?"
He knelt down in front of her now, his cold hands brushing over her wrist to reveal the mark again—no longer faint. Now it glowed a soft white-blue, like frost under moonlight.
"The contract wasn't just between us," Lukyan said. "It was between you and the manor."
She recoiled, staring at the sigil. "No. That's not possible."
"It's the only reason you saw the remnant and lived. Anyone else would've been taken by it."
She swallowed thickly, nausea curling in her stomach. "So what am I now? A conduit? A vessel?"
He didn't answer.
The silence was thick—so thick it barely broke when the first knock rang through the manor.
Three times. Slow. Methodical.
Lukyan straightened, instantly alert. "Stay here."
Larissa rose, ignoring the terror pulsing in her chest. "No."
They moved together down the long corridor toward the entrance hall. The chandeliers above trembled faintly, casting shadows that moved with minds of their own.
Another knock. Softer. Measured.
The kind of knock a person used when they knew they were expected.
Lukyan hesitated at the door.
Then, he opened it.
Snow blasted in—white and angry.
A man stood there, tall and lean, his black coat rimmed in frost. His boots were caked in snow, and a travel-satchel hung from one shoulder. He removed his gloves slowly, revealing pale, elegant fingers. But it was his eyes—steel gray, eerily familiar—that held Larissa's breath hostage.
"Brother," the man said, inclining his head. "You summoned me."
Lukyan didn't move. "I didn't."
The man's smile was thin. "Then perhaps the house did."
Larissa stepped to Lukyan's side. "You have a brother?"
Lukyan's expression was unreadable. "Not by choice."
The stranger stepped into the hall without being invited. "Still harboring grudges, Luka?"
Larissa noticed the shift in the air instantly. The warmth of the hearth no longer reached the foyer. The cold wrapped around them, humming with tension.
"You shouldn't be here," Lukyan said flatly.
The man's gaze turned to Larissa. He gave a small, formal bow. "And you must be the bride. The one with the mark."
Larissa instinctively stepped back. "How do you know about—?"
"Because I carry its twin," he said, pulling back his sleeve.
There, on the inside of his forearm, was a mirror of her sigil—but darker. Etched like shadow into skin. Black frost.
"My name is Dimitri Volkov," he said. "And your presence here changes everything."
Scene Break: The Secrets of the Volkov Line
They moved to the drawing room, where firelight and antique whiskey dulled the edges of reality.
Dimitri lounged in the armchair like a predator in silk. Larissa sat close to Lukyan, her heart a thudding drum.
"I was exiled," Dimitri explained, pouring himself a drink. "By him." He gestured lazily at his brother. "He thought breaking the chain would protect the bloodline."
"I thought removing you would keep the house from waking," Lukyan snapped.
Dimitri smiled. "It didn't work, did it?"
Larissa interrupted. "Why does the house care who wears the mark?"
"Because the mark is permission," Dimitri said. "It means the house can choose you. Speak through you. Rewrite you."
Her stomach turned.
Dimitri's gaze turned sharp. "And you, darling Larissa, are the first bearer in a hundred years not born of Volkov blood."
Lukyan's head snapped toward him. "That's impossible."
"It's not," Dimitri said softly. "She bears the mark not because of blood—but because of sacrifice."
Larissa's voice cracked. "What sacrifice?"
The silence that followed was a roar.
Lukyan closed his eyes. "Your parents. The accident... it wasn't random, was it?"
Dimitri finished his drink, standing. "The house marked her that day. Chose her. You just brought her home."