The storm broke just before dawn.
It left behind a world painted in ash and bone—trees heavy with rain, the earth a sodden mess beneath her boots. Elowen wrapped her father's old coat tighter around herself, its coarse wool more memory than warmth, and fastened the single satchel to her back.
Inside it: one spare dress, a comb, a tattered Bible, and a letter Margaret helped her write the night before. Nothing more.
The house smelled of damp cloth and sickness. Her mother lay still, breath faint but present, the only sound the occasional creak of the walls or a drip from the leaky roof. Elowen knelt beside her, brushing damp curls away from the pale, lined face.
"Mama," she whispered. "I'm going. For work. At Blackthorne."
Her mother stirred faintly, lids fluttering. Elowen wasn't even sure she'd heard her.
"I'll send for medicine. For wood. For food," she promised, holding her mother's hand between both of hers. "Please hold on."
Her little brother shifted in his sleep beside their mother, a damp curl stuck to his forehead. She pressed a soft kiss to his temple, her lips trembling. He didn't stir.
Elowen stood. A thousand thoughts warred in her chest, but she would not cry. Not now. Not when she'd chosen to fight back against the darkness.
A folded note sat on the kitchen table beside half a heel of bread—her goodbye, should they wake after she's gone. She'd written it the way her father had once written love letters to her mother: brief, gentle, sure.
She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
Margaret waited by the fence, shawl drawn tight, eyes red from lack of sleep—or worry. Her old mare, Clover, stomped impatiently beside her, the cart ready for the muddy road ahead.
"You came," Elowen said softly.
"I said I would."
They rode in silence at first, the cart wheels splashing through puddles. Fields blurred past, stone fences half-sunk in fog. With every turn, Blackthorne Manor loomed closer, its jagged silhouette growing darker on the horizon.
"You're brave," Margaret finally said.
"No," Elowen murmured. "Just desperate."
Margaret offered a sad smile. "Bravery and desperation often wear the same face."
As they passed the final bend, the forest thickened, moss hanging low like curtains. The road curved up a slope, and suddenly, there it stood—Blackthorne Manor.
It was even larger than the stories suggested. Cold gray towers pierced the sky, windows like shuttered eyes. Vines strangled the lower stones. A rusting iron gate groaned as it opened, its sound like the breath of the dead.
Elowen swallowed hard.
The cart rolled to a stop near the servant's entrance. A man waited—tall, stiff, with a waxed mustache and black gloves. The steward.
Margaret climbed down first. "This is Mr. Holloway," she whispered. "He answers directly to the Lord."
"Elowen Marwood?" the man asked, his voice clipped.
"Yes, sir."
He didn't smile. "You'll find the rules posted in the servant's quarters. Follow them to the letter. Meals are at six, work begins at seven. If you are late, you will be dismissed. If you speak out of turn, you will be dismissed."
Elowen nodded once. "Understood."
Margaret touched her arm. "You'll do well. Just stay quiet and do your work."
"Will I see you?" Elowen asked.
Margaret hesitated. "Perhaps. We're assigned different wings."
Elowen stepped down from the cart, her boots sinking slightly into the wet gravel. The manor's windows seemed to watch her.
Margaret squeezed her hand before climbing back onto the cart. "Write to me if you can."
Then she was gone, swallowed by fog and distance.
Alone now, Elowen turned toward the towering door as Mr. Holloway gestured.
And somewhere within, hidden behind thick stone walls and silken shadows, Lord Aramis Blackthorne watched.
His fingers traced the rim of a wine glass, red as blood, as a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
"She has arrived," he murmured.
And so the game began.