Damascus Valentine stood on the upper landing, arms loose at his sides, the chandelier behind him spilling warm light like someone cracked the sun and poured it indoors. His head dipped, not casually, but like it meant something—like the gesture had been practiced until it stopped feeling like a greeting and started feeling like theater.
"Travelers," he said, voice low and smooth as melted wax. "Welcome. I trust the road hasn't been too cruel."
His waistcoat caught the light, a weave of plum and charcoal silk so fine it looked like dusk stitched into fabric. A red pocket square, folded sharp and neat, sat tucked at his breast like it might unfold into a spell if he breathed wrong. One hand rested lightly on the railing, black opal ring glinting like an eye trying not to blink.
"Andromeda is preparing your rooms," he added with a smile just warm enough to suggest he knew what comfort cost. "You'll find them... attuned. My wife believes the soul sleeps deeper surrounded by beauty."
He turned slow, with a motion too graceful to be natural, like he was tracing old steps in a dance no one else could hear. "Please. Make yourselves at home. Supper will follow shortly. And if you hear music before then—don't be alarmed. The estate's old. It remembers joy, sometimes."
What waited beyond the staircase wasn't just lodging. The house stretched out like a half-remembered dream, every room unfolding like it had been dreamed by someone with too many memories and not enough sleep.
One room shimmered in soft blues, walls veiled in gossamer that moved like it was breathing. Another bled red and gold, velvet curtains pulled back from mirrors that only caught the light, never the reflection. A ceiling above one bed was magicked into stars, not the local sky but constellations from foreign places, too distant to name. Another chamber let out the scent of sage and lavender, its walls pulsing with the warm hush of deep soil and firelight.
These weren't just rooms.
They felt like pieces of people. Memories painted and kept alive. Or traps dressed in silk.
And something watched. Not angry. Not yet. But not blind either.
At the far end of the corridor, tall double doors stood sealed. The master suite. Even the shadows wouldn't lean too close.
No one told them where to go, but the staff moved like they'd already memorized the group's patterns. Steam curled from bathwater left waiting beside towels folded so precisely it looked like a sermon. Their footsteps made no sound, but the floor gave back a low hum with every pass, like the wood itself was listening.
A voice floated up from somewhere below, bright and too casual.
"Dinner will be ready within the hour!"
The air shifted with it. Curtains stirred without wind. The chandeliers leaned just a little to one side. Shadows swam.
Dinner didn't arrive so much as happen. The staff drifted in without noise, moving like they didn't quite belong to gravity. Bottles of violet glass tilted over goblets without spilling a drop. Steam rose from duck glazed in plum, flanked by gold-crusted galettes and roots roasted until they glowed. Bread broke apart with a breath, and rosemary chased jasmine through the open terrace like perfume with a purpose.
Damascus took his place at the head of the table, lifting his glass.
"To unlooked-for meetings," he said, the fire catching in the cut crystal. "And to safe travels, hard-won."
Ezreal raised his own, didn't even look up. "To good wine," he muttered, "and questionable company."
Caylen leaned back, smile curling with lazy grace. "And to handsome hosts. It's rare we're welcomed without someone drawing steel first."
From the archway, Andromeda Valentine stepped through like she'd been waiting for the moment to ripen.
Her platinum hair fell like light poured through milk, each strand too smooth to be real. "We do try to stay civil," she said, voice clear but not soft, the kind of tone that might make wolves second-guess. "Even wild things answer to kindness... though not always the way you'd like."
Dax's hand tightened around his goblet. "Civil's nice. But how'd you know we were coming?" His voice had gravel in it. "The baths, the open rooms—either someone here reads futures, or this house breathes and makes guesses."
Damascus gave a smile with corners. "A raven from Phokorus. Someone on the Council sent word of travelers... of unusual consequence."
Andromeda nodded. "We rarely host this time of year. But the message was clear. And the timing..." Her lips held the word like it had teeth. "Fortuitous."
Caylen's smile held, but a flicker of something colder slipped beneath it. "You're strangely calm about strangers walking through your front gate."
"The vineyard teaches patience," she said, softer now. Like it was a secret she didn't mind sharing.
The silence after came heavier. Thick, like velvet soaked in rain. Outside, the vineyard pulsed faintly. Leaves flickered with strange light, soft like bruised lanterns. The vines traced shapes in the marble—curves and glyphs that never stayed the same when looked at too long.
Verek's voice broke the quiet. "What can you tell us of Kings Port?"
Something in the room tensed.
Damascus didn't flinch, but the warmth leaked out of his posture like breath from cracked glass.
"We've heard things," Verek said, calm but sharp. "A king gone mad. A city locked from inside."
Damascus's jaw ticked. "The king has... changed. Once, his riders came like clockwork. It's been nearly a year. The last one we saw…"
"Wasn't right," Andromeda said, her eyes somewhere else. "His skin looked boiled. Eyes like chimney smoke. He stank of ash and said things that didn't line up."
"There are rumors," Damascus added. "Chanting below the castle. Screaming at night. The crows don't land there anymore."
Ezreal leaned in, fingers tapping the rim of his glass. "We heard of twisted creatures. Things crawling up from the deep. Even the animals are leaving."
"The forest's... wrong," Andromeda whispered. "Deer vanish. Birds mimic songs they never knew. And the bees…" She paused, just a second too long. "They're leaving."
Dax glanced sideways at Verek, jaw tightening. "Ever get the sense this place is too perfect?" His voice dropped. "Like paint over mold?"
Damascus lifted a brow. "Perfect's a dangerous word. We tend the estate, yes. But nothing here stays bright without casting a shadow."
Caylen gave a low laugh. "Can't tell if you're the kindest noble I've met or the most unnerving."
Andromeda's smile sharpened. "Why choose?"
Ezreal caught it then. A glitch. The wrong shape in her expression. Her face turned too smooth for skin, the candlelight sliding across it like porcelain. Still. Too still.
Verek didn't speak, but his eyes locked on Damascus's ring. It caught the light like a living thing—but the goblet beside it didn't cast a single reflection.
Not a trick of the flame. Something deeper.
Ezreal looked down. His plate hadn't cooled.
The duck bled, center raw. No one else noticed.
The conversation drifted to safer ground—soil tricks, moonlight rain, wine that carried magic in the tannins. Caylen's fingers dipped under the table, drawing a small sigil in the wood. It wasn't on purpose.
The wood let him.
Andromeda laughed again. Bright. Precise. The echo that followed came once—and didn't return.
Ezreal's shoulder brushed Verek's, just slightly. A warning.
Behind Damascus, the hearth flared. Not brighter—redder. Darker. Like the flame bruised inward.
No one at the table flinched.
No one stopped smiling.
The charm began to curdle.
Sugar laid over something metallic. Silk with a blade tucked inside.
The meal ended without ceremony.
The plates were gone. No one had touched them.
The wine vanished.
Damascus stood. Not sudden. Just... sure.
"You must be weary," he said.
Then paused.
Long enough for something cold to slip down the spine.
"We took... special care."
The silence that followed wasn't just quiet.
It pressed.
Each of them offered thanks. Hollow. Habitual. Like prayer in a dead church.
They stood.
They climbed the stairs.
Candles flickered.
Once.
Then again.
And one by one, the flames went dark.
Except for the one at the top of the stairs.
Where something waited.
And did not cast a shadow.