The carriage wheels groaned against the cobbled path, each lurch forward a protest. Mist clung to the forest like a second skin, curling around the horses' legs, swallowing the world in silence. Even the birds were gone. Only the rhythmic creaking of the old wooden carriage and the muffled snorts of the frightened stallions broke the stillness.
Isadora Vale sat inside, wrapped in a thick wool cloak that did nothing to silence the chill licking up her spine. She stared out the window as gnarled branches clawed the sky, blackened and twisted like the hands of the damned.
She had heard stories of Castle Dagonhart — whispered tales told by half-drunk women in candlelit kitchens. Stories of disappearances, of shadows moving against windows, of love turning to blood and fire. But she hadn't believed them.
Not until now.
The letter had come in thick ivory parchment, sealed with crimson wax: a job offer. Governess. Excellent pay. Remote location. Discretion required.
Now, as she sat in that bone-rattling carriage, the forest around her seemed to press in, as if it didn't want her to reach her destination. As if it knew.
"Nearly there, miss," the driver called out, his voice hoarse. He hadn't spoken a word since they left the village at the base of the hill. Now he looked back with eyes wide and pale. "Once we pass the bridge... it's the Devil's land."
Isadora blinked. "What did you say?"
But he said nothing more.
The bridge came into view moments later — a crumbling stone archway, half-swallowed by vines. Carved into the worn stone was a phrase in Latin she couldn't read, but she felt the meaning like a needle pressed to her skin.
"No soul returns untouched."
As they crossed, the horses whinnied, almost refusing to go further. One reared, foam at its mouth, and the driver screamed curses in a language she didn't understand. The world turned quiet again. The air smelled like iron and roses.
And then she saw it.
Castle Dagonhart.
Perched on a cliff's edge like a beast waiting to pounce, its black towers clawed at the sky. Gothic arches, stained glass shattered long ago, gargoyles frozen mid-scream. Vines curled around the spires like veins feeding the stone. A great iron gate stood open, rusted wide like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole.
The moment she stepped from the carriage, the wind shifted.
The doors opened without touch.
A woman stood there. Dressed in black from head to toe, veil covering her eyes. Her hands were thin and pale as candle wax.
"Miss Vale," the woman said, voice like dust on stone. "Welcome to Dagonhart. I am Madame Thorne. You are expected."
Expected by whom?
Isadora stepped inside. The doors groaned shut behind her.
The grand hall stretched on forever — vaulted ceilings, chandeliers of bone and crystal, portraits with eyes that followed. A fire burned low in the hearth, but the cold remained.
"Your room is on the west wing. You will begin work tomorrow. The children do not sleep. Do not follow them after dark."
Isadora blinked. "Excuse me?"
Madame Thorne tilted her head. "You'll see."
She turned and disappeared into shadow.
That night, Isadora lay in a four-poster bed draped in moth-eaten velvet, her candle flickering violently beside her. The walls groaned like something was alive within them. A child laughed — high-pitched, eerie, hollow — somewhere down the corridor.
She sat upright.
Another laugh.
A second voice now. Closer.
She rose, bare feet brushing cold stone. The corridor stretched before her, endless. She followed the sound, heart thundering. Candles flickered to life one by one as she passed.
Then — silence.
And in that silence, she felt it. A presence.
Behind her.
Breathing.
Slow. Deliberate.
She turned.
No one.
But then…
From the far end of the corridor — a man stepped out of the dark.
Lucien Dagonhart.
Tall. Pale. Beautiful in a way that made her chest tighten. He wore no expression, only those hollow, obsidian eyes that locked onto hers and did not look away.
"You're not safe here," he said softly. "Not yet."
Then he was gone.
No footsteps. No breath. Just gone.
Isadora stood frozen, lips parted, skin tingling as if touched by fire. A shadow passed over the moon.
And behind her, from the darkness, a voice purred into her ear — not Lucien's, something deeper, older, crueler:
"She's arrived… at last."
The candle blew out.