Chapter 4: Rules of the Manor
The morning crept in, colorless and cold.
Elira awoke on a feather mattress in a strange room, her limbs sluggish, her neck sore. The collar was still there — It wasn't a dream, there was no escaping.
She sat up slowly, blinking against the low light filtering through frosted windows. The walls of the room were covered in deep green wallpaper with a subtle silver thorn motif. The furniture was old but elegant, everything too clean, too untouched. As if no one had stayed here for decades.
Someone had changed her clothes.
She looked down at herself — soft gray wool, modest, but finely tailored. A long gown. Her old traveling cloak were nowhere in sight.
A soft knock came at the door.
Before she could answer, it opened.
A maid entered — a girl no older than sixteen, with neatly plaited brown hair and downcast eyes. Her apron was spotless. Her silence heavier than any greeting.
She carried a tray and set it down on the small table by the window.
Then, still not looking at Elira, she said, "Lord Thorne says you are to eat. And dress. He will summon you shortly."
Elira stared. "You changed my clothes."
"Yes, miss."
"You touched me while I was unconscious?"
"No," the girl said too quickly. "It was Lady Mirra."
"Lady?"
"She… handles things for the Master. When a new one arrives."
A cold knot twisted in Elira's stomach. "A new what?"
The maid didn't answer.
Before she could press further, the girl curtsied and left, closing the door with a soft click.
She didn't eat much.
The bread tasted like ash in her mouth. The tea was bitter.
By the time a second knock came, she was already standing, braced.
The door opened to reveal a tall, stately woman with severe silver-blond hair coiled in braids, a high-necked dress of midnight blue, and eyes like two chips of glass. She studied Elira with the precision of a surgeon.
"You are presentable," she said.
Elira said nothing.
"I am Lady Mirra. Housekeeper. Steward. And when necessary, your warden."
"Lovely," Elira muttered.
Lady Mirra turned sharply. "You are to follow me. Lord Thorne has given strict instructions."
Elira followed her into the hallway.
The manor was even more massive than she'd thought — a web of stone corridors, towering staircases, balconies that overlooked shadowed galleries. The light was all wrong. There were no candles where there should've been, yet the place glowed with a cold, sourceless illumination.
They passed staff: maids in gray, footmen in black, all of them silent. No one met her gaze.
Lady Mirra began listing rules as they walked, her voice as clipped and sterile as the halls themselves.
"You will wake by dawn. Meals will be delivered unless summoned to dine. You will not leave your assigned quarters without permission."
Elira opened her mouth.
Mirra cut her off. "You are not permitted in the West Wing as lord Thorne resides there, the third cellar, the east-facing balcony, the music room after dusk, or the conservatory during a full moon."
Elira stopped in her tracks. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Those aren't normal rules."
Lady Mirra's expression didn't shift. "This is not a normal house."
"And the collar? That normal?"
A muscle in Mirra's cheek twitched. "That is not for me to speak of. The rules exist to protect you, Miss Elira. And others."
"Protect me from what?"
They stopped before a double door.
Lady Mirra didn't answer. She simply opened it.
The room beyond was a library.
But not like any Elira had ever seen.
The ceiling stretched higher than a chapel. Walls were lined with darkwood shelves that climbed all the way up, stuffed with tomes so ancient their titles had flaked off. A fireplace crackled, but the flames were pale blue.
Lord Thorne stood at the center, pouring over a ledger.
He didn't glance up. "She has not yet spoken out of turn?"
"She is defiant, but not disorderly," Lady Mirra replied.
"Good." He looked up. "Come in, Elira."
She stepped forward, wary.
"You are now part of House Vaelric," Thorne said. "Whether or not you wish to be. Your obedience ultimately determines your survival."
"I never agreed to be part of anything," she snapped.
"You did," he said softly. "The moment you walked through those gates and put on my collar."
She clenched her fists.
"Sit."
"I'll stand."
He gave a slow, deliberate nod — a warning, not approval. "Very well."
He turned to the shelves and withdrew a single, black-bound book. Its spine bore no title.
"This is the ledger of House Vaelric's offerings."
Elira blinked. "Offerings?"
He opened it to a marked page.
Written there, in red ink, was her name. Elira Varn.
The line beneath it was empty. A space, waiting to be filled.
"You are not the first to wear the collar," he said. "But you may be the last."
A cold tremor ran down her spine. "Why me?"
Thorne turned to her fully now. "Because you came willingly. That... changes things."
Their eyes locked — hers burning, his unreadable.
He moved toward her, slow and deliberate. Stopped just short of her.
"Tell me, Elira," he said, voice almost kind. "Do you still dream of your brother?"
The question cracked through her like thunder.
She said nothing.
"Good," he whispered. "Then you'll follow the rules. Because this manor has many secrets. And some… wear his face."
That night, she lay in the strange bed, sleepless, the collar cool against her skin.
She heard something moving in the walls.
A whisper. A rustle.
Then—quiet laughter. A voice that sounded almost like her brother's calling her name.
"Ellie…"
She sat up, heart racing.
Nothing.
Just shadows.