Desmond left the workshop slowly.
The scent of warm resin and aged wood still clung to his skin and clothes, as if the room itself had not fully released him.
Before him stretched a long corridor—narrow, dark, winding—like a silent passage that had guided every Wolfram heir toward something none of them had ever been able to escape.
His step fell against the old wooden floor.
[creak… thud…]
The planks groaned softly beneath his weight. The sound echoed along the damp corridor, swallowed by walls slick with moisture. The air felt cold. Heavy. Saturated with the stale odor of wet stone.
Water dripped somewhere in the darkness.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like time itself refusing to move forward.
The walls felt alive.
Dark.
Damp.
As if they recognized every step that crossed this passage… quietly drinking the blood of whoever dared walk through it.
Candlelight from several ancient sconces flickered along the walls. The shadows stretched and twisted like crawling creatures across the stone. Each step Desmond took dragged his shadow longer behind him, distorting it into something unfamiliar.
Something watching.
Desmond raised his hand and touched the wall beside him.
The surface was wet.
Cold.
His fingers traced the rough cracks in the stone, following carvings nearly erased by time. The touch reminded him how long this corridor had existed… and how many footsteps had passed through it before his own.
His breathing grew heavier.
The silence inside the corridor pressed against his chest like an invisible weight.
Yet beneath that suffocating stillness, something else stirred within him.
Something darker.
A strange current flowing through his veins.
Fear.
Awareness.
And a pull that only those born of Wolfram blood could feel.
[swish… creak… thud…]
His steps mingled with the whisper of wind slipping through cracks in the corridor windows. The cold draft made the candle flames tremble.
Shadows shifted along the walls.
Stretching.
Reaching.
As if trying to grasp Desmond… to wrap around him… to keep him within a corridor that seemed to have no true end.
Small statues stood within stone alcoves along the walls.
Children with calm faces.
Women with their eyes closed.
Men with clenched hands pressed against their chests.
They were all motionless.
But in the trembling candlelight, the statues seemed alive—as though their stone eyes followed every step Desmond took past them.
The realization pressed against his mind.
This was not merely a corridor.
It was a path.
A trial.
A reminder.
The Wolfram curse always waited at the end of the journey.
His steps grew heavier.
As if the ancient floorboards beneath him demanded something in return.
Blood.
His heart began to pound harder. The pulse climbed into his throat. His breathing turned uneven.
Still, he kept walking.
Because he knew one thing—
there was no other way.
At the far end of the corridor, something slowly emerged from the darkness.
An old wooden wardrobe.
Standing there.
Silent.
Closed.
Its wood was dark and heavy, secured by an ancient locking mechanism that held both doors shut with absolute finality. The wardrobe stood like a silent sentinel at the end of the passage, waiting for someone brave enough to approach it.
Desmond stopped.
Only one step remained between him and the wardrobe.
His hand slowly lifted.
His fingers trembled as they touched the old key embedded in the door.
The wood was cold.
Damp.
From the narrow seams seeped the thick scent of dust and ancient resin—as if something inside had been waiting a very long time to awaken.
Desmond inhaled slowly.
[inhale…]
Behind him, the corridor fell silent.
Too silent.
As though the entire Wolfram house was watching… waiting to see what he would do next.
The wardrobe towered nearly to the ceiling. Over two meters tall. Wide enough to swallow a human body whole.
The wood was ancient oak, blackened by time.
Its grain twisted across the surface like veins frozen beneath the skin of something long dead.
The surface was dull but unyielding, scarred by age and dampness that had seeped deep into its fibers.
The smell drifting from within felt like the breath of the past trapped inside.
Desmond's breathing quickened.
His chest rose and fell sharply.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
[THUMP… THUMP… THUMP…]
The sound filled the silent corridor.
His hand trembled as it moved across the damp wood. His fingertips followed the coarse grain, feeling the cold slowly creep into his wrist.
Every muscle in his arm tightened.
Inside his mind, a quiet battle raged.
Fear.
Guilt.
And the obligation he could never escape.
"I have to…"
His breath shook.
"I have to do this…"
Yet even within his own thoughts, the words felt unbearably heavy—as though something deep inside urged him to turn back.
Desmond swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. He drew his shoulders inward, forcing himself to steady his breathing.
His body trembled.
But deep within his blood—within the inheritance he could never deny—another force rose and held him there.
The Wolfram curse.
He closed his eyes.
[THUMP… THUMP… THUMP…]
The pounding of his heart grew louder.
He could feel his pulse in his temples.
In his neck.
In the center of his palms.
Each beat like a hammer striking against his skull.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
His hand lifted again, steadier now, reaching for the ancient metal key fixed into the wardrobe door.
The metal was cold.
Unnaturally cold.
He drew in a slow breath.
[inhale…]
His chest expanded.
[exhale…]
The air left his lungs in a trembling stream.
Then he began to turn the key.
Slowly.
The ancient metal scraped inside the mechanism.
[click… krkk… click…]
Each rotation felt like turning time itself. Seconds stretched unnaturally long, as though the corridor itself held its breath with him.
Desmond paused.
His hand still gripping the key.
His breathing heavy.
[inhale…]
[exhale…]
He lowered his head slightly.
Gathering his resolve.
There was no turning back.
With one slow motion, he pulled the wardrobe doors open.
[creeeeeak…]
The old wood groaned as the doors began to move.
[creak… creak…]
The sound slithered through the corridor like a whisper awakening from a long sleep. Candlelight flickered along the walls.
The corridor held its breath.
The world seemed to stop.
Desmond stood motionless before the open wardrobe.
His eyes stared into the darkness within.
Then, with a voice heavy—almost like a whisper dragged from the depths of his chest—he spoke a single name.
Slowly.
Carrying the full weight of the blood that flowed through him.
"Mireya…"
The silence inside the corridor froze.
Before him, something waited.
Still.
Eyes closed.
A secret that had waited for centuries.
And for one second that stretched into eternity—
the air inside the corridor thickened with a tension that refused to be spoken.
And somewhere inside the darkness of the wardrobe—
something slowly opened its eyes