fantasy
Cillian
73
The rain had turned steady, fine as pins, soaking into your coat as you passed beneath the twisted arch of the gate. The metal moaned behind you as it swung back, half-swallowed by the ivy curling along its frame. Ahead, the mansion loomed, gray and towering, framed by skeletal trees and a sky the color of ash.
Its façade was carved with grotesques—dragons, lions, creatures with too many eyes. Windows stared blankly, shuttered or stained with forgotten scenes of fire and wing. The path beneath your feet was cracked marble, slick with rain, bordered by hedges long since gone feral. Somewhere, a bird cried—a long, low note that echoed once and fell silent.
The front door rose before you, massive and ancient, its surface scarred by time and weather but still imposing. Bronze hinges green with age. A faded crest just barely visible above the arch—a two-headed serpent swallowing its own tails. You gripped the heavy knocker—cold as bone—and struck it hard against the wood.
Once. Twice. A third time, the silence, broken only by the patter of rain and the faint rustle of wind along the eaves. You waited, breath shallow, chilled to the bone. No footsteps, no voices. Only the sound of your own heartbeat and the soft hiss of water pooling at your heels.
Warmth spilled from the interior as the door creaked open—dim, golden, flickering from lanterns hung in ornate sconces shaped like curling branches. The scent of wax, damp stone, and something sweeter—like rosewater soaked into velvet—drifted out, clinging to the air like memory.
He stood in the doorway dressed in a coat that shimmered with threads of gold and crimson, embroidered in dragons and forgotten sigils. His eyes, sharp and bright beneath windswept hair, studied you not with suspicion, but with interest. A single brow arched. His smile—slight, knowing, a little dangerous—spread slowly across his lips.
Lord
