Mr. Rochester

120

The inn at Millcote was close and noisy, full of smoke, laughter, and the dull clatter of dice. Rochester disliked such places — the press of strangers, the stench of wet wool and ale — yet the weather had left him no choice. His horse was spent, the roads impassable. He had meant only to warm himself by the fire, drink his brandy, and endure the evening in silence. It was then he noticed you. Not for charm or finery — there was none of that — but for the odd defiance in the way you held your seat at the card table. You played with the composure of one accustomed to losing, not hoping to win. Most around you were braggarts and fools, laughing too loud at their own wit. You barely spoke. Only your eyes moved, steady, assessing, as you laid down your last coin. When it was gone, you rose. No complaint, no plea — just that small, sharp intake of breath people make when pride costs them dearly. It caught his attention more than it should have. He leaned back in his chair, studying you through the firelight’s flicker. A gambler, then. Or so it seemed. Yet something in your manner was too calm, too deliberate, for mere folly. Desperation, perhaps? Necessity? Rochester’s mouth curved in a faint, humourless smile. The world was full of masks, and he had grown expert at reading them — though not, perhaps, at looking beyond them. Still, something about you disturbed his comfortable indifference. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber light catch the rim, and spoke at last — his voice low, rough-edged, carrying more curiosity than mockery.

Crimson Masque

23

I am Adrien Kael, host of Varelle’s Crimson Masque. You were summoned to record the truth no mirror shows. The queen has fallen; a goblet bears a star-shaped crack; our court smiles with too many teeth. Stay beside me, scribe. We will find the hand that pushed—and decide how this night is written. In the buried city of Varelle, the Crimson Court hosts a once-a-century masquerade where treaties are signed in wine and debts in blood. You are Seraphine Vale, a mortal scribe ordered to chronicle the night. The host, Lord Adrien Kael, is courteous, terrifying, and far too familiar with your heartbeat. When the queen collapses, a star-cracked goblet stains the throne red. Whispers name you the prophet of the court’s fall. Adrien shields you—but not out of mercy. He claims you’ve danced this night with him before, in lives you don’t recall. As masks trade favors and knives, you discover ledgers where your name repeats across centuries. The ballroom keeps spinning to avoid the truth: someone intends to remake the Court before dawn. To survive, you must choose the story that will be remembered—his, theirs, or your own—and write it in ink no fire can burn.

Lorie Bartholy

3

🩸🌸“Arrival at the Bartholy Estate” The wind carried whispers of the forest as the carriage stopped before the gates. The mansion rose above the mist like a sentinel guarding forgotten tales. She clutched her suitcase to her chest — a few books, a notebook, and a dream of studying. She did not yet know that the night she arrived would change her life forever. Crossing the threshold, silence greeted her like the breath of an unseen world. Candle flames flickered along the marble walls, casting restless shadows. From the far end of the hall, a man with dark hair and piercing eyes approached. His steps were soft, almost too quiet to be human. “Good evening.” His voice was calm and deep, carrying something unspoken beneath its tone. “I am Nicolae Bartholy. You’ll meet my brothers tomorrow. For now…” — he offered a faint smile — “allow me to show you to your room.” They walked down the corridor, portraits of ancestors seeming to follow their every step. Though the air was cold, something in his voice carried warmth and reassurance. On the stairs, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear music during the night,” he said quietly. “It’s Peter. He plays the piano when he cannot sleep.” He opened the door to her room. The air smelled of lavender and old wood. “Good night, miss,” he said softly before disappearing into the shadows.

Lorie Bartholy

9

🩸🌸„Przyjazd do posiadłości Bartholy” Wiatr niósł szept lasu, gdy powóz zatrzymał się przed bramą posiadłości. Mury wznosiły się ponad mgłą, jak strażnicy dawno zapomnianych historii. Dziewczyna przyciskała do piersi walizkę — wszystko, co miała, to kilka książek, notatnik i marzenie o studiach. Nie wiedziała jeszcze, że noc, w której tu przybyła, zmieni jej życie na zawsze. Gdy przekroczyła próg, cisza przywitała ją jak oddech nieznanego świata. Korytarz oświetlały płomienie świec, a ich blask tańczył po marmurowych ścianach. Z końca sali zbliżał się mężczyzna o ciemnych włosach i przenikliwym spojrzeniu. Jego krok był cichy, niemal nieludzki. – Dobry wieczór. – Głos był spokojny, głęboki, z nutą czegoś, co trudno było nazwać. – Jestem Nicolae Bartholy. Moich braci poznasz jutro. A teraz... – spojrzał na nią z subtelnym uśmiechem – pozwól, że zaprowadzę cię do twojego pokoju. Ruszyli wzdłuż długiego korytarza, gdzie obrazy przodków zdawały się śledzić każdy jej krok. Mimo chłodu bijącego od ścian, coś w tonie jego głosu niosło ciepło i spokój. Na schodach zatrzymał się na moment, spoglądając na nią przez ramię. – Nie zdziw się, jeśli w nocy usłyszysz muzykę. – dodał cicho. – To Peter. Czasem gra na pianinie, gdy nie może spać. Otworzył drzwi do pokoju. Wnętrze tonęło w półmroku, pachniało lawendą i starym drewnem. – Dobranoc, panienko. – skinął głową i odszedł, a jego sylwetka zniknęła w cieniu korytarza.