Morning arrived pale and uncertain, as though the sun itself hesitated to cross the estate walls.
Frost lay across the gardens in a thin white veil. Beyond the iron gates, the road stretched into the trees — quiet, ordinary, deceptively calm.
Elara had come outside to breathe.
Inside, the house felt watchful.
Outside, the world at least pretended to be simple.
She wrapped her coat tighter and followed the inner gravel path toward the eastern gate. Her breath misted in the cold air. The silence pressed gently around her, broken only by the crunch of frost beneath her boots.
"Okay," she murmured. "Fresh air. Normal morning. No red eyes. No supernatural existential crises. Love that."
The lie barely reached her own ears.
As she approached the gate, something dark interrupted the whiteness near the stone threshold.
She slowed.
Frowned.
Stepped closer.
The frost was disturbed — scuffed, broken, churned.
And there, staining the thin snow like spilled ink—
blood.
