Elena did not sleep.
She lay on her back, eyes open, staring into the darkness above the canopy bed as the candle burned low beside her. The room felt too quiet—thick, watchful. Every sound seemed amplified: the soft tick of cooling stone, the distant groan of wood settling, the faint hiss of the dying flame.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer.
That was when she heard it.
A whisper.
So soft she thought she imagined it.
"Elena…"
Her heart jumped violently. She pushed herself upright, scanning the room. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching like fingers along the walls. The candle flared suddenly, as if fed by breath.
"Hello?" Her voice trembled despite her effort to stay calm.
Silence.
She exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest. Get a grip. Old castles made noises. Wind slipped through cracks. Stress did strange things to the mind.
She lay back down.
The whisper came again—closer this time.
"You don't belong to yourself anymore."
Elena shot up, breath sharp, pulse racing. The air felt colder now, pressing against her skin. She swung her legs off the bed and stood, bare feet touching the icy stone floor.
"Who's there?" she demanded.
The mirror across the room shimmered.
Her reflection stared back—pale, wide-eyed—but for a split second, it moved when she didn't. The reflection smiled.
Elena stumbled back, knocking into the bed. The mirror went still again, innocent and lifeless.
"No," she whispered. "No, no…"
A knock sounded at the door.
She gasped, heart hammering. "Yes?"
The door opened slowly.
Lucien stepped inside.
He looked different at night—less controlled, shadows carving deeper lines into his face. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up as though he'd been restless too.
"I felt it," he said quietly.
"Felt what?" she asked, her voice barely holding together.
His gaze swept the room, lingering on the mirror, the flickering candle. His jaw tightened.
The room," he replied. "It's never done this before."
She stared at him. "This before? You knew this could happen?"
"I hoped it wouldn't," he said.
Anger flared through her fear. "You warned me about sounds, not voices calling my name."
He stepped closer. Slowly. Like approaching something fragile.
"It doesn't whisper to everyone," he said. "Only those it recognizes."
"Recognizes for what?" she snapped.
Lucien stopped an arm's length away. His presence filled the space—warm, grounding, dangerous. His voice dropped.
"For belonging."
Her breath hitched.
"That's insane," she said weakly.
"Is it?" His eyes searched her face, not predatory but desperate. "Tell me—did you feel it when you arrived? The pull?"
She hesitated. Too long.
His expression softened. "I thought so."
The candle went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Instinctively, Elena reached for him.
Lucien caught her wrist—not rough, not gentle either. His thumb brushed her pulse, lingering as if counting her heartbeat.
"Listen to me," he said quietly. "Whatever the castle shows you, whatever it says… do not answer it."
"What is it?" she whispered.
He released her hand slowly. "A memory. A wound. A hunger."
Her stomach twisted. "And you live with it?"
His lips curved into something like pain. "I was born into it."
The candle flared back to life.
Lucien stepped away, regaining his distance, his mask sliding back into place.
"You should rest," he said. "Tomorrow, we'll talk."
She watched him turn toward the door.
"Lucien," she called softly.
He paused but didn't look back.
"Why did it use my name?"
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly: "Because the castle has been waiting for you."
The door closed.
The whispers returned—but this time, they sounded almost… pleased.