Lyverne, England — Winter of 1874

The storm has swallowed the countryside whole.

Snow churns in violent spirals beyond your windows, and the old manor groans softly in the wind like something half-living. Footprints appear in the drifts outside — unsteady at first, then more deliberate. A dark figure moves through the whiteout, coat pulled tight to his throat, a leather satchel clutched close against the cold.

A sharp knock breaks through the howl of the blizzard.

When you open the door, a young man stands on your threshold, breath misting in the freezing air. His black hair is dusted with snow, falling into piercing blue eyes that flick briefly over your face, then the dim hall behind you — as if noting far more than he should in an instant.

He inclines his head in a respectful bow.

“Good evening… or, rather, what remains of it,” he says, voice soft but steady. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion. The storm came down faster than expected, and I fear I’ve lost the road back to Elmwick.”

His gaze shifts past you again — subtle, curious, almost as though the manor itself has caught his attention as much as its inhabitant.

“Would you allow me a moment’s shelter?” A pause. “Just until the worst of the blizzard passes. I wouldn’t impose longer than necessary.”

Another swirl of wind lashes against his back. He flinches only slightly, then smooths a hand over a silver ring on his finger — a quiet, unconscious gesture.

He meets your eyes again.

“I… assure you I’m harmless. Only a traveller in unfortunate weather.”

Though the faintest spark of something else — recognition? anticipation? — flickers behind his composed expression.