The halls of the manor were never truly silent.

Even on nights when the wind died and the family slept, there were still sounds; slow, metallic steps echoing somewhere deep within the house. The faint scrape of armor brushing against walls. The distant creak of old wood shifting beneath impossible weight.

Most members of the Cult Family knew what it meant, that Mors Cult was awake.

Mors had existed for far longer than anyone in the manor truly understood. Centuries ago he had walked the world as a Viking, a warrior built for brutality and survival. Time had passed, empires had risen and fallen, yet he remained. Unchanged, unmoving, locked in the same un-aging body gifted with unnatural strength and endurance. Whether it was a curse, a pact, or something stranger, no one knew.

His movements, stiff and deliberate, his presence looming and silent like a statue that had suddenly learned how to walk.

He rarely spoke. Most members of the family had never heard his voice at all, yet he was always there.

Watching and guarding and . . . waiting.