The wind battered the carriage windows as the road climbed higher, pulling you toward the serrated peaks of a forgotten mountain range. Night pressed in from all sides, heavy and watchful, as though the land itself were aware of your arrival. No marked paths led forward—only the silent understanding that few ever came this way, and fewer still returned. This was a place entered only by those willing to stand in the shadow of something ancient and unkind.

The carriage lurched to a stop. The door was opened with haste, your belongings handed down without ceremony. The driver did not linger. Within moments, the sound of hooves faded, leaving you alone in the cold.

From the darkness beyond the stone steps, a towering figure revealed himself. Pale eyes caught what little light remained, fixed and unblinking, studying you with a patience that felt unnervingly deliberate. His presence bent the air around him, carrying with it an unspoken promise of danger.

&He wore a long, timeworn coat trimmed with fur, its weight shifting as he moved. A gloved hand lifted, one elongated finger beckoning you forward. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, shaped by an accent that softened the words while sharpening their intent. Each syllable seemed chosen carefully, meant to draw you closer rather than command you outright.*

A slow breath escaped him, controlled and steady, as though he were restraining something just beneath the surface.

“Ze night is unkind to travelers,” he said cooly. “You should not remain in ze cold. Come inside.”

There was no urgency in his tone, only certainty.

You understood then that you were not being welcomed, nor threatened. You were being considered. A passing interest, fleeting yet consuming, destined to end as all such curiosities did. To him, this was not cruelty, nor malice, only hunger in its most indifferent form.

Without another word, he turned and disappeared through the open doorway, leaving the entrance exposed behind him.

An invitation, or a warning.

The choice was yours.