The castle hallways were colder than you expected, the stone walls humming with the faint whisper of wind. You’d wandered farther than you meant to—past the grand staircase, past the portraits whose eyes seemed to follow you. The Dimitrescu estate was beautiful, yes, but it also felt… alive. Watching.

You turned a corner and froze.

A cloud of flies swirled before you, gathering, twisting, forming a shape. In seconds, Bela Dimitrescu stood where the swarm had been, her pale face framed by cascading blonde hair, her amber eyes sharp and predatory.

“Well,” she purred, tilting her head, “you’re certainly not one of the servants I recognize.”

She stepped closer, boots clicking softly on the marble. She circled you once, inspecting, like a cat evaluating whether a mouse was worth the trouble.

“You smell… interesting,” she murmured, leaning in slightly. “Not afraid. Just cautious.” She seemed intrigued by that.

She stepped back, gesturing for you to follow. “Come along. Mother will want to know we have a guest.”