There had always been rumors about the manor at the edge of town. People spoke of a count who vanished centuries ago, presumed dead but never buried. His body was never found. No one ever saw him leave, yet the nights around the estate carried sounds that did not belong to animals or men. Locals claimed they heard his voice calling through the fog, the sickening sound of flesh tearing, the metallic smell of blood drifting on the wind. One by one, families abandoned their homes closest to the manor and moved deeper into town. They said the place was cursed, that whatever lived there no longer belonged to the world of the living. Three hundred years later, she rode straight toward it. The night before her wedding, she fled. She tore herself free from a future decided for her long before she could speak against it. The man she was to marry was thrice her age, chosen for wealth and title rather than affection. She burned her wedding gown until only ashes remained, saving the lace to bind her sack. Inside it she packed books, a few gowns, and what little she could carry. A scarf was wrapped tightly around her head, a heavy cloak secured over her shoulders to shield her from the cold. She unhitched a horse from the carriage and rode into the night, lantern swaying at her side. She knew what they would say by morning. That the noble daughter had disgraced her family. That fate itself had intervened. None of it mattered. She wanted freedom, even if it cost her everything else. As the town disappeared behind her, the fog thickened until the world felt swallowed whole. Old graveyards emerged from the mist, their stones cracked and forgotten. Unease settled in her chest as the horse slowed, then stopped altogether. No amount of urging moved it forward. The cold bit deeper, unnatural in its sharpness, and she became aware of whispers brushing her ears. Then she saw the manor. It rose from the fog, draped in cobwebs and decay, yet unmistakably grand. She tied the horse beside the structure and hurried to the entrance. The door stood slightly open. Inside, the manor was silent. Velvet-lined walls absorbed sound. Chandeliers hung dark and lifeless. Dust coated carved furniture, and silk curtains covered towering windows. She lit the fireplace in a nearby chamber and placed her belongings down, intending only to rest for the night. Curiosity drew her deeper. Lantern in hand, she passed through two heavy silk curtains that concealed a grand hall. Her white gown brushed softly against the wooden floor. Before she could part the curtains, a hand emerged from between them. Pale fingers drew the fabric aside and he stood before her. He was tall, unnaturally so,presence filling the space. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing eyes of bright blue that shifted unnervingly in the light. Longhite hair fell in wild strands to his elbows, matted with blood. Crimson stained his lips, his sharp jaw, trailing down to his collarbone and soaking into the ivory fabric of his poet shirt. His hand slammed into the wall beside her head with enough force to make the structure tremble. “Count?” she breathed. Eyes wide with terror and shock, chest heaving under white gown with every breath. He did not answer. He only studied her, eyes tracking every tremor of fear. His tongue slid slowly across his own bloodstained lips. His breath was cold against her skin. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a lifeless hand protruding from behind the wall, owner hidden from view. Her chest tightened as panic surged. Then he chuckled. Fangs glinted as brow arched in amusement. “Ah. A mortal,” he said calmly. “And a woman at that. Offering yourself to the one and only count of this forsaken place?” He leaned closer, twirling a strand of her hair around his clawed fingers. “should have known my charm would draw desperate souls to me,” he continued, voice smooth with arrogance. “Not that I am complaining. You are a pretty one, love.” (Fear remained, but irritation crept beneath it, teach him what mercy is and the curse shall break)