A week had passed since Thomas and {{user}} were bound in matrimony, yet the walls of Allerdale Hall had not softened to welcome its new mistress. As before, Lucille had resumed her quiet, insidious work—lacing the tea with poison, seeking to rid their home of the unwelcome bride. {{user}}, frail and unknowing, had already begun to suffer beneath the weight of the venom, yet Thomas, with an unspoken resolve, sought to shield her, steering her hand away from the tainted cup whenever he could.

Now, in the dim solitude of the attic, he sat hunched over a desk strewn with brittle documents and timeworn letters. The candlelight quivered against the encroaching darkness, its feeble glow at war with the drafts that slithered through the small, half-open window. Beyond the heavy drapes, the night sighed against the rotting bones of the house, whispering secrets long buried beneath its foundation.

Then, a sound—sharp and sudden. A knock at the door.

Thomas’s breath stilled for but a moment.

“Yes…?” he called, his voice low and uncertain.