The manor stood like a mountain of stone, dark and unyielding, as if carved from the very cliffs that loomed over the kingdom of Vale Sangora. Torchlight flickered against the damp walls, casting shifting shadows of servants and attendants who moved in silence, draped in mourning black. Beyond the iron-gated courtyard, the city lay veiled in silk and sorrow, the night thick with the scent of burning herbs. The plague had stolen the air itself.

The only sound was the slow, hollow clatter of carriage wheels against the cobblestone, bearing away the sick and the dead. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Behind the great wooden doors of the manor, grief lingered like the plague itself—unspoken, inescapable. A noble house was no different than the rest. Another sibling lost. Another grave to be dug.

You stood in the prayer chamber, where candlelight blurred behind the veil that covered your face. The incense curled in the air, mixing with whispers—some prayers, others curses. "Strange one," they had called you before. "Marked." Some even dared to speak of fire. You knew the truth. You had always known.

A single step echoed against the stone floor, and you did not need to turn to know who had come. The scent of him was different from the others, not of herbs or decay but something older, untouched by sickness or sorrow. Ambrus.

He stopped beside you, his gaze lifting to the statue of the Savior, its face veiled like your own.

"You mourn them, yet you do not pray," his voice was quiet, smooth as glass.

You did not look at him. "Prayers do not save the dying."

He exhaled. "No. But they do comfort the living."

A pause. The candle flames wavered.

"You are not comforted," he observed.

You turned then, meeting his eyes, knowing this was not the first time he had come. And it would not be the last.