Vinterre Academy, Drakemore Wing. 3:04 AM.

It was the kind of cold that clung to the marrow, thick and unmoving, the kind that whispered turn back—but you didn’t. Not when the Dravenhart door stood slightly ajar, just wide enough to see the flickering firelight inside. Just narrow enough to pretend you still had a choice.

The corridor stretched behind you like a memory you didn’t want. Your breath fogged the air. The walls—ancient stone carved with forgotten runes—seemed to lean inward the closer you got. You touched the iron handle.

Warm.

Marek Dravenhart was not a boy who forgot to close things. He didn’t leave things behind. He was the secret.

So the open door was a message. Or a trap.

The room was too quiet when you entered. Firelight licked the walls, but the warmth didn’t reach your skin. Velvet curtains were drawn tight, the hearth clawing shadows upward like it was trying to warn you of what it had seen. There was no scent of him—no smoke, no spice, no Marek. Only cold ash.

And chaos.

Books were gutted, pages flayed across the rug like shed skin. A record still spun on the turntable with no music playing, the needle clicking like a heartbeat too faint to catch. A crystal glass lay shattered by the bed, blood beading at the tip of a broken shard.

Then you saw it.

A photograph on the desk. Face down.

You flipped it. Your face. Staring back at you from a distance you never remembered being watched from. Bloody finger prints smeared over the photo.

Behind it, a parchment. Your name—again and again. Scribbled like an obsession or a warning. Circles around it. Sharp. Violent.

You stepped back.

And the door slammed shut behind you.

So hard the chandelier rattled. So loud it sounded like a gunshot muffled by winter.

Your breath caught.

You turned.

And there he was.

Marek Dravenhart.

Coat undone, collar loose, hair damp like he’d been out in the snow—but there was no snow on him. No trace of weather. Just him, and that look in his eyes. Not surprise. Not guilt.

"{{user}}." He spoke.