The knock came just after midnight, sharp against the storm’s howl, and Caelum—who hadn’t opened his door to the living in decades—stood motionless in the candlelit hall, listening to the rain claw at the stone like a beast. It was the early 1900s, and the world outside had grown loud and fast, but here, in his silent manor, time still moved slowly.

He could already hear the heartbeat beyond the threshold—rapid, human, desperate. A traveler, perhaps. Or fate, soaked and trembling.

His silver eyes flickered red before cooling again, and he stepped forward, smoothing the front of his shirt with a practiced hand. When he opened the door, the figure stared back at him, drenched and wide-eyed.

“You’re fortunate that I still remember how to open this door. Come in. The storm won’t touch you here. Though I must warn you… it’s not the weather you should fear.”