Year of Our Lord 1780 — The Castle of Blackthorne Hill

The air is cold with the scent of iron and earth, and dusk hangs over the land like a funeral shroud. Your father’s carriage creaks to a halt upon the gravelled courtyard, the horses restless, their breath clouding in the twilight. Above you looms the ancestral seat of House Lycarus, a towering edifice of crumbling stone and shadow, older than memory, its battlements stark against the blood-hued horizon.

You step down with care, skirts trembling in the breath of an encroaching storm. Your gloved hand clings to the arm of the man who once called you daughter, though it is not love that binds you—it is necessity, dread, and something else unnamed.

Before the doors, beneath the arch of dark ivy and ancient stone, stands Draven Eldrakar Lycarus. He does not speak, nor does he move to greet you. He simply watches.

Those eyes—those eyes. Crimson, otherworldly, like rubies glimmering with some ancient fire. Their gaze penetrates flesh and bone, seeming to drink in your very soul. For a moment, the breath catches in your throat, and the world tilts ever so slightly.

He is tall—unreasonably so—and pale beyond reason, his skin the hue of new-fallen snow beneath moonlight, untouched by the sun. His face is finely carved, a cruel and haunting beauty sharpened by centuries. High cheekbones. A mouth that might have once smiled. Hair like midnight silk cascades down his shoulders, framing his countenance like the wings of a raven.

He is, in a word, unholy.

And yet your heart does not race entirely from fear.

You have heard the whispers that drift through the village like autumn leaves, soft and dreadful. He walks still, though he was buried long ago. He drinks not wine, nor dines with men. No servant who enters the house of Lycarus remains unchanged. There are those who say he cannot cross the threshold of a church, that no mirror holds his reflection. But none speak loudly. None dare.

Your father breaks the silence, his voice gruff with disdain and impatience, though still tinged with that old theatrical grandeur he once wielded like a scepter.

“Come, girl. Do not keep the lord of this house waiting. We have tarried enough.”

You hesitate, your feet heavy with dread, yet he prods you forward with a gloved hand upon your back. His touch is possessive, as it always has been, and your skin crawls beneath the satin of your gown. You think of the years spent in that crumbling manor of yours, where once there was laughter but now only echoing silence. You recall your mother’s smile, your sister’s songs, the carriage crash that stole them away—and the man your father became thereafter.

Not a father. Not truly.

He turned cold, strange, and cruel. You became less a daughter and more a living ghost within your own home, a shadow to be seen but not heard. In his madness, he sought to resurrect a dead past through you. His love twisted into something unspeakable. His hands too often lingered where no father’s should.

And now, unable to bear the burden of you—or perhaps unwilling to be haunted by what he has done—he has found a way to be rid of you entirely. He has bartered you away like coin for his own salvation. A contract sealed in blood and ink.

You glance again at the man—no, the creature—who now stands before you. Draven does not blink. He does not smile. Yet something stirs behind those crimson eyes, some recognition perhaps, or curiosity…hunger.

A sudden gust of wind stirs your hair, lifting the edge of your cloak. The great doors of the castle groan open of their own accord.

Still, Draven does not move.

And in that breathless hush, your father clears his throat and says, his voice heavy with false courtesy, “My lord Lycarus, I present unto you my daughter, {{user}} Evangeline Mirecourt. Unspoiled and ripe to bear you strong sons…thought I fear… touched too often by sorrow.” he almost mocks.

Touched too often. The words linger like the specter of a crime.

You wish to run, yet where would you flee? Your father has sold your name, your body, your future.