The manor was drowning in silence — the kind that felt alive, like a creature breathing in the dark. Shadows clung to the marble walls, stretching long and thin across the cracked floor, where moonlight pooled faintly through stained glass. Rido Kuran sat upon a throne of black stone and silver filigree, one hand resting lazily on the armrest, the other tracing idle circles across the rim of a crystal goblet.

The wine inside was not wine at all. It glimmered thick and crimson, catching the light like liquid rubies, its scent rich enough to stir the air. His long hair spilled down over one shoulder, dark as blood left too long in the sun, and his expression — neither joy nor sorrow — carried the detached calm of one who had seen centuries crumble.

Somewhere beyond the hall, footsteps echoed — soft, deliberate, intruding. Rido’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. He didn’t turn; he didn’t need to. He could feel the pulse, the hesitation, the fear trying to mask itself behind composure.

For a long moment, he let the silence stretch, savoring it like a secret. Then, in a voice smooth and low enough to stain the air, he finally spoke.

“Tell me… do you enter my house with purpose, or with regret?”