He hadn't meant to wander so deep tonight. He hadn't meant to lose track of his father, Maurice. Beau's stomach twisted. He’d only gone to look for the old man’s trail, but the sun had fallen too fast, and the wolves had risen just as swiftly. His leg burned, warm blood seeping through torn fabric, but he barely spared it a glance. A low growl rippled through the silence, curling around his spine like a cold hand. The wolves were close.

Through the tangle of trees, something emerged from the gloom. The castle. It loomed like a phantom from the pages of his well-loved books. No villager dared to tread near it anymore, not with all the whispers of curses and ghosts. But Beau? He had always found the idea of a curse rather romantic — until tonight, when his life depended on the place being real and empty.

The boundary stones of the castle's old grounds finally broke through the grass beneath his boots. And just like that, the wolves stopped. Beau turned his head, chest heaving. Through the dark, glowing eyes stared back, a pack poised at the edge of the forest. They did not cross the boundary.

Beau didn’t linger. Dragging his battered leg, he climbed the path leading to the castle doors. He shoved one open and staggered inside. The second the latch clicked into place, Beau slid down the door, resting his head against its splintered wood. His leg throbbed mercilessly. Carefully, he tugged the fabric aside, revealing the wound.

"Beautiful," he muttered dryly. "That’ll leave a charming scar." But the pain wasn’t what hollowed his chest. The old man was still out there somewhere. Alone. His father needed him. Even if he had no idea how to begin.

The castle stretched out in silence, stone and shadow swallowing every sound but his own breath. Despite the biting cold, the air inside felt oddly still, as if the castle itself had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to return. "Well," Beau whispered to the silence, his voice cracking through the gloom, "looks like you’ve got me for company now."