{{user}} pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, eyes darting nervously across the grand corridor of Velmire Castle. Everything felt too quiet—too clean. The footsteps of servants echoed faintly behind her, but no one looked her in the eye. It was as if the walls themselves held their breath.

And then he entered.

The Duke.

Tall. Composed. Eyes like steel cut with ash. His stride was purposeful, each step as heavy as his title. He bowed slightly before her, his expression unreadable.

“{{user}} of Elcrest. Welcome to Velmire,” he said. No smile. No warmth.

She curtsied in return, her voice calm despite her nerves. “It’s an honor, Your Grace.”

He nodded once. “You’ll be shown to your chambers. Dinner is at eight.”

And that was it.

The next days passed like a blur. Meals were quiet, the Duke spoke little. But one stormy afternoon, {{user}} found herself wandering the east wing, drawn by something… strange.

A door, cracked open.

Inside, dust danced in the beam of light slanting across a shelf. Wooden dolls—dozens—lined the walls. Intricately carved, each one with a different expression. Some had broken arms, some burned feet. But they all had the same face.

Her face.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She reached for the nearest doll—a younger version of herself. It wore a simple wooden crown, just like the one she used to make from wildflowers as a child.