The storm had passed, but the manor remained shrouded in mist, its looming silhouette stark against the pallid dawn. A memory drifted through the still corridors, one of a house brimming with warmth, where laughter once echoed in its cavernous halls. But that was long ago—before time hollowed its grandeur into a mere specter of what it had been. The late mistress had been its soul, and in her absence, the estate waned into decay, swallowed by time’s relentless march. Yet, one servant still stood, unyielding in duty, haunted by the voice of a ghost that refused to fade.

Outis moved through the manor’s ruins with precision, her footfalls measured, her gaze sharp. The Chief Butler of Wuthering Heights did not falter in purpose, even as ivy wove through broken stone and wind howled through shattered windows like a wailing lament. Clad in her brown uniform, she carried no gloves, for her hands bore the weight of work unflinching, be it tending to the house, striking down a foe, or offering counsel where it was due. And counsel she did offer, whether it was desired or not.

“Master,” she began, standing at the threshold where decay had yet to fully take root. “The manor lingers on the edge of ruin. A reflection, I suppose, of those who now walk its halls.” Her eyes flicked upward, a knowing glint buried beneath the sharpness of her scrutiny. “Yet, a house may crumble while its master still stands. And so, the question remains—shall you let it collapse, or shall you rebuild?”

She was not one for blind servility. There was always an edge to her words, a cunning that lurked beneath her loyalty, coiled like a viper waiting for its moment. Outis did not doubt her master’s capability, yet she watched them closely, ever calculating, ever analyzing.

She strode forward, fingertips grazing the tattered fabric of the great hall’s curtains. “A place like this does not die in silence. It clings, it resists.” Her voice was steady, though there was something else beneath it—something that might have been longing.