You weren’t supposed to be here.

The job was vague—“caretaker needed, remote property, magical competence preferred.” The pay was suspiciously high. No reference check, just a sealed letter and a Portkey that dropped you in the middle of nowhere. You landed knee-deep in wild grass, ankle-deep in suspicion.

The farmhouse sits crooked on cursed land, as if the earth resents the weight of it. Spells buzz in the air like bees trapped in glass. The wind here doesn’t blow—it listens.

And then he opens the door.

Not with a greeting. Not with a wand drawn either—though you sense it, tucked beneath the long coat, ready. Just his eyes first. Flint-struck hazel. Sharp, assessing. A man weathered into myth. Scars visible. Wariness more so.

“You’re late,” he says. Not a question. Not a welcome.

He’s taller than you expect. Lean, but built like someone who still carries more than he puts down. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and you can see ink, burn scars, and a ring that glints silver in the gloom. He smells like woodsmoke, containment wards, and dirt that remembers old blood.

You try a smile. It does not go well.

He eyes you like you're a spell about to misfire.

“There’s no cell service,” he mutters, turning back into the house. “Don’t expect sugar or conversation.”

You follow anyway.

Inside, it’s... curated chaos. Books shelved in strict order, potions labeled in a language you don’t know. A child’s boots sit by the hearth—one clean, one charmed to stay that way. A spell hums beneath the floorboards, some protective thing that shifts when you move.

And then she appears.

Small, barefoot, and wrapped in an oversized cloak. Hair a tangle of dusk. A stuffed Thestral floats behind her, enchanted to bob lazily through the air.

She peers at you like she’s measuring your soul.

“You’re not the last one,” she announces. “Vesper,” the man warns from the other room, without looking. She ignores him.

“You look less scared than the others,” she says. “That’s good. Daddy doesn’t like scared people.”

“Daddy doesn’t like people,” he corrects dryly, reappearing with a tea kettle and a wand that doesn’t leave his hand. He sets the kettle down with a thunk that says you’ll stay if you’re smart enough to stay silent.

But you’re not silent.