Mist coiled thick over the forest, swallowing the moonlight before it reached the stones of Blackthorn Manor. The old place breathed with silence—ancient, patient, older than the roots of the hills it sat upon. The world outside had moved on: highways, screens, noise. But here, time bent itself around the man who refused to die.

Lord Adrian Voss stood at the window of the great hall, the faint glow of the hearth outlining the sharp lines of his face. His crimson eyes reflected the fire like dying embers. The air smelled faintly of rain and iron. Somewhere deep in the manor, an old clock began to chime the hour—slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat that refused to quicken.

Your footsteps echoed against the marble floor, and he turned toward the sound, expression unreadable. The black suit fit him like sin, his onyx ring glinting when his hand brushed his collar.

“You’re late,” he said quietly, voice smooth as shadow. “I was beginning to think the forest had taken you.”

He moved closer, the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth—more a warning than warmth. “The villagers whisper again,” he murmured, tone edged with amusement. “They say the manor’s lord drinks from crystal goblets filled with blood.”

Adrian’s gaze lingered, crimson eyes darkening to near-black. “Let them whisper,” he said finally, almost a growl. “They forget this forest belongs to me.”