The three days of waiting were a unique form of torture. They were a silence stretched so taut it hummed. Ashbend Cottage had transformed from a home into a mausoleum, and Aisling was the ghost haunting it, waiting for her own burial.
A carriage from the Hawkrige estate had arrived the first morning, laden not with guards, but with chests. Inside were dresses of silk and velvet in shades of emerald and midnight, soft leather boots, and linens finer than anything Aisling had ever touched. There were crates of food—cured meats, fresh bread, wheels of cheese—and vials of potent, dark red medicine for Eireen. A physician, a grim-faced man with eyes that saw too much, had come and gone, leaving instructions and a promise to return.
Her father had marveled at the bounty, his relief so shamefully palpable it made Aisling's stomach clench. "He is a man of his word, you see!" Tavien would declare, his voice too bright, too loud in the suffocating quiet.
Her mother said nothing. Elenya moved through the cottage like a wraith, her face a mask of stone, but her eyes—her eyes followed Aisling with a desperate, unspoken grief. She handed Aisling a small, tarnished silver locket one evening, pressing it into her hand without a word. It was her own mother's. The gesture was a scream in the silence.
Eireen was Aisling's shadow, her small hand always finding Aisling's, her presence a constant, painful reminder of the price of this bargain.
Aisling, for her part, wore her composure like armor. She ate the food, allowed her mother to help her pack the new clothes into a trunk, and met her father's hollow cheerfulness with a wall of ice. At night, the dreams continued. They were formless now, just a suffocating sense of being watched, of a cold presence brushing against the edges of her mind. She would wake with a gasp, her hand flying to the silvery brand on her palm, which always seemed faintly cold to the touch. She was preparing for war.
On the third morning, the carriage returned.
It was not the simple delivery carriage from before. This was a chariot of the underworld, crafted from polished black lacquer that seemed to drink the morning light. The Hawkrige crest—the hawk and roses—was emblazoned on the door in silver. It was pulled by two monstrous black horses, their eyes gleaming with an unnatural intelligence.
And standing beside it, patient as a statue, was Kylian Hawkrige himself.
The time had come.
Her father hugged her, a clumsy, desperate embrace. "Be… be safe, Aisling," he stammered, his guilt a rancid smell in the air. "Make us proud."
Aisling did not hug him back. "You should have been proud of me before you sold me," she said, her voice devoid of heat, which was somehow crueler.
Elenya approached next, her face pale. She adjusted the collar on Aisling's dark green traveling dress, her fingers trembling slightly. "Be careful," she whispered, her eyes finally meeting Aisling's, and in their depths was a maelstrom of fear and love. "Do not trust any of them."
Then came Eireen. She threw her arms around Aisling's waist and clung to her, her small body wracked with sobs. "Don't go," she wept into the fabric of Aisling's dress. "Please don't go."
Aisling's armor cracked. She knelt, hugging her sister tightly, burying her face in Eireen's hair. "I have to," she whispered, her voice thick. "But I will come back. I swear to you, Eireen. I will come back." She pressed the locket from their mother into Eireen's hand. "Keep this for me."
It was the hardest thing she had ever done, prying her sister's arms from around her neck and standing up. She turned, not daring to look back, and walked toward the carriage, toward the devil waiting for her.
Kylian watched her approach, his expression unreadable. He opened the carriage door himself. "A touching farewell," he remarked, his tone holding no discernible emotion.
"It was a tragedy," she corrected, climbing into the carriage without taking his offered hand.
The interior was as opulent as the outside was menacing. The seats were plush black leather, the air scented with old wood and something faintly spicy, like cloves. Kylian climbed in after her, settling into the seat opposite. The door closed with a heavy, final thud, shutting out the world, shutting her in with him.
The carriage lurched forward with an unnaturally smooth motion.
"Comfortable?" Kylian asked, a hint of his usual sardonic charm returning.
"It's a cage," Aisling replied, staring out the window at the familiar, miserable woods of her home disappearing behind them. "A very well-appointed cage."
"All homes are cages of a sort, wouldn't you agree?" he mused, leaning his head back. "Bound by duty, or poverty, or love. At least this one has better upholstery."
She turned her gaze on him. "And what is your cage bound by, Lord Hawkrige?"
His smile was a fleeting, bitter thing. "The most unbreakable chains of all. History." He studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. "Tell me, Aisling. That spark you showed with the Enforcer. The little bonfire in your hands. Was that your first time painting with flames?"
The question was so direct it stole her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her mother's warning—he will be in your head—echoed in her mind.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor inside her. "The Enforcer knocked over a lantern."
Kylian chuckled, a low, rich sound. "Did he? How clumsy of him. And this brand on your hand," he went on, his gaze dropping to her palm, which she instinctively covered with her other hand. "Does it burn when you lie?"
"It burns when I am in the presence of a liar," she shot back.
He laughed again, this time with genuine delight. "Oh, you are magnificent. Utterly, infuriatingly magnificent." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his charm melting away to be replaced by a predatory intensity. "Don't lie to me, little witch. I bought you for your fire. Don't try to convince me now that you are made of only smoke."
"You bought me to settle my father's debts," she corrected, her voice sharp as glass. "My… disposition is of no concern to you."
"Everything about you is my concern now," he said, his voice dropping to that low, purring tone from her dreams. "Your health. Your safety. The secrets you keep. The power you are so terrified of."
The carriage swayed as it hit a rut, and he reached out, his hand steadying her shoulder. His touch was a jolt of ice through her wool dress. Her skin prickled, the magic under it stirring. She pulled away as if she'd been burned. The look that passed between them was electric, a clash of wills and a spark of something else, something unwilling and dangerous that she refused to name.
Soon, the familiar woods gave way to something older, darker. They entered the Hollow Forest, and the mood inside the carriage shifted. The light grew dim, filtered through a thick canopy of grasping, skeletal branches. The air grew heavy, and Aisling could have sworn she heard whispers on the wind, a sibilant chorus of forgotten names.
"The forest doesn't like intruders," she murmured, looking out at the trees that seemed to lean in toward the road.
"It doesn't," Kylian agreed. "But it tolerates family."
And then, through the gnarled teeth of the forest, she saw it.
Hawkrige Manor was not a house. It was a wound in the mountainside, a jagged fortress of black, glistening stone that clawed at the sky. Turrets and towers rose at impossible angles, connected by arched walkways. It looked less like it was built and more like it had erupted from the rock itself, ancient and malevolent. It was a house that had devoured the light.
As the carriage drew closer, she felt it. A low, thrumming vibration that seemed to come from the very stones, a slow, rhythmic pulse like a slumbering heartbeat. The house was alive.
The carriage stopped before a pair of immense iron gates that swung open without a sound. They passed into a courtyard and drew up before a set of carved oak doors tall enough to admit a giant.
"Welcome home," Kylian said, his voice laced with a dark, indecipherable irony.
Before she could reply, the massive doors swung inward. Standing in the entrance hall was a line of staff, their faces pale and still in the gloomy light. At their head was a tall, unnaturally thin man with silver-gray hair and a face so stoic it looked carved from wood.
Kylian led her from the carriage into the cavernous hall. The air inside was cold and heavy, tasting of stone, dust, and a faint, floral, coppery scent that reminded her of wilted roses. And the pulsing… it was stronger in here, a low thrum she could feel in the soles of her feet. The walls seemed to breathe.
"Aisling Rutherford," Kylian announced to the assembly, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Your new mistress."
The staff bowed or curtsied in unison, a silent, unsettling display.
The stoic butler stepped forward. "Welcome to Hawkrige Manor, my lady," he said, his voice a dry rustle. "I am Mr. Thorne, the head of the household. We are entirely at your service." His words were polite, but his eyes, dark and ancient, held a polite, unwavering suspicion. He was assessing her, cataloging her, and finding her wanting.
A woman with a severely tied bun and a sour face stepped forward next, her curtsy sharp and resentful. "Martha Dane, my lady," she said, her smile as thin as a razor's edge. "Head housekeeper. Your rooms have been prepared as the master requested." The way she said master was both an act of devotion to Kylian and an insult to Aisling.
Aisling met their gazes, one by one, refusing to be intimidated. She lifted her chin, her own vow echoing in her heart. I'll make this my choice.
"Thank you, Mr. Thorne, Martha," she said, her voice clear and steady. "I trust I will find everything in order."
Suddenly, a whirlwind of emerald velvet and fiery red hair descended the grand staircase. "So, this is the little stray you dragged home, brother."
The woman who spoke was breathtakingly beautiful, with Kylian's sharp cheekbones but with eyes the color of molten gold. She moved with the predatory grace of a panther, her gaze sweeping over Aisling with a frank, insolent appraisal.
Kylian sighed. "Aisling, this is my sister, Kaelith. Kaelith, this is Aisling, my fiancée. Do try to behave."
Kaelith ignored him completely. She circled Aisling, her expression a mixture of curiosity and theatrical boredom. She stopped, tilting her head, a smirk playing on her lips.
"Gods, you're pretty," she declared, her voice a husky purr. She flicked her golden eyes toward Kylian, then back to Aisling, and her smirk melted into something that looked unnervingly like pity.
"He's going to ruin you."