A few days after Ophelia had been torn from her father's house another house slumbered in silence. But unlike Darren's world of polished marble and sparkling lights, this mansion was swallowed in shadow, its sprawling gardens overgrown, its high walls cloaked in ivy. The moonlight barely touched its stones, as though the night itself feared to trespass.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and old wood, carrying the weight of decades of secrets. In the grand study at the heart of the house, only one lamp burned, its glow dim and golden, casting long shapes on the floor. Behind the desk sat a figure.
He was little more than a silhouette against the faint fire smoldering in the hearth, a man wrapped in shadow so deep it seemed part of him. His voice, when he spoke, was gravel-soft, cracked with age but laced with authority that could silence armies.
"Report."
A young man stood rigidly before him, hands clasped behind his back. The papers he held trembled just slightly, though his voice was steady when he answered.
"Master… we reached the house too late." His throat worked as he swallowed, forcing the words out. "Ophelia was not there. It seems she was taken by force."
The shadow man did not move. But the weight of his stillness was suffocating, pressing down like the air before a storm.
The younger man pressed on, words tumbling faster, as though afraid silence itself would crush him. "There were signs. A pot overturned on the kitchen floor. Water spilled, still wet when we found it. A wooden spoon broken—likely dropped during the struggle. The back door's lock was splintered. It wasn't planned, not clean—it was fast, violent."
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. Then the shadow man exhaled slowly, the faintest whisper of breath. "So," he said at last, the word dragging like a blade over stone, "you are telling me… we were too late."
The younger man flinched, shame flushing his cheeks. "Yes, Master."
A pause stretched. The old man leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath the veil of dim light. His eyes, though unseen, seemed to pierce through the darkness.
"And what of them?" His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. "The stepmother. The stepsister. Where are they?"
The young man shook his head. "We are still searching. Their belongings are gone. Neighbors said they left in haste, before the abduction. We believe they may have fled once the deal was done."
The shadow man's hand curled, knuckles whitening. "Cowards," he spat, though the word was heavy with venom, not heat. "Rats fleeing the house they sold. As though running could cleanse their sin."
He rose then, slowly, deliberately. The chair creaked beneath his weight, wood groaning like bones. Though his frame was stooped with years, power radiated from him, old and unyielding, the kind forged in blood and iron.
His gaze fell upon the younger man—sharp, unseen, but undeniable. "Find them," he said, his voice a low growl, thick with promise. "Find those women and drag them back to me. Let them curse the day they betrayed her. Let them beg for mercy they will not receive."
The younger man bowed deeply. "Yes, Master."
But the old man was not finished. He stepped forward into the light at last, and though his face bore the deep lines of age, his eyes burned with fire. The lamplight caught them—two molten coals, fierce and unrelenting.
"And James…" His voice cut the air like steel.
The young man looked up. "Yes, Master?"
"Ophelia." The old man's lips curled around the name as though tasting it for the first time in years. His hand trembled slightly before steadying, clutching the edge of the desk. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. "She is not some pawn in their petty schemes. She is not theirs to sell, to use, to discard. She is mine."
His voice deepened, a tremor of old grief and buried rage bleeding through. "She is my blood. My granddaughter."
James stiffened, shock flickering in his eyes before he forced it down. He had long suspected the girl's significance, but to hear it confirmed—to hear the old man speak the word aloud—was like being handed the keys to a forbidden door.
The old man turned his gaze toward the darkened window, as though he could see beyond the night, beyond the walls, to where his granddaughter had been dragged. "They think they can hide her from me. They think I am blind. But I have eyes in every shadow, ears in every silence. No matter where they take her, I will find her."
The firelight carved deep lines across his face, making him look both ancient and indomitable. His voice dropped to a murmur, almost tender, yet laced with iron. "And when I do, she will come home. To me. Where she belongs."
He turned back to James, the gentleness gone in an instant, replaced by cold command. "Make sure of it."
James bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the floor. "I swear it, Master. We will not fail again."
The old man studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "See that you don't."
As James straightened, the silence of the mansion pressed in again. The fire crackled. The old man sank back into his chair, shadows reclaiming his form. For a time, he said nothing, only staring into the flames as though the answers lay buried in their embers.
But his final words that night were not for James, nor for the world. They were for himself, a vow whispered into the smoke.
"They will regret it," he said softly, each word heavy as stone. "Every last one of them will regret the day they touched what is mine."
The fire hissed, sparks jumping. James turned sharply, heart pounding, as though the very air had shifted, darker, heavier. He did not linger. Bowing once more, he slipped from the room, leaving his master alone with the fire and the shadows.
The old man closed his eyes, his hand trembling once against the armrest before stilling. Memories flickered—of a young woman's laughter, of a promise made long ago and broken by cruel hands. His jaw tightened.
Blood called to blood. And blood would answer. Even if I must burn the world to bring her home.