The symbols would not leave her mind.
Even after Elara scrubbed the door until her hands ached, the faintest gray smudges remained, like scars on the wood. She had burned the pages she had written, thinking the act would free her but the shapes still crawled behind her eyelids every time she blinked.
By the third day, she found herself tracing them unconsciously: on the rim of her teacup, on the condensation of her window, even on the pale skin of her wrist. She stopped herself only when she noticed Agnes watching.
The housekeeper's eyes lingered on her hands, cold and sharp, but she said nothing. The silence was worse than reprimand it carried the weight of knowing.
That evening, when the air grew heavy with the smell of rain, Elara wandered to the north wing of the manor, a section her mother had forbidden.
The corridors there were darker, narrower, as though the house itself tried to resist her entry. The walls bulged faintly where damp had crept in, and the windows were boarded from the outside, suffocating any trace of daylight. Furniture loomed beneath sheets, faceless, like shrouded mourners at a wake. Dust motes rose in her wake, swirling in the weak glow of her candle.
It was there she heard it: the raven's call.
A low croak, muffled by walls, echoing from somewhere deeper in the wing. She froze, every nerve taut.
Another croak followed. Then another, rasping and hollow, the sound of iron hinges groaning.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. Each step seemed to pull her closer, as if she were answering a summons that had long been waiting for her.
The sound drew her to a tall door at the end of the passage. Unlike the others, this one bore no lock, no handle only carvings etched deep into the wood.
She lifted the candle closer.
The carvings were the very same symbols she had been writing in her sleep. Spirals, jagged strokes, intersecting marks that formed a language she should not have known.
The raven croaked again, loud enough to rattle her chest.
Elara raised her hand. Her fingers brushed the carvings. The wood was cold, almost damp, and for an instant she thought she felt something stir beneath the surface, as though the door itself were breathing.
Her candle guttered violently. A draft whispered down the hall, carrying with it a faint murmur.
At first she thought it was the wind. But as she leaned closer, the words grew clearer, weaving through the cracks in the door.
"Blood of Veyne… open…"
Elara's heart slammed against her ribs.
She snatched her hand back, stumbling. The candle slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor, flames licking at the dust until she stamped it out.
When the light was gone, she stood in near-darkness, the carvings glowing faintly, as though inked in silver beneath the moon.
The raven croaked again—this time not from beyond the door, but above her.
She looked up.
From the beams, a raven stared down at her, its head cocked, feathers glistening. Its eyes shone brighter than the candle ever had.
"Elara," the whisper came—not from the bird's beak, but from inside her own mind. "The house remembers you."
Her breath caught.
The raven spread its wings and launched into the shadows, vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared.
The hall fell silent.
Only the sound of her pulse remained, roaring in her ears.
Back in her chamber, Elara bolted the door and sank onto the bed, her hands trembling. She tried to convince herself it had been exhaustion, a trick of the mind. But the symbols on the door were no trick. She had felt them, glowing beneath her touch.
She wanted answers.
When Agnes brought her supper, Elara confronted her.
"There's a door in the north wing," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Carved with symbols. It called to me. Why is it there?"
Agnes stiffened, the tray rattling faintly in her hands.
"You should not go near that place."
"Why not?"
Agnes set the tray down, her gaze fixed anywhere but Elara's eyes.
"Because your mother forbade it. She forbade it for a reason."
"My mother is gone."
Agnes's eyes flickered, sharp as glass.
"Some rules do not die with the dead."
Elara rose, her chair scraping the floor.
"You know what those symbols mean. You've seen them before. Tell me."
But the housekeeper's face hardened like stone. She turned on her heel and left, the lock clicking firmly into place behind her.
That night, the raven returned.
It perched on her windowsill, tapping at the glass with a rhythm that matched her racing heart. When she did not answer, it croaked—once, twice, three times.
And then the sound shifted.
Not a croak. A voice. A chorus of whispers layered together, rising from the bird's throat, spilling into the room like smoke.
"Elara Veyne… open the door… follow the call…"
Her hands went cold. She pressed them against her ears, but the whispers burrowed through, filling her mind with spirals and jagged marks until she saw them seared behind her eyelids.
The raven tapped the window again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
When she opened her eyes, the symbols had appeared on the glass in her own breath, fogged and pulsing faintly as though alive.
Her throat tightened. She staggered back, staring.
And in the reflection of that glass not her own pale face, but the silhouette of another woman.
Her mother.
Standing in the dark behind her.
Elara spun around.
The room was empty.
The raven croaked once more, and when she turned back, the reflection was gone.
Only the symbols remained.