She hadn't meant to end up there.
That was the first thing Lyra wanted to say.
But the words crumbled in her throat the moment Adrian appeared from the shadows like a phantom summoned by the very air. His tall figure stood still, framed by the dusty, unlit hallway of the west wing. His pale skin caught the last fragments of sunlight bleeding through the stained-glass window, casting sharp angles across his jaw. His coat fluttered slightly behind him—as if the corridor bowed to his presence.
He didn't blink.
He didn't move.
He simply looked at her. And that alone made the temperature drop.
"What are you doing here?" Adrian's voice was quiet—but it scraped the silence like a blade across ice.
Lyra's heart pounded against her ribs. Her breath caught. There were no excuses clever enough to disguise the truth, no polite words she could summon that wouldn't sound like betrayal.
"I… I got lost," she lied.
For a moment, the mansion itself seemed to react. The air thickened. The long velvet curtains swayed despite the lack of wind. A cold breath of something unseen brushed the back of her neck.
Adrian took one step forward.
"Lost?" he repeated.
She nodded, clutching her arms as if that would protect her from the weight in his stare. "I was just exploring… and I didn't know this part was off-limits."
"You did." His voice was soft, but final.
Lyra bit her lip. She remembered the rules—clearly. No entry to the west wing. No questions. No disobedience.
"I didn't mean to disobey," she said, her voice trembling. "I was just curious."
"Curiosity," Adrian murmured, almost to himself, "is the first step toward ruin."
She looked up at him, startled.
He didn't blink. His face betrayed nothing. No anger. No fury. Just an icy calm that felt more terrifying than rage.
And yet, something behind his eyes flickered.
Fear?
Grief?
Guilt?
But it vanished too quickly.
He stepped closer, and Lyra instinctively backed up—until her spine touched the cold stone wall behind her.
"If you value your stay here," Adrian said, voice low, "you will never come back to this side of the house. Do you understand?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
He looked at her for a long time. So long that her knees began to weaken beneath the pressure of it.
Then, abruptly, he turned.
"Follow me."
---
He said nothing as they walked through the long hallways, his footsteps barely making a sound. Lyra followed in silence, stealing glances at the back of his head, the sharp curve of his shoulders, the steady rhythm of his stride.
She wanted to ask so many things.
Why was that wing forbidden?
Why did it feel… alive?
What was that faint humming sound she heard in the walls?
But the silence between them was a barrier she dared not cross.
Instead, she focused on his presence—how it filled every corner of the space they entered. As if the house itself was bound to him. As if it obeyed him.
They returned to the main hall, where the chandeliers dripped with golden light and the floor gleamed like it had never been walked on. Adrian stopped near the massive staircase, still not facing her.
"There are things in this house," he said suddenly, "that do not like being disturbed."
Lyra frowned. "Things?"
He finally looked at her.
His gaze wasn't cruel. It was… tired.
Old.
Like he was remembering something that hadn't happened yet.
"You may think I'm being dramatic," he continued. "Or controlling. Or cold."
"I don't think that," she whispered, even though she wasn't sure if it was true.
Adrian's jaw tightened slightly. "Then let me tell you this: the west wing is not for you. Not now. Not ever."
He paused.
"Do not open doors that were meant to remain shut."
With that, he turned away, vanishing up the stairs—leaving her in the echo of his warning.
---
Later that night, Lyra couldn't sleep.
Her room, though warm and soft and filled with silken comfort, felt like a cage of velvet and secrets. She stared at the high ceiling, tracing the intricate carvings hidden in the beams above her.
The memory of the west wing tugged at her mind like a ghost pulling at her sleeve.
Why was it so haunting?
Why did it feel like it wanted her to find it?
And what was the meaning of that tiny black door she glimpsed at the very end of the hallway?
It hadn't looked like the rest of the mansion. No carvings. No gold. Just plain, cracked wood.
She turned onto her side, hugging the pillow to her chest.
Adrian had said things lived there.
What kind of things?
Were they alive?
Were they… watching her?
Suddenly, the air in the room shifted. A creak echoed from somewhere above. Then silence.
She sat up slowly.
"Hello?" she whispered, though she knew no one would answer.
Her eyes scanned the dark. The fireplace had long since gone cold, and the shadows clung to every corner.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling she wasn't alone.
---
The next morning, Lyra walked the garden to clear her head.
The roses were still tightly curled, heavy with morning dew. The sky wore a cloak of grey, and crows watched her from the twisted branches of the trees. She didn't speak to the staff—though they greeted her with stiff smiles and quick glances, as if they had felt the tremor that ran through the house last night.
She passed a small bench and sat, staring at the horizon.
But her mind didn't leave Adrian.
She remembered how calm he had been in the west wing. Not surprised. Not alarmed.
Almost… sorrowful.
What was he hiding?
Why did he choose her?
And more urgently—what had she just stepped into?
Suddenly, the butler appeared by her side.
"Miss Lyra," he said politely, "Master Adrian has requested your presence this evening for a formal dinner."
She blinked. "A formal dinner?"
"Yes, miss. Attire has been selected for you. You will be escorted at seven."
Lyra watched him disappear just as silently as he had arrived.
A dinner?
After that?
Was he testing her again?
She rose from the bench slowly, staring back at the towering mansion.
A wind stirred the trees, and somewhere in the distance, a whisper crawled through the air.
Do not open doors that were meant to remain shut…
---