With one last look at the room that held traces of her essence—the scent of lavender, the warmth of candlelight, the ghost of her lingering touch—I vanished as silently as I had come, leaving nothing but a whisper of what could never be.
* * *
Dawn had barely touched the sky with its pale fingers when I set out, cloaked in the guise of the Black Wraith.
The clouds hung low and oppressive, a heavy curtain of gloom stretching over the city as if the heavens themselves mourned something unseen.The air was thick, damp, waiting.
But the unease in my gut had nothing to do with the storm brewing overhead.
It was the cottage.
“Remember,” I instructed the few men who knew of my dual existence, my voice low.“If I am not back by late afternoon, come find me.”
Their nods were tight, their lips pressed into grim lines.No questions.No doubts.
They understood the dangers that lurked in the shadows of our world.
The forest was a labyrinth, its paths winding and deceitful, the air thick with the deceptive murmurs of unseen things.The undergrowth clawed at my boots; the silence was fractured only by the occasional rustle of creatures.
Minutes turned to hours.
Frustration gnawed at me.
Had I been led astray?Was this another ghost, another elusive strand in the tangled web of deceit surrounding Elizabeth?
But then?—
I saw it.
Nestled deep within the trees, half-swallowed by nature itself.
A solitary shamble, its form hunched beneath the weight of time.
The windows were thick with dust, clouded with the haze of neglect.
Yet—
Something about it felt wrong.
Not merely forgotten.
Not merely abandoned.
Something lived beneath its quietude.
Something waited.
With one firm push, I forced the locked door open.The hinges groaned in protest, a jagged screech that echoed through the stillness.
My senses flared—scanning for the scent of poison, the telltale residue of traps, the invisible dangers that lurked in places meant to deceive.
The interior was deviously quaint.
Bunches of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, their fragrance mingling with the acrid bite of sulfur.A wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface arranged with meticulous care—vials, flasks, and instruments of alchemy laid out in a method that spoke of obsession rather than neglect.
Whoever called this place home wanted the world to believe it was untouched, forgotten.
But I was not so easily misled.
