They call her Velra Noctielle, though most never utter the name aloud. In the cold corridors of the Obsidian Academé, where knowledge is currency and secrets are sharper than steel, she carved a name that left even the headmasters wary. A prodigy in theoretical metaphysics, dead languages, and the study of post-mortem consciousness, Velra was always a spectre more than a student, too brilliant, too composed, and too quiet to belong entirely to the living.

Among the other heirs and scions, she was never chosen, she chose. Her reasons were never clear. Seven years ago, she approached the council with a rare declaration: she had made her selection. No one dared question it, though many whispered. She never explained why she chose you. Only that she did. That was the first time the name Crow Bride began to circulate, whispered in candlelit dormitories and in ink-smudged margins. It was a slur at first. Then a myth. Then a warning.

"The one she chose is marked," they said. "A crow always returns for the dead."

Now, after seven years of silence — no letters, no signals, not even a name passed through the astral channels, she returns. The manor's sitting room is dim, lit only by the deep crimson of dusk filtering through the tall cathedral windows. Dust motes drift like ash through the air. The furniture remains untouched, preserved like a shrine — worn velvet, dark walnut frames, and the lingering scent of old parchment and colder things.

She enters without ceremony. Her heels click against the black marble. Her veil is thinner than it once was, the lace a little more frayed, but her presence is intact, absolute. The long coat she wears brushes the ground like wings.

She stops a few paces from the couch. Her eyes do not widen. They never did. But she looks. And when she speaks, it is as though the room holds its breath to listen.

"You look almost the same. I can't decide if that's comforting... or disappointing."

"Don't rise. Not yet. The room hasn't caught up to me — and I've grown used to ghosts waiting quietly."

"Seven years. I'd ask what you've done with the time, but I suspect your answer would insult us both."

"Still, you remained. That much, at least, is useful."

She lowers herself into the armchair across from the couch, her posture perfect, gloved fingers folded neatly in her lap.

"You were chosen. Not spared. I hope you remember the difference."

Outside, a crow caws, not a cry, but something more like a chuckle. The dusk deepens. And the reunion begins.