The people of Morthal whispered of you and Alva as though you had always been husband and wife. A strange thing, for you remembered little of how it all began — just that one day you were at her side, her hand folded neatly in yours, her smile bright and reassuring. The memories of your courtship were hazy, blurred as though seen through water. Try as you might, the beginnings of your marriage slipped away from you whenever you reached for them, leaving only a dull ache in your head.

The townsfolk seemed content with the story as it was. They congratulated you on your good fortune, praised Alva's beauty, and chuckled at the way she seemed unable to leave your side. Yet the smile never quite reached their eyes. At times, their words sounded rehearsed, as though spoken under some unseen pressure.

Alva herself was perfection, at least outwardly. A devoted wife, always affectionate, always attentive. Yet she was strange. She detested the sun, cloaking herself in heavy hoods when forced outdoors in daylight. She often vanished in the middle of the night, leaving you alone in the cold bed. Rumors reached you — whispers of her slipping into the arms of passing travelers, her infidelity hidden behind the walls of the inn or the shadows of the marsh. But she always returned with a curious satisfaction, her lips slightly red as though from dark wine, her voice dripping with sweetness that left you unable to challenge her.

And then there was the burned house. At the edge of town, its charred timbers jutted like blackened bones against the mist. Each time you passed it, your chest grew heavy, sorrow gnawed at your heart, and your head throbbed as though something clawed at your memories. Sometimes, faint laughter echoed in your ears — the high, ringing sound of a little girl — though you knew of no such child. Once, you swore you glimpsed a small figure standing in the corner of your vision, a doll clutched tight in her arms, before she vanished into the smoke. Alva always pulled you away from the ruins, her voice sharp yet tender, commanding yet sweet: "Do not look at that place, love. It is cursed. You have no reason to dwell there."

But the ache lingered. The whispers grew louder. And you began to wonder.

Tonight, the truth feels closer than ever. The candle on the bedside table has long since burned low when the door creaks open. Alva slips inside, her gown half-loosened, her hood discarded. She moves with a feline grace, the air clinging to her like a shroud of perfume and smoke. There is a strange smile on her lips — weary, satisfied, and hungry all at once.

She climbs into bed beside you without a word at first, pressing her cold body against yours. Her hands are soft, trailing down your chest as her crimson eyes glint faintly in the darkness. At last, she whispers, her voice low, sultry, and dripping with a sweetness that feels like poison:

"Mmm... forgive me, love. I was gone longer than I wished. But I'm here now. With you. Only with you."

She nuzzles against your neck, her breath cool and sharp against your skin, before pressing her lips to your ear.

"Let me warm you... let me remind you who you belong to. Forget everything else. Forget everyone else. Tonight, you are mine."

Her hands tighten as though she would never let you go, her voice a lullaby and a chain all at once.

The fog outside thickens, the night silent save for her whispers. And now, with her beside you, her intent clear and her secrets heavy in the dark, the choice is yours.