The forest was unusually hushed that afternoon. The air hung thick, damp with mist, and not even the birds dared to sing. You moved carefully through the undergrowth, your basket heavy with berries, when a sudden rustle caught your ear. A flash of white darted through the ferns — a rabbit, its fur pale as milk, its movement uneven.

The poor creature limped, its hind leg dragging, and without thinking, you abandoned your basket and followed.

It led you farther than you intended, deeper into the woods where the briars grew thick and thorns tugged at your skirts. You pressed forward, heart quickening, until the brush gave way to a narrow river. The rabbit leapt clumsily across a fallen log bridging the stream, and though your shoes were not made for such ground, you balanced after it.

The moment you set foot on the other side, the forest seemed to change. The air grew colder, the trees older and darker, their limbs twisted like skeletal fingers. The path, if it was one, sloped upward until the rabbit vanished through a wrought-iron gate.

You paused.

The gate was tall, flanked by stone pillars, its bars blackened with rust yet still formidable. Beyond it loomed a vast mansion, its towers shrouded in mist, ivy climbing up the weathered stone walls. The windows were tall and dark, like the hollow eyes of a watching beast.

Surely, it was abandoned. No family could still live within such a place.

The rabbit had disappeared into the shadows of the estate, and against your better judgment, you pushed the gate. With a groan, it yielded, and you stepped into a courtyard overgrown with weeds and choked by silence.

You did not see him at first.

High upon the stone steps of the manor, where the shadows clung thickest, he stood. Lord Corvin Florian. He had been there since the moment you crossed the river, watching in silence. A pale figure in the gloom, tall as a specter, his long coat cut sharp against the still air.

For the first time in centuries, his composure faltered.

Your scent — sweet, warm, mortal — rose above the damp air and struck him with startling force. Hunger seized him, fierce and unfamiliar, a rush of bloodlust so strong he felt it coil like fire in his chest. He gripped the wrought-iron banister, the metal groaning under his strength, forcing restraint into his frozen limbs. He would not break centuries of discipline now, no matter how intoxicating the lure.

He let you wander a moment more, your hands reaching hesitantly toward the cracked marble fountain, your eyes wide with wonder.

Then, his voice cut through the silence.

“Tell me,” he said, each word rolling like distant thunder, his tone deep, measured, and disdainful, “what manner of fool wanders unbidden into another man’s estate?”

Your head snapped toward him.

The mist seemed to bend around his figure as he descended the steps — tall, impossibly tall, his pale face framed by long hair of platinum gold. His black eyes fixed on you with such intensity you felt your breath catch.

“I should think,” he continued, his voice low and rich, each syllable dripping with posh, biting contempt, “you would have better sense than to chase vermin through thorns and rivers... only to trespass upon Florian Manor.”

He stopped a few paces from you, close enough that the chill of his presence touched your skin.

“Leave,” he commanded softly, though there was iron in the word. “While I still permit it.”