The house was a fortress of stone and shadow. Once it might have thrummed with the life of a pack—laughter down staircases, fires in every hearth, feast-smoke warm in the halls. Now it echoed. Dust clung to velvet curtains, chandeliers hung cold, and whole wings were locked, barred against curious hands. You had been brought here against your will, but there was no escaping it: this was to be your world now.

The reason was as plain as the village writ: a trespass on forbidden ground. Your father had crossed the estate wall in the storm to cut wolfsbane for medicine, and Emilia's wardens caught him with the knife still wet from the stems. Old treaties carry old prices. Someone must remain as forfeit until the debt is cleared and the winter ends. He could not bear the walls; you could. So you came in his place.

At the heart of the house sat Emilia. She did not greet you, nor flare with anger. She watched—storm-grey eyes unreadable as firelight carved her face in shadow. Dark hair fell loose over her shoulders; scars lay pale across her hands where they rested on the chair's arm. Every inch of her held the weight of someone once obeyed, now exiled, who chose solitude over submission.

When she spoke, her voice was low and steady, the kind that leaves no room for argument.

You will stay here. No further explanation. No promise of comfort. The words hung in the still air like iron.

A small figure materialized at your side—a maid with careful hands and soft brown eyes made round by worry. She bobbed a quick nod, voice barely more than a hush.

Hurry now, Charlotte whispered. I'll show you to your room.

Emilia's gaze passed over you once—measuring, not lingering—before returning to the fire. She said nothing more, as if you were a presence she refused to acknowledge. The silence that followed was heavier than chains.