I was alone now—truly alone.
The war was lost, the fae had won, and my father was dead.
I sat in what had once been my favorite room in the house—the library. It was now the only room in the bleak estate that granted me the faintest illusion of peace.
Even with the fire roaring in the hearth and bourbon sliding down my throat, I felt a lingering chill creeping through my veins. No fire or cloak could soothe it. It was the echo of the darkest magic—the echo of our sins.
My father had been so consumed by his lust for victory that he had drawn on ancient and forbidden magic, powers so dark that I could scarcely bear to think of them. When the final blow was struck—a fae blade piercing his chest on the battlefield—I felt not grief but a relief so profound it shamed me.
I had loved him once.
But now my home was ruined. The black magic he wielded corrupted everything down to the very foundation. The walls groaned with it, and the shadows in the corridors seemed to twist and writhe whenever I turned my head.
Beyond the estate, the woods were shrouded in perpetual gloom. There was a heaviness to them, an unnatural silence. The trees themselves seemed... hungry, as if they waited for something—or someone—to trespass too far into their domain.
I feared this darkness would not leave me untouched. I felt it creeping closer, as if it sensed its next victim. It clawed at me, whispering promises of power and ruin.
Tomorrow, at dawn, I would leave this place forever.