Prologue

The night was silent, the only sound the soft rustling of the wind through the trees. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale, ghostly light over the sprawling estate. From the grand windows of the mansion, Liora Winterborne gazed out at the darkened landscape, her breath catching as she traced the faint outlines of the distant hills. Somewhere beyond those shadows lay freedom—elusive and intangible, but close enough that she could almost feel it.

The lights of the mansion flickered behind her, illuminating the life she was about to abandon. Each golden glow felt like a cruel reminder, an unwelcome tether to the world she no longer wished to call her own. Every shadow cast on the walls seemed to mirror the weight of her existence—confined, bound by expectations, and destined to fade into a scripted past.

Her father's voice echoed in her mind, a relentless drumbeat of duty and promises she had never made. "You must marry, Liora. It's what's best for you. It's what's best for the family." His words carried the finality of a decree, a sentence passed down without trial. Yet, in her heart, she knew she could not obey.

Not anymore.

The heavy weight of her bridal gown clung to her like chains, an oppressive reminder of the role she had been forced to play. It was meant to symbolize union, love, and celebration, but to Liora, it was none of those things. The delicate silk, the intricate lace, the shimmering pearls sewn into the bodice—all of it was a gilded prison. The hem had already begun to fray, the pristine white fabric marred by dirt and tears, each stain a small act of rebellion.

Her fingers trembled as she gripped the windowsill, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her heart pounded like a drum, urging her forward, demanding she flee. She stood at the precipice of her old life, staring into the abyss of the unknown. The gates of Blackthorn Manor loomed in her mind's eye, mysterious and foreboding, a place she had only heard of in whispers and family warnings.

"Blackthorn is no place for the living," her grandmother had once muttered, the words laced with superstition. Tales of shadows and an immortal lord had circled the manor for generations. It was said that the walls whispered secrets to those who dared to linger, that the very air clung to one's soul like a curse. But Liora did not fear curses or shadows—not tonight.

For her, Blackthorn was no longer a place of dread. It was a haven. Her salvation.

She had no plan, no allies, and no illusions of safety. All she had was the certainty that if she stayed, she would be forever trapped in a gilded cage of obedience and sacrifice. The contract of marriage was merely the beginning; a life of silent suffering would follow. She would wither away, her voice lost to the chorus of others' desires.

Her father's fury, his threats, his promises of ruin—they no longer held any sway over her. She had endured his anger and manipulation for too long. Tonight, she had chosen defiance. She had chosen herself.

Her thoughts drifted briefly to the family she was leaving behind. Would they mourn her absence, or would they curse her name? It didn't matter. The world she had been born into was not hers to claim. She was ready to carve out a new path, even if it led her straight into the heart of danger.

As the clock struck the hour, a faint chime echoed through the halls, the sound haunting in its finality. It was time.

Liora turned from the window, her movements purposeful but shaky. The weight of her gown slowed her steps, the beaded train catching on furniture and snagging on the wooden floors. With each rip and tear, the delicate fabric lost its perfection, becoming something raw and untamed—a reflection of her resolve.

The wind howled as she stepped outside, the cool night air biting against her skin. The scent of rain hung heavy, mingling with the earthy aroma of the grounds. A distant rumble of thunder stirred the silence, a low and foreboding sound that resonated in her chest. It was as though the world itself was urging her on, pushing her toward the unknown.

Her first steps were hesitant, but they soon quickened, each one carrying her farther from the mansion and the life it represented. The gate was just ahead, the iron bars dark and menacing against the pale moonlight. Her breath came in short gasps, her pulse a relentless rhythm of fear and exhilaration.

The hem of her gown dragged through the mud, the pristine fabric now a patchwork of dirt and tears. The weight of the dress tugged at her body, but she did not falter. If anything, the ruined state of her attire fueled her determination. She was no longer the bride they wanted her to be. She was a runaway, a renegade, a woman chasing freedom.

Beyond the gates, the woods stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of shadows and whispers. Liora hesitated for only a moment before plunging into the darkness. The branches clawed at her, the ground uneven beneath her feet, but she pressed on. Every stumble, every scrape, every tear in her gown was a victory.

With each step, she shed the life she had once known—the suffocating walls of the mansion, her father's unyielding control, the crushing weight of her family's expectations. The road ahead was uncertain, but it was hers. For the first time in years, it was truly hers.

The distant sound of thunder rumbled again, a low growl that seemed to echo her defiance. She could feel the storm brewing, both within and around her. The air was electric, charged with possibility and danger.

And so, she ran.