Chapter 7 – Ravenshade’s Shadow

Ravenshade's Shadow

The wind howled through the barren trees as Eleanor stood at the threshold of Ravenshade Manor. The towering structure loomed before her, its once-grand facade now swallowed by ivy and decay. The manor had been abandoned for years—left to rot along with the ghosts of its past.

She had not set foot here since she was a child. Her mother had spoken little of her own upbringing, but Eleanor had always sensed the unspoken fear in her voice whenever Ravenshade was mentioned. Now, standing in its shadow, she understood why.

Victor's words from the night before still echoed in her mind.

"Lucian is playing a long game. The people who are dying? They're just the beginning."

"He wants you."

Eleanor gripped the map Victor had given her, now slightly crumpled from how tightly she had held it during the long journey here. Somewhere inside this house, there were answers.

She just wasn't sure if she was ready to find them.

With a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy wooden doors. They groaned in protest, revealing the vast, dust-covered entrance hall beyond.

The house smelled of time and neglect. Dust motes swirled in the dim light of her lantern. The grand staircase stood before her, its banister warped with age. Tattered paintings lined the walls, their subjects' eyes hollow and watchful.

Eleanor's pulse quickened.

Something about this place felt wrong.

She moved carefully, her boots crunching over shattered glass and fallen debris. Ravenshade had been left to ruin, but something had been here recently.

As she stepped deeper into the house, a faint whisper brushed against her ears.

Eleanor…

She spun around, heart pounding.

Silence.

She swallowed hard and forced herself forward. Fear was Lucian's weapon—she would not let him win.

The study was exactly where she remembered it, though time had ravaged it. Books lay in disarray, their pages yellowed with age. The massive oak desk in the center of the room was coated in dust, save for one clear spot.

Something had been moved recently.

Eleanor reached out and felt along the desk's surface until her fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. A key.

Her breath hitched.

She turned, her eyes scanning the room. A memory surfaced—her mother's hushed warnings, the stories of Ravenshade's secrets.

There had been a hidden room.

Eleanor searched the walls, pressing against the wooden panels, until one gave way.

A soft click. A seam in the wall.

Her heart pounded as she pushed it open.

The passage smelled of damp stone and candle wax. The walls were lined with old tapestries, their colors faded beyond recognition. At the end of the corridor, a single candle burned on a table beside an open book.

Someone had been here.

Eleanor approached cautiously, her fingers brushing over the aged parchment. The writing was elegant but unfamiliar. A ledger.

Names filled the pages.

Dozens of them.

She traced the ink, her breath hitching as she recognized some of them.

Margaret Whitlock.

The cooper's wife.

Others who had died.

And then, beneath them, a space where a name had yet to be written.

Her own.

Eleanor staggered back.

A cold laugh echoed through the chamber.

She knew that voice.

"Clever girl."

She whirled around.

Lucian stood in the doorway, golden eyes gleaming.

"You shouldn't have come here," he murmured, stepping forward. "But I knew you would."

Eleanor's fists clenched. "What is this?" she demanded, motioning to the ledger.

Lucian smiled. "A record of promises made… and debts collected."

Her stomach turned. "You're choosing who dies, aren't you?"

"Not choosing," he corrected. "Simply… keeping track."

Eleanor shook her head. "And me? Why is my name here?"

Lucian stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "Because, Eleanor," he murmured, "your story isn't finished yet. But when the time comes… you will choose, just like the others."

"I will never make a deal with you," she spat.

Lucian's smile didn't waver. "Won't you?"

A shadow flickered behind him. Another figure.

Eleanor's breath caught in her throat.

It was Victor.

And on his wrist—glowing faintly in the candlelight—was the crescent mark.

Eleanor's blood ran cold.

Victor met her gaze, his expression unreadable.

"I told you," he said softly. "The price is never what you expect."

Lucian's golden eyes burned brighter.

"And neither is the truth."

To be continued...