Chapter Six: The Shadows That Dined With Them

She waited.

Hours passed, yet Adrian never appeared.

The staff were ghosts. They moved silently through the halls, never making eye contact, never speaking unless spoken to. They came in pairs and vanished just as quickly, like shadows shifting in candlelight.

At one point, a maid in a crisp black uniform slipped into her room without knocking. She had the face of a porcelain doll and eyes too still. Without a word, she placed a delicate glass of water and a single white rose on Lyra's bedside table, bowed, and left.

The rose had no scent.

The silence had weight.

When the knock finally came, it was barely audible—more a whisper than a knock. But Lyra felt it before she heard it, like a ripple through her bones.

It was the manager. The same man with ageless eyes and an expression carved from ice.

"The master will see you now," he said. "Dinner is served."

Lyra nodded slowly and followed.

The corridor had changed.

Or maybe it hadn't—but everything looked different at night. The walls seemed taller. The shadows moved. The chandeliers trembled with golden flames, but the corners remained cloaked in darkness that refused to fade.

At the end of the hall, a grand pair of double doors stood ajar, casting warm candlelight into the corridor.

The dining room was long, with a ceiling painted like a cathedral. Murals of stars and winged creatures soared above, locked forever in an eternal night. A chandelier hung low, its crystal teardrops flickering with amber fire.

There was only one table.

Massive. Ebony. Set for two.

The clock struck eight.

Outside the tall, Gothic windows, the night had fallen like a velvet curtain. Clouds swallowed the moon. Wind howled against the mansion's ancient bones, as if trying to claw its way in.

Lyra sat in the massive dining hall, her hands resting awkwardly on her lap. The table stretched farther than her eyes could follow—too long for just two people, yet perfectly intimidating for this moment.

She'd been waiting for almost ten minutes.

The staff had led her in silently. No explanation. No small talk. Just stiff nods and cold glances. They hadn't said a word since the moment she'd awakened hours ago in this eerie place.

She still didn't know if they were staff… or something else.

The dining hall was a cathedral of shadow and silence. The chandelier above her flickered with soft amber light, but it didn't chase away the gloom. Dark oil paintings loomed on the walls—figures in strange robes with eyes too lifelike, too knowing. The table was set with crystal goblets, silver cutlery, and plates so pristine they seemed unused for years.

She stared at the untouched napkin before her. Folded perfectly. Taut with invisible tension.

The door creaked.

Lyra straightened, heart tightening.

He was here.

Adrian Blackthorn.

He didn't walk into rooms.

He arrived.

His presence moved ahead of him, curling into the air like frost. He wore a dark buttoned shirt with an asymmetrical collar and fitted slacks that made him look like a prince of some forgotten empire. His black hair was slightly tousled, as if the wind had kissed it on his way in. And his eyes—those eyes—still burned with that cold, strange fire.

"Good evening," he said, voice deep and composed.

It wasn't a greeting.

It was a statement.

Lyra stood instinctively, unsure of the etiquette. "Good… evening."

He didn't nod. Didn't smile. He moved to the head of the table, ten seats away, and sat.

Ten seats.

She blinked. "Um… should I move closer?"

"No."

One word. Sharp. Absolute.

She sat back down, confused, chewing on the silence that followed.

Adrian picked up the glass before him but didn't drink. He simply studied it. The way one might study time.

Then, without looking at her, he said, "I trust you've settled in."

Her fingers curled around the edge of the tablecloth. "I… yes. The room is beautiful. A bit… overwhelming, but—thank you."

Another pause.

"You wrote in your journal today."

She flinched. "You read it?!"

Finally, he looked at her.

And when he did, it felt like standing too close to lightning.

"No," he said calmly. "But I hear things."

"You hear… things?" she echoed, voice low. "Like what?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he gestured slightly, and from the far end of the hall, a tall, pale man appeared—silent, as if summoned from the walls themselves. His eyes were the color of fog. He wore white gloves and carried a tray that bore two small porcelain dishes, covered.

Adrian didn't introduce him.

Lyra didn't ask.

The man placed the dishes before them in synchronized silence, then vanished into the shadows once more.

She lifted the cover slowly. It was soup. Pale golden, steaming, aromatic with herbs she didn't recognize.

Adrian made no move.

"Are we… not eating?" she asked, awkwardly holding her spoon.

"I don't eat often," he replied.

Lyra blinked. "That's… concerning."

His lips quirked—not a smile, not even amusement. Just a twitch. Barely there.

"You're not like the others," he said suddenly.

She looked up. "Others?"

He didn't elaborate. Just studied her.

"You asked no questions when you signed the contract."

"I had plenty," she said quietly. "I just didn't think you'd answer."

That made him lean back slightly. As if her honesty interested him more than her silence.

"And yet you still came," he murmured.

"I needed the money," she said truthfully. "That… and I think part of me wanted to know if you were real."

"And now that you've seen me… lived in my house. What do you think I am?"

Her spoon paused midway to her lips.

The question had weight. Like a trap made of words.

"I think," she said carefully, "you're someone who doesn't want to be understood."

Silence.

Then a soft, almost inaudible sound.

A chuckle.

Not warm. Not human.

But it didn't scare her.

She forced a smile. "You should eat. It's really good."

He didn't move. "That food is not for me."

"Well, then what's for you?"

His gaze lingered on her a beat too long.

She didn't push further.

Instead, she focused on the soup, pretending it didn't feel like they were dining on secrets.

"Tell me something," he said suddenly.

She looked up. "Okay."

"What do you fear most?"

The spoon froze at her lips.

"That's not a very first-dinner question."

"I don't do small talk."

She hesitated.

"Losing the people I love," she said finally.

"Good. You're honest."

"What about you?" she asked, tilting her head. "What do you fear most?"

He didn't blink.

"Myself."

The words dropped like lead.

And she didn't ask anything more.

---Lyra didn't finish her soup.

She kept glancing toward Adrian, trying to understand him. But the more she looked, the less she knew.

His features were carved in stillness, like he wasn't just observing the world—but calculating it. Behind his beauty was something terrifyingly still, as if he was holding something back. As if he knew things she shouldn't.

She needed air.

"Can I… take a walk?" she asked.

"In the mansion?" he replied, tone unreadable.

She nodded.

Adrian tilted his head slightly. "Don't go beyond the west wing."

"Why not?"

"The west doesn't like visitors."

It sounded like a joke.

But he didn't smile.

He stood slowly and gave her a look that rooted her in place. "Stay on the marble paths. If the hallway changes, walk back. And if you hear whispers—don't answer."

Her breath hitched.

"Whispers?" she echoed.

"Goodnight, Lyra," he said instead.

Then he turned and walked into the darkness—swallowed whole by the house, as if it breathed him in.

---

The hallways groaned as she wandered through them. Walls creaked softly like they remembered things too old to speak of. The candle flames in their glass lanterns flickered even though there was no wind.

Every painting seemed to watch her.

Every statue stood a little too still.

But what chilled her more was the quiet. Not peace—but a silence that listened.

She stopped near a large stained-glass window. The moon had returned, glowing faintly through red and violet shards. As she looked, she noticed something odd—her reflection was slightly off. She tilted her head left.

The reflection didn't move.

She blinked.

Gone.

Nothing but her own face.

Shaking it off, she turned and hurried back to her room.

---

That night, Lyra couldn't sleep.

She lay in bed, the sheets too soft, the room too quiet. Her thoughts spiraled.

What did Adrian mean by he fears himself?

Why did his eyes look so… lonely?

She reached for her journal, flipping it open. The ink from her earlier writing had smudged, as if something had run a wet finger through it.

She hadn't touched the page.

She quickly scribbled:

> "First dinner. He didn't eat. He asked what I fear. Said he fears himself. Told me not to go west. The house feels… alive."

She paused.

Then added:

> "Am I safe here?"

Her hand shook slightly.

The candle beside her flickered once.

Then blew out.

She froze.

The window hadn't been open.

And then… she dreamed.

-------

…That night, she dreamed.

It didn't begin with shadows.

It began with silence.

A silence so heavy it felt like she was underwater—floating through a world without time.

Lyra stood barefoot on an endless stretch of black marble. The floor beneath her shimmered like ink, mirroring the sky above. But there was no moon, no stars—only swirling clouds that moved like breath across the heavens. Slow. Measured. Watching.

She looked down at her hands.

She was wearing a white dress. Not hers. Not anything she'd ever owned. It flowed like mist, the hem brushing across the marble without sound.

The air was cold—but the kind of cold that seeped into her bones slowly, as if trying to make her forget what warmth felt like.

Something moved in the distance.

A hallway began to form before her eyes—emerging from the dark like it had always been there, just hidden behind a veil. Tall, arched, and endless. Candles lined the walls, but none were lit. Their wax melted down as if they had burned for centuries and suddenly gone out.

She took a step.

The marble echoed.

And then… she heard it.

A lullaby.

Barely audible. Hummed by someone she couldn't see. A haunting tune, so fragile it felt like it might shatter if she breathed too loud. Childlike. Familiar. And ancient.

She turned.

Behind her, the hallway had vanished. There was only fog now. Whispering fog.

A child's voice giggled softly.

She spun around.

Silence again.

Her feet kept moving forward, though she didn't remember telling them to. The hallway stretched on endlessly, and now the candles began to flicker one by one, lighting themselves as she passed—casting long, unnatural shadows that danced against the walls like creatures without form.

At the very end of the corridor stood a door.

A monstrous, elegant door—twice her height, carved from black wood with gold veins crawling through it like lightning frozen in time. A symbol was etched into its center: a thorned crown encircling a bleeding sun.

She didn't recognize it, but it terrified her.

Still, something pulled her closer.

Not fear.

Curiosity.

Or maybe something deeper. A feeling she couldn't name.

Her hand rose toward the handle.

It was warm.

Too warm.

She hesitated.

And then—

"Lyra," a voice whispered from behind her.

She froze.

Turned slowly.

And there he was.

Adrian.

Dressed in black, like always—but softer somehow. The sharpness in his eyes was gone, replaced with something more human. Almost sorrowful.

He looked younger.

Tired.

Wounded in a way that didn't bleed.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head.

"Don't," he said. His voice echoed strangely, like it didn't belong to just this place—but to every version of him that had ever existed.

She tried to step toward him.

But her feet wouldn't move.

"Don't open that door," he said again, quieter this time. "It doesn't forget."

She looked back at the door.

The golden veins were pulsing now. Like veins. Alive.

She felt it calling her name—not with sound, but with feeling.

Come closer.

Remember.

Remember what?

Her head pounded.

Adrian's figure blurred suddenly, flickering like a dying candle.

"You made a promise," he said. His voice cracked. "Don't break it."

"I didn't," she whispered.

"You did," he said softly. "Before you were even born."

Then—

Bang.

The door burst open.

And she fell—

Endlessly—

---

She woke up screaming.

Her body bolted upright, heart thundering, mouth dry.

The room was drenched in moonlight.

Her journal had fallen from her bed, pages open to her last entry.

But something was new.

A line written in handwriting that wasn't hers:

> "The door never stays closed forever."

She stared at it, shaking.

The candle beside her lit itself.

A tiny, trembling flame in the dark.

---