Updated Mar 10, 2026 • ~9 min read
Marcus is ancient.
Seventy, maybe older. White hair. Severe face. Butler’s uniform perfectly pressed despite the decay surrounding them.
He leads Sera through the manor without speaking.
The interior is worse than the exterior.
Grand once. Clearly built for wealth and status. But now? Dust covers everything. Portraits hang crooked on walls. Chandeliers drip with cobwebs. The air smells like mildew and something else. Something rotting.
Sera’s footsteps echo on marble floors.
No other sounds. No servants bustling. No kitchen noises. No life.
“How many people live here?” she asks.
Marcus doesn’t answer immediately.
Then: “Few.”
“How few?”
“Lord Corvus. Myself. Two kitchen maids. A groundskeeper who refuses to enter the manor.”
“That’s it? For an estate this size?”
“Others don’t stay long.”
The way he says it makes Sera’s skin crawl.
They climb a massive staircase. Turn down a corridor lined with more crooked portraits. Dead family members staring down with accusatory eyes.
Marcus stops at a door. “Your chambers.”
He opens it.
The room is… surprisingly nice.
Clean, at least. A four-poster bed with fresh linens. A wardrobe. A writing desk. A fireplace with a fire already burning.
Someone prepared for her arrival.
“Your wedding dress is laid out,” Marcus says, gesturing to the bed. “You have forty-five minutes. Do not be late.”
“What happens if I’m late?”
Marcus finally meets her eyes.
And she sees it.
Pity.
“Please don’t be late, Miss Ashford.”
Then he leaves.
Closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Sera stands in the center of the room.
Listening.
Silence.
No footsteps. No voices. No wind.
Just overwhelming, suffocating silence.
She walks to the window.
Looks out at the dead forest.
Miles of twisted, skeletal trees. No movement. No animals.
Just death.
What is this place?
And more importantly: What is Lord Corvus?
The wedding dress is beautiful.
White silk. Delicate lace. Perfectly tailored to her measurements.
How did he know her size?
How long has he been planning this?
Sera dresses mechanically.
Each layer feels like a shroud.
She’s not getting married. She’s being buried.
There’s a mirror in the corner.
She looks at herself.
Pale. Terrified. A ghost in white.
Twenty-three years old and her life is over.
A knock at the door.
“It’s time,” Marcus says from the other side.
Sera takes a deep breath.
Opens the door.
Marcus leads her down a different corridor. Through more decay. More portraits of dead Corvuses staring down.
They stop at a chapel.
Small. Gothic. Stained glass windows depicting scenes Sera doesn’t recognize. Dark scenes. Violent.
Lord Corvus stands at the altar.
Still wearing the mask.
Still dressed in black.
A priest stands beside him. Old. Nervous. Holding a Bible with shaking hands.
No one else is present.
No guests. No witnesses beyond Marcus.
Just Sera, the monster, and God.
The ceremony is brief.
Perfunctory.
The priest rushes through vows like he wants to escape as quickly as possible.
“Do you, Damien Corvus, take this woman—”
“I do.”
“And do you, Seraphina Ashford, take this man—”
Sera looks at Lord Corvus.
He stares back. Expressionless. The mask hiding half his face makes him look inhuman.
She thinks about running.
But where would she go? Back to her father? To poverty? To watch Edmund and Beatrice suffer?
“I do,” she whispers.
“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The priest doesn’t say “you may kiss the bride.”
Just slams the Bible shut and practically runs from the chapel.
Lord Corvus turns to her.
“You’re Lady Corvus now. Congratulations.”
His voice is completely devoid of emotion.
“Thank you,” Sera says, because what else can she say?
“Marcus will show you back to your chambers. You’ll take your meals there. Stay in the west wing. I’m in the east. We needn’t see each other.”
Sera stares at him. “We’re married.”
“In name only. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.”
“Then why did you need a wife at all?”
Something flickers in his eyes. Pain? Anger? She can’t tell.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“I think it’s very much my concern since I’m the one you bought—”
“You’ll stay in the west wing,” he repeats, voice harder now. “You’ll receive a generous allowance. You may write to your family. You’ll have everything you need. But you will not enter the east wing. You will not question me. And you will not leave the estate. Do you understand?”
“I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re a wife fulfilling a contract. Those are the terms.”
“I didn’t agree to be isolated—”
“You didn’t read the contract thoroughly enough, then.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait—”
He stops. Doesn’t turn around.
“Why the mask?” Sera asks.
His shoulders tense.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, Lady Corvus.”
Then he walks out.
Leaving Sera alone in the chapel.
Married to a stranger.
Trapped in a dead manor.
With no idea what she’s gotten herself into.
Marcus appears moments later.
“This way, my lady.”
Sera follows him back to her chambers.
“Is he always like that?” she asks. “So cold?”
“Lord Corvus has his reasons.”
“What reasons?”
Marcus opens her chamber door. “I’ll have dinner sent up.”
“I want to eat in the dining room. With my husband.”
“That’s not advisable.”
“Why not?”
“Lord Corvus dines alone. Always.”
“We’re married now—”
“The marriage changes nothing. Please, my lady. Stay in your chambers. Don’t wander. Don’t explore. And especially don’t enter the east wing.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that. What’s in the east wing?”
Marcus’s expression darkens. “Things best left undisturbed.”
“Marcus—”
“I’ll have dinner sent up.”
He leaves before she can ask more questions.
Sera stands in her chamber.
Her prison.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, she lets herself feel it.
The anger. The betrayal. The fear.
She’s trapped. Married to a man who won’t even show his face. Living in a decaying manor with servants who speak in ominous warnings.
She’s twenty-three years old and her life is over before it began.
Dinner arrives an hour later.
One of the kitchen maids brings a tray. Young. Maybe sixteen. Won’t make eye contact.
“Thank you,” Sera says.
The maid flinches. Sets down the tray and practically runs from the room.
Sera eats alone.
The food is good, at least. Roasted chicken. Vegetables. Fresh bread.
Someone in this cursed manor knows how to cook.
After dinner, she explores her chambers.
The wardrobe is full of dresses. All new. All in her size.
More evidence of planning.
The writing desk has fresh paper. Ink. Sealing wax.
She could write to Edmund and Beatrice.
But what would she say?
I’m married to a monster who wears a mask and keeps me locked in the west wing. Send help?
No.
She won’t worry them.
Not yet.
She’ll figure this out on her own.
Night falls.
The manor gets colder.
Sera changes into a nightgown—also provided, also perfectly sized—and climbs into bed.
The fire in the fireplace burns low.
Shadows dance on the walls.
And then she hears it.
Distant. Echoing through the manor.
A sound like… howling.
Not a dog. Not a wolf.
Something else.
Something wrong.
Sera sits up.
Listens.
The howling continues. Anguished. Desperate.
Coming from somewhere deep in the manor.
The east wing, maybe?
Then it stops.
Abruptly.
Silence rushes back in.
Sera’s heart pounds.
What the hell was that?
She gets out of bed. Goes to the door.
Opens it slightly.
The hallway is dark. Empty.
No servants. No Lord Corvus.
Just shadows and silence.
She should stay in her room.
Marcus warned her. Everyone warned her.
But Sera has never been good at following rules.
Especially rules that don’t make sense.
She grabs a candle.
Steps into the hallway.
And begins to explore the manor that’s now her prison.
Trying to find answers to questions everyone refuses to answer.
Starting with: what the hell is her husband hiding behind that mask?
And why does he sound like he’s in pain?
The west wing is exactly what she expected.
Dusty. Decaying. Filled with covered furniture and portraits of long-dead Corvuses.
She passes bedrooms. A music room with a piano covered in cobwebs. A library with thousands of books no one has touched in years.
All of it grand once.
All of it dying now.
She reaches the end of the west wing.
A massive door separates it from the rest of the manor.
The east wing.
The forbidden area.
Sera stands in front of the door.
She should turn back.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she reaches for the handle.
It’s locked.
Of course it is.
She’s about to turn away when she hears something.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Approaching.
From the other side of the door.
Sera steps back.
The footsteps stop.
She can feel someone on the other side.
Listening. Just like she is.
“Lord Corvus?” she asks quietly.
No answer.
But she knows someone’s there.
“Why are you hiding from me?”
Still nothing.
Then: “Go back to your room, Sera.”
His voice. Rough. Strained.
Different from earlier.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on. Why the mask? Why the isolation? Why did you need to marry me?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do. I’m your wife—”
“In name only. I told you. This changes nothing.”
“Then why marry at all?”
A long pause.
Then: “Because I had no choice. Just like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Go back to your room, Sera. Please.”
The “please” sounds like it costs him.
“Will you at least tell me your name? Your real name? Not just ‘Lord Corvus’?”
Another pause.
“Damien. My name is Damien.”
“Damien,” she repeats.
It sounds less monstrous than “Lord Corvus.”
More human.
“Now go back to your room. Don’t come to this door again.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From me.”
Then the footsteps retreat.
Leaving Sera alone in the dark hallway.
With more questions than answers.
And a growing certainty that her husband isn’t just hiding his face.
He’s hiding something much, much worse.
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