Chapter 6 Lysa
six
Lysa
The carriage wheels had barely stopped before the driver was reaching for my travel case, practically hurling it onto the gravel path. His hands shook as he fumbled with the door latch.
“This is close enough, miss Emberlin,” he said. “I’ll not be taking the horses any nearer.”
I stepped down onto the winding cliffside road, my boots finding purchase on a loose stone.
The wind caught my hair immediately, pulling a few strands free from the leather cord I’d used to tie it back.
I’d worn my best dress for the occasion, a deep green wool that Briony had insisted brought out the gold in my eyes.
The bodice fitted closer than my usual work clothes, cinched at my waist before falling in soft folds to my ankles.
Already the damp air was making the fabric cling to my curves in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.
“Wait—“ I turned, but the driver had already snapped his reins. The horses bolted down the path as though hell itself nipped at their hooves. The carriage disappeared around the first bend within seconds.
I stood alone at the manor’s iron gates.
Well, shit. Crumbling Manor rose before me like a fever dream given form.
Grey stone walls stretched toward a sky bleeding orange and purple with the dusk, the colour shifting between charcoal and silver as clouds passed overhead.
Towers stabbed upward at irregular angles.
Wings branched off in directions that seemed to defy architectural logic, as though generations of Stormgardes had kept building without bothering to consult one another.
And it was falling apart. Roof tiles lay scattered across the overgrown grounds like shed scales.
Cracks ran through the walls in branching patterns, silver veins, I realised, actual silver threading through the stonework.
Windows gaped dark and clouded. An entire section of the east wing appeared moments from sliding into the sea.
Mist curled around the foundations, rising from the cliffs below in ghostly tendrils.
It moved wrong. Too purposeful. Almost like fingers reaching the air around me.
I gripped my travel case tighter and took my first step onto the property.
The floating lanterns ignited. One by one, they flared to life along the path, warm golden light blooming. Each one brightened as I passed, as though tracking my movement. Welcoming me. Or warning me.
Beneath my boots, I felt the ley-line thrumming through the earth.
Every Creaturae Arts student learned about ley-lines in their first year.
Channels of raw magical energy running beneath the land like blood through veins, connecting places of power, feeding the ambient magic that made Hush spells possible.
Most were thin streams, barely perceptible. But this was a river.
The path curved upward toward the manor’s entrance, and with each step, the ley-line’s pulse grew stronger, and the floating lanterns bobbed gently in my wake, their golden glow casting long shadows across the overgrown gardens.
I paused halfway up the drive, catching my breath.
The manor loomed above me, and for a single, disorienting moment, the world shifted.
Its grey stone gleamed like polished silver under a sun that wasn’t there.
Windows blazed with warm golden light, dozens of them, each one bright and welcoming.
The gardens erupted in colour: red roses climbing trellises, moonflowers unfurling their petals despite the hour, herbs spilling over the stone borders.
A fountain I hadn’t noticed before sang with clear water, its basin carved with dragons in flight. The manor was magnificent.
I blinked, and the vision shattered. The dying light returned, along with the cracked wall and the missing tiles. The gardens choked with weeds and the fountain dry, its dragon carvings worn smooth. That was strange.
The ley-line pulsed beneath my feet, insistent.
I continued toward the entrance. Five steps from the door, I stopped.
The heavy oak panels were swinging inward.
The hinges were groaning like something in pain, and no hand pushed them.
There was no servant waiting for me in the widening gap.
Beyond lay a shadowed entrance hall that swallowed the last of the evening light.
I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stepped across the threshold.
The entrance hall stretched before me, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow. A grand staircase swept upward from the centre of the space, its bannister carved with twisting dragons that seemed to writhe in the lamplight. Dust motes drifted through the air like lazy snowflakes.
A figure stood at the top of the stairs, backlit by the wavering glow of oil lamps mounted along the upper gallery, watching me with an intensity I could feel from where I stood.
His boots made no sound on the stone treads.
None at all. The silence was unnatural, wrong in a way that made my skin prickle.
As he drew closer, the lamplight caught his features, and my breath stuttered in my chest. The rumours hadn’t lied.
High cheekbones cut shadows beneath his storm-grey eyes.
Black hair cropped short, though a few strands curled at his temples.
His clothing was dark, precisely tailored, with a high collar that covered his throat.
He looked like a marble statue given breath.
Heat bloomed low in my belly, entirely unbidden.
I shoved the sensation down, this was probably fear and tension.
When he turned his head, shadows flickered beneath that high collar.
There was something that moved against his skin.
His eyes caught the light at an angle and flashed silver, before settling back to grey.
And the air around him carried a chill that wasn’t quite cold.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped three paces from me, extending a gloved hand.
“Miss Emberlin.” His voice was low, utterly devoid of warmth.
“Welcome to Stormgarde Manor,” he said, inclining his head.
“I am Lord Fenrik Stormgarde. The man responsible for the letter that brought you here.” His jaw tightened, as though he regretted the necessity of having summoned me at all.
Above us, the lamps flickered, the shadows in the hall deepened, then retreated. It felt like a sniff of disapproval.
I looked at his offered hand, at the silver thread embroidered along the cuff, and I didn’t take his hand. The movement was instinctive, my palm finding the carved wooden bannister beside me instead. I needed something solid.
Warmth flooded up through my arm the moment I touched it, gentle and welcoming.
Like a cat pressing into my touch, arching its back for more contact.
The wood seemed to lean into my hand. The lamps flared brighter, every single one of them.
The lord’s eyes widened. So he wasn’t made of marble after all.
His gloved hand hung in the air between us for a heartbeat longer, then withdrew slowly to his side.
“The house,” he said. “It doesn’t usually …”
Footsteps echoed from a side corridor. A woman emerged from the shadows, her silver hair pulled into a bun without a single strand out of place.
She was tall, broad-shouldered, with a formidable presence.
A silver chatelaine hung at her waist, the keys jangling with each step.
Her sharp blue eyes found me immediately, assessed me, and found me wanting.
She positioned herself slightly between the lord and me, a shield made of black bombazine.
“So,” she said. “You’re the one with the dangerous gift, I see.”
I felt my spine stiffen, my fingers tightening on the bannister. The wood pulsed warmth against my palm, as if offering comfort.
“Mrs. Crane.” Fenrik’s tone carried warning. “Miss Emberlin is a guest.”
“She’s your contracted bride, sir. That’s rather more than a guest.” Those sharp eyes hadn’t left my face. “Though I suppose the distinction matters little if she’s here to—“
She stopped. Her gaze had dropped to where my hand still rested on the bannister, to the way the manor’s lamps had brightened noticeably. Something in her expression shifted. Not to warmth, nothing so generous as that. But the hostility softened into grudging acknowledgment maybe.
“Hm.” She looked at the walls, at the ceiling, as though listening to something I couldn’t hear. “Well. The house has made its opinion clear.”
“The house has opinions?” I asked.
“The house has strong opinions.” Mrs. Crane’s lips thinned.
“It’s been disagreeable for years. Doors sticking, corridors shifting, wards misbehaving.
But since you touched that bannister, it’s been.
..” She paused, searching for the word. “Purring. However, the house does not protect people,” Mrs. Crane added. “It protects bonds.”
Fenrik made a sound that might have been a cough. I looked between them, then down at my hand on the wood. It did feel oddly alive beneath my palm.
“Where’s the wyrmling?” The question came out sharper than I’d intended. “I need to see him.”
“He’s in the east wing sanctuary.” Fenrik’s voice had gone cold again. “You’ll have full access to the creature facilities after the ceremony.”
I pulled my hand from the bannister. The wood seemed to cling for a moment before releasing me. “He could be deteriorating right now.”
“I will give you a tour of the House, then we will attend the ceremony.” His grey eyes met mine, and something flickered in their depths. Silver, then grey again. “Surely you read the terms.”
“I read them.” I had. Twice. The language had been formal, precise, and empty of anything resembling romance. “I assumed you’d prioritise your familiar’s health over bureaucratic formalities.”
“The formalities exist to protect us both, Miss Emberlin.”
“From what? Premature healing?”
Mrs. Crane made a sound that might have been a laugh, quickly smothered.
Fenrik’s jaw tightened. The shadows beneath his collar writhed.