What little light remained outside barely penetrated the thick air within. The entrance hall creaked under the group’s weight as they entered, the old wood groaning like it hadn’t held living feet in centuries. Dust thick enough to choke clung to every surface, and the cobwebs, heavy and motionless, draped like mourning veils across the crumbling sconces.
“Pick whichever room you want to rest up in,” Ludwig said as he led them into the dim corridor, his voice echoing lightly against the ruined walls. “There’s a small magical water spring at the end of that corridor—straight ahead and right. Should help you clean off all that filth and grime. It’s cold water, sadly, but I’d wager that’s better than staying caked in rot.”
He didn’t wait for permission or thanks.
“I’ll have to apologiz—”
“Where is it!” Melisande interrupted, practically bursting with renewed energy at the mere mention of water.
Timur gave her a look so sharp it could have sliced through her robes. He didn’t need to speak—the twitch of his brow and the flare in his nostrils screamed, what did we say about being polite in other people’s haunted mansions?!
“I don’t care!” she snapped, half turning to face him with a wild look in her eyes. “I’d rather die clean than walk another step soaked in monster blood. Please, lead the way.”
Ludwig turned his head slightly, just enough to let her see his smirk. “I was going that way anyway.”
Timur sighed, already regretting his life choices. “I’m coming too.”
Melisande gave him a dry look, half-disbelieving.
“Not into the bath, gods no,” Timur muttered. “I’ll guard outside. Who knows what the hell’s crawling in this place. You think that creepy spring is unguarded? Hah.”
“Sure,” she replied flatly, clearly prioritizing soap over social nuance.
They followed Ludwig down the corridor, boots crunching over broken tile and soggy carpet that reeked of mildew and moon-soaked decay. He stopped before a wide intersection and gestured toward the bath chamber at the end of the hall.
“You can take whichever rooms you like,” Ludwig said. “I’ll be nearby. Call if something happens.”
Timur nodded silently, still eyeing Ludwig like a particularly well-dressed ticking time bomb.
Ludwig slipped into the room adjacent to the corridor—the same chamber where he had first discovered the preserved regalia left behind by Celine. The door closed behind him with a creak that echoed like a sigh.
Melisande opened the door to the bath, and despite herself, exhaled a wordless breath of relief. The spring wasn’t large, nor luxurious—its stone rim was cracked and green with moss, and a sour mineral scent clung to the air—but it was clean. Clear water pooled from an old enchanted channel in the wall, trickling endlessly into the basin with soft, hypnotic plinks.
It was cold, yes. Bitterly so. But it was real. And it was clean.
She stepped forward eagerly, already tugging at the top layer of her robes.
“Don’t even think about peeking,” she warned without turning.
“Bah,” came Timur’s voice from the hallway, thick with sarcasm. “I like them with meat on their bones. You’re a twig.”
“You’re a bastard,” she said sweetly, stepping further in.
Timur dropped down near the doorframe, placing both swords across his lap. He stared down the dark hallway with the dispassionate patience of a man used to long watches—and darker nights.
Gorak leaned his massive back against the stone wall beside him, his breath slow but his eyes sharp. “That boy… something’s off about him.”
“You just noticed that?” Robin muttered from his resting spot near the door. His voice was hoarse, his complexion still pale, but he was clearly recovering. “He’s too clean. No dirt, no injuries. You saw what those Constructs did to the forest. To us. And he walks out of that manor like he’s fresh from a noble banquet.”
“Not to mention,” Robin added, “he looked like he wanted to fight—but didn’t. And not from fear. From… restraint. Like something held him back.”
Timur rubbed the hilt of his sword. “Maybe he didn’t want to reveal how he fights. Could be he’s hiding his techniques—doesn’t want us to see his cards in case he thinks we’ll turn on him.”
Robin closed his eyes, lips tightening. “Smart, then.”
“Possible,” Gorak rumbled. “But the way he spoke about our Guardian… that wasn’t ignorance. That was disrespect.”
Timur turned his head toward the barbarian. “Gorak, listen. Not everyone understands your tribe’s rites. You worship your ancestors and your guardian beast, yeah—but most of the Empire doesn’t even believe in living deities anymore. Can’t expect everyone to tiptoe around your faith.”
Gorak frowned, arms crossed. “Still doesn’t mean I should stay quiet when someone mocks what I hold sacred.”
“And you shouldn’t,” Timur agreed, his tone softening. “But there’s a difference between correcting someone and throwing down your axe. Especially when we don’t know what he is yet.”
Gorak grunted in acknowledgment. Despite his size and strength, he always took Timur’s words seriously.
The three men fell into a thoughtful silence. Outside the cracked walls, the muffled howls of the Reavers reminded them that the night was far from over. They kept their weapons near, their backs to stone, and their trust tightly sealed.
And none of them—none—forgot that the most dangerous creature in the manor might be the one who’d offered them shelter.
The moment the door closed behind Ludwig, the air in the room grew heavier.
He stood in silence, letting the creaks of the manor fade into the background. A dim shaft of red moonlight bled in through the cracked shutters, casting fractured light across the dusty chamber. It was the same room where he’d found the preserved regalia—Celine’s gift, the last relic of a family long gone.
Now it served as his temporary sanctum.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the broken bed. The mattress had long since rotted to collapse, the wooden frame creaking like a dying breath beneath his weight. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t here for comfort.
Not that the dead needed comfort.