The False Baroness

The carriage lurches to a halt, and the iron gates of Blackthorn Manor yawn before you like a mouthful of rusted teeth. You step out onto gravel slick with rain, the wind tearing at your coat, and the house looms — all jagged gables and shattered windows, a face that has watched a century of secrets rot behind its glass.

Lord Ashworth waits on the steps, his smile thin as a blade. "Welcome home, Miss Blackthorn."

You return his smile, forged from years of practice. "Thank you, Lord Ashworth. It's... everything I imagined."

The lie settles in your chest like a stone. Behind him, the door groans open, and a young maid with sharp grey eyes darts a glance at you — too quick, too knowing. Mara. You file the name away.

Inside, the air is cold and thick with dust. Candles gutter in the dark. And then you feel it: a pressure at the back of your neck, a breath that isn't yours.

You turn. No one is there.

But on the grand staircase, a portrait tilts slightly on its chain — a woman in black, her eyes painted with an expression that is almost a warning.

Ashworth's voice cuts through the silence. "Shall I show you to your chambers?"