The air changed the moment Raven stepped beyond the rotted porch.
The temperature didn't drop because of wind, but something more insidious—an inner chill, like the manor itself had been holding its breath for centuries and now inhaled them.
Every footstep seemed to echo longer than it should. Floorboards creaked in patterns that felt too intentional. Mold-veined wallpaper curled inward like parchment burnt at the edges. Overhead, chandeliers sagged, fused to the ceiling by tangled roots and long-cooled sap.
What little light managed to pierce the stained glass windows filtered through in warped reds and greens, casting unnatural shadows that stretched the wrong direction.
The whole estate felt… expectant.
Gone was the open expanse of the garden. The Thornspine Manor's Inner Halls pressed inward like a throat swallowing intruders whole.
