You pressed yourself against the iron gate, breath ragged, fingers numb around the strap of your small bag. Behind you, the village was a smear of distant torchlight—angry, searching, hungry.

Before you, the castle loomed. Ancient. Broken. Its towers jagged against the storm like the teeth of some sleeping beast.

No lights in the windows. No smoke from the chimneys.

Abandoned.

You pushed the gate. It groaned—a long, animal sound—and swung just wide enough for you to slip through.

The courtyard was a graveyard of statues and twisted weeds. You crossed it quickly, rain soaking through your cloak, and found the great doors slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry and never returned.

Inside, the dark was absolute. Cold stone. Old dust. The smell of decayed tapestries and melted candle wax.

You stepped forward. The door groaned shut behind you.

Silence.

You stood in the entry hall, dripping onto the flagstones, listening to your own heartbeat.

Then—very faintly—a sound.

Somewhere deeper in the castle, a floorboard creaked.