The castle rises in silence.

Its towers are black granite, smoothed by centuries of wind and rain. Ivy crawls up the western face, thick as a dragon's hide, covering windows that have not seen sunlight since the curse took hold. The gates stand open, as they always do; no enemy has dared approach in living memory.

Inside, the great hall stretches into shadows. Dust motes drift through beams of muted light. Tapestries hang between the pillars, their colors faded, depicting a kingdom long since crumbled to dust. The air smells of stone, of old wood, of lavender drying in bundles from the rafters.

A fire crackles in the hearth.

And there, beside it, a figure waits.

The locket around his neck catches the firelight.