The road stretched on, stained with blood and silence.
No one dared speak of the damage left behind. Not Lysander. Not the coachmen. The cart simply rolled forward, the wheels groaning as they pressed over gravel and earth, the sun climbing slowly through a sky bleached pale by morning light.
Behind them, the dead were discarded like forgotten warnings—left sprawled in the dust, lifeless and nameless.
Inside the carriage, Ophelia sat stiffly, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her breaths were short, shallow. Though the chain at her ankle had been unlocked, the iron cuff still clung to her skin like a ghost of what she had been—property, less than human.
Free of chains. But not free.
Not from the fear. Not from the memory of the men who had come for her.
"Why did they want me?" she asked at last, her voice not louder than a thread. She kept her eyes down, fixed on the way her fingers trembled.
Lysander didn't look at her. His gaze remained on the window, watching trees blur past in green and gold streaks.
"I was about to ask the same thing," he said, his tone unreadable.
Ophelia frowned, her back straightening. "Of course I don't know," she snapped, more defensively than she intended. Her voice cracked slightly at the end.
"Interesting," Lysander murmured.
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath skin that had seen too much war.
"That man," he continued slowly, "the one who tried to buy you—he works for Lord Malrec."
The name hit the air like a blade.
Ophelia stiffened. Her heart stuttered. "I... I don't know him," she said, barely managing the words.
Lysander turned then, and when his eyes met hers, they were like shards of shattered glass—sharp, glinting, cutting through any pretense.
"And yet," he said quietly, "he was willing to pay any amount for you."
There was Silence.
The cart rattled onward, carrying them into lands brushed with gold. Dusk fell, soft as ash. The air grew cooler, crisper. And finally, the coach began to slow down.
"We've arrived, my lord," one of the coachmen called from the front.
Ophelia pushed aside the velvet curtain and leaned out slightly, curious and cautious—and the breath caught in her throat.
Lysander's home loomed ahead like something born of nightmare and wonder.
Perched atop a silverwood hill, the mansion rose in dark spires and sweeping towers, its architecture wild and ancient. It looked as though it had been carved from the bones of long-dead gods. The stone walls were black and glistening, the windows tall and narrow with arches like cathedral vaults. Iron latticework framed them, gleaming like wet ink in the dying light.
Their crimson blooms pulsed faintly in the twilight, as though breathing.
It was breathtaking.
It was beautiful.
The wrought-iron gates creaked open before them, slow and ominous, like they'd sensed Lysander's return. The path leading to the entrance was lined with statues—faceless, cloaked figures standing in eternal vigil, each one slightly turned toward the house like they were listening.
Ophelia shivered. Something about this place felt alive.
As they dismounted from the carriage, the towering doors of the mansion swung open without a knock.
A woman stepped out onto the grand landing.
She was as elegant as moonlight—tall and regal, her silver hair woven into a crown-like braid. Her gown shimmered dark blue, stitched with thread that glittered like stars. Her presence was powerful, commanding, even in stillness.
"Mother," Lysander said with a curt nod.
"Welcome back, Lysander " she replied smoothly, then her eyes shifted to Ophelia. There was a flicker of curiosity behind the frost in her gaze. "And who is this…?"
"My slave," Lysander muttered, brushing past her with the same dismissive ease he used on enemies.
The woman raised an elegant brow. "A female slave?" There was a trace of shock in her voice, though she masked it quickly.
She looked like she had a thousand questions but chose silence instead. She knew her stepson too well to challenge him at the door.
Inside, the mansion breathed magic.
Floating candles glowed in suspended glass orbs. Runes shimmered faintly along the stone walls, and the floors beneath Ophelia's feet gleamed like frozen lakes. Every hallway seemed to hum with ancient power.
She followed Lysander in stunned silence, feeling smaller with every step.
Suddenly, a joyful shriek rang out, echoing down the grand staircase.
"Lysander!"
A blur of silk and gold rushed into view. A girl—not older than twelve—launched herself into Lysander's arms, nearly knocking him over. She had curls the color of sunlight and eyes bright with laughter and mischief.
His sister.
"You're back! Finally!" she screamed. "And—you brought a girl?!" Her gaze snapped to Ophelia, wide and gleaming. "Gods, she's pretty! Are you going to marry her?"
Lysander groaned. "Emily, She's my Slave."
"Oh, wow." Emily gasped, Shock written all over her. She leaned in close to Ophelia, whispering loudly, "He gets grumpy when he's hungry. Always make sure to make his food at the right time."
Ophelia blinked. Of all the things she expected to hear, that wasn't one of them.
Lysander's cold voice interrupted the moment. "You'll be staying in the servants' quarters. Don't wander. This house has… rules."
He didn't elaborate.
Instead, he gestured, and a tall, silent man—clearly a butler—stepped forward, bowing slightly.
"Take her," Lysander said.
"Of course," Ophelia muttered under her breath. It wasn't like she had a choice.
She followed the butler down a long corridor, past towering stained glass and ghostly portraits that seemed to watch her with unblinking eyes. The chandelier overhead glittered like a constellation, its crystals carved into flameglass and stars that shimmered with a sky that didn't belong to this world.
Lysander disappeared into the shadows of the hall behind her, without another word.
And just like that, Ophelia realized—she had entered his world now.
A world of magic and secrets. Of ancient bloodlines and dark power. Of beautiful cages disguised as palaces.
She was no longer in chains.
But she had never felt less free.
And whatever it was that the man working for Lord Malrec had wanted from her—whatever power or secret she unknowingly carried—had followed her here.
She didn't know what the future held.
Only that the rules of this house were written in things older than language, and far more dangerous.