The Castle Calls
brIAR
" I guess this is Frostpire Keep."
The wind whips snow against my face as I step out of the taxi, my boots crunching on fresh powder. Frostspire Keep looms before me, its stone towers piercing a steel-gray sky. My heart pounds as I take in the massive structure. It's both beautiful and forbidding, like something out of a gothic novel.
The taxi pulls away too quickly, leaving me alone in the swirling snow. I pull my phone out one more time, trying to find the email that brought me here. But just like the last dozen times I've checked, it's gone. Completely vanished, as if it never existed. The screen flickers once, then goes black.
"Perfect timing," I mutter, shoving the useless device into my coat pocket.
The castle's entrance beckons—an enormous wooden door with iron fixtures that have turned green with age. Intricate carvings cover its surface, wolves and ancient symbols that seem to dance in the fading light. Before I can reach for the handle, it swings open silently.
A tall, thin man in an impeccable butler's uniform stands in the doorway. His silver hair and faded blue eyes give him an otherworldly appearance in the dim light. He stands perfectly still, as if he's been waiting there for hours.
"Miss Everly, I presume?" His voice is crisp, formal, with a slight British accent. "I am Alistair Wren, the butler of Frostspire Keep."
"Yes, that's me." I try to sound confident, professional, despite the way my heart is racing. "I received an email about doing some historical research here?"
Something flickers across Alistair's face—concern? Confusion? But it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. His pale eyes study me with an intensity that makes me want to fidget.
"Ah yes, your... invitation." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Though I must admit, we weren't entirely expecting you. Not today, at least."
My stomach drops. "But the email specifically requested—" I reach for my phone again, remembering too late that it's dead. "I can explain?—"
"Please, come in out of the cold." He steps aside, gesturing me through the doorway. "We can discuss the details inside. The weather is turning quite fierce."
As if to emphasize his point, a gust of wind howls through the courtyard, driving snow against my back. I hurry inside, and Alistair closes the massive door behind me with surprising ease.
The entrance hall is vast, with a sweeping staircase and crystal chandeliers that must have once been magnificent. Now they're draped in cobwebs, casting weak light over faded holiday decorations that only emphasize the castle's air of neglect. The marble floor stretches out before me, its pattern reminiscent of waves frozen in stone.
A woman hurries toward us, her practical dress and warm expression a stark contrast to Alistair's formality. Her chestnut hair is streaked with silver, and worry lines crease the corners of her eyes.
"Welcome! I'm Giselle Hargrave, the head of household." She smiles, but there's anxiety beneath her warmth. "We weren't sure when to expect you."
"Or if to expect you at all," Alistair adds quietly, exchanging a meaningful look with Giselle.
Before I can respond, rapid footsteps echo across the marble floor. A young boy races past, his laughter bouncing off the high ceiling. His brown hair is disheveled, and his clothes look slightly too big for his slight frame.
"Nolan!" Giselle calls after him. "No running in the halls!"
The boy skids to a stop, turning back with a grin that falters when he sees me. His eyes go wide, and he darts away down a corridor, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.
"My apologies," Giselle says, smoothing her dress. "My son can be... excitable."
"It's fine." I force a smile, trying to ignore how the temperature seems to have dropped several degrees. "About my invitation?—"
"Perhaps we should get you settled first," Alistair interrupts smoothly. "The weather is turning, and it would be best if you were comfortable before we discuss... arrangements."
I want to protest, to demand answers about the mysterious email that led me here. But exhaustion from the long journey is setting in, and the castle's chill has worked its way into my bones.
"This way, please." Alistair leads me up the grand staircase, our footsteps echoing in the empty space. Each step feels like entering deeper into a mystery I'm not sure I'm ready to solve.
The corridor he takes me down is lined with portraits, their eyes seeming to follow our movement. Dusty holiday garlands hang limply between them, as if someone made a halfhearted attempt at cheer and gave up. The faces in the paintings share similar features—strong jawlines, intense eyes, an air of barely contained power.
"The West Wing is strictly forbidden," Alistair says suddenly, gesturing to a darkened corridor we pass. "Mr. Wolfe's private quarters are there, and he values his privacy above all else."
My room, when we reach it, is surprisingly warm and welcoming. A fire crackles in the hearth, and the four-poster bed looks inviting after hours of travel. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, depicting scenes of wolves running through moonlit forests.
"Rest," Alistair says. "Someone will fetch you for dinner." He pauses at the door, his faded blue eyes suddenly sharp. "And Miss Everly? Please remain in your room until then. The castle can be... confusing for newcomers."
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds oddly final.
I should unpack. Should rest. Instead, I find myself drawn to the window, watching snow swirl against darkening sky. Something about this place feels familiar, like a half-remembered dream.
The castle seems to pulse with a strange energy. Or maybe that's just my imagination, fueled by too many gothic novels and not enough sleep. But there's something about the way shadows move in the corners, how the air itself seems charged with expectation.
I turn away from the window, intending to at least pretend to follow Alistair's advice. But my feet carry me to the door instead. The handle turns easily under my hand.
The corridor outside is empty, silent except for the whisper of wind through ancient stones. Logic says I should stay put, but curiosity has always been my weakness. Besides, I'm here to research the castle's history—how can I do that from one room?
I tell myself I'm just going to explore a little. Get my bearings. But with each step, I'm drawn deeper into the castle's maze of hallways. The portraits watch my progress, their eyes following me through the gloom.
The temperature drops noticeably as I turn a corner. A set of double doors looms at the end of the corridor, partially ajar. Something about them sends a shiver down my spine—a warning, maybe, or an invitation. Moonlight spills through the gap, creating silver patterns on the floor.
The West Wing. It has to be. Alistair's words echo in my mind, but the pull is too strong to resist. There's something here, something calling to me.
I slip through the gap in the doors, heart pounding. The air here is different—heavy with secrets and something else I can't quite name. Moonlight streams through tall windows, illuminating a space that feels both lived-in and abandoned.
A low growl freezes me in place.
I turn slowly, every nerve screaming danger. In the shadows, something moves—something massive and definitely not human. My breath catches in my throat as the creature emerges into a shaft of moonlight.
Silver eyes gleam in the darkness. The beast steps forward, and I can't stop my sharp intake of breath. It's a wolf, but impossibly large, with dark fur that seems to absorb the moonlight. Powerful muscles ripple beneath that midnight coat as it moves toward me with predatory grace.
I should run. Should scream. Instead, I stand transfixed as those eyes lock onto mine. There's intelligence in that gaze, and something else—recognition? The beast's head tilts slightly, studying me with an intensity that seems far too human.
The wolf's growl softens, becomes almost questioning. For a moment, we're caught in a strange tableau, neither of us moving.
Then the air seems to shimmer, like heat waves rising from summer pavement. Where the beast stood, a man appears. Tall, dark, and radiating barely contained fury. His grey eyes still hold that silver gleam, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with suppressed rage.
"What are you doing here?"
I stumble back, my voice failing me. He advances, and I catch glimpses of sharp features and barely contained power in his movements. His suit is immaculate, but there's nothing civilized about the way he stalks toward me.
"The West Wing is forbidden." His words come out as almost a growl, and I swear I see a flash of fang. "Leave. Now."
Questions crowd my throat—about the wolf, about him, about what I just witnessed. But the look in his eyes brooks no argument. I turn and flee, my heart racing for reasons I'm not ready to examine.
Back in my room, I press my back against the door, trying to make sense of what I've seen. The beast. The man. The way my pulse jumped at his proximity, despite my fear.
What was that? And what have I gotten myself into?
The castle creaks around me, as if in answer. But its secrets, like those of its master, remain hidden behind walls of stone and silence.
A knock at my door makes me jump. Alistair's voice comes through the wood, perfectly composed. "Miss Everly? Mr. Wolfe requests your presence in his study. Immediately."