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Twilight bled across the sky like a slow wound, bruising the air in smoldering orange and amber. The hillside held its breath beneath creeping mist, its stones slick with memory and something colder—unspoken, unresolved. Each gust of wind dragged a groan from the staircase as if the path itself resented being walked again.
The castle loomed—not majestic, but accusatory. Its turrets clawed at the sky, black silhouettes trembling at the edges, refusing light. Windows stared like lidless eyes. The kind that watched, not welcomed.
Down the staircase, moss festered in the cracks, pulsing faintly in the gloom. What had once been passage now felt more like descent—each step shaped by burden and the whisper of warnings carved into stone.
Beyond, the forest twisted against itself, branches knotted in silent protest. A smell of iron and damp earth rose from its shadows, like the aftermath of ritual or ruin. Somewhere within, the air shifted. The kind of sound heard by bones, not ears.
And then—the hum. No longer imagined, but undeniable. Low and spectral, vibrating through rock and root alike. Not an invitation. Not a welcome. Just acknowledgment. As if the castle had noticed.
The dusk didn’t settle. It waited.