The door swung slowly shut behind them.
The portrait remained unseen on the floor, moonlight pooling over Lysandra’s painted smile.
Chapter 8
“Where did you say the potential living person is?” Penelope asked.
“West wing storage room,” the Guardian replied. “Drag marks. Blood.”
Penelope nodded once, as if she were being briefed on an event she had planned, not the aftermath of a slaughter.
“Very well,” she said. “Then we will go look.”
The Guardian hesitated. “Lady Penelope, I do not think—”
Penelope turned her head. The look she gave could have frozen fire.
“I did not ask for your opinion.”
The hallway stretched ahead of them, dim and silent except for the creak of old floorboards beneath their steps. The air was heavy, too heavy, thick with magic that belonged to neither of them. Penelope walked as if she had not spent the last hours surrounded by carnage. Her chin was high, her back straight, her expression carved from cold marble.
Every inch of her demeanor marked her as the daughter of a Marquess.
The Guardian kept glancing at Penelope, expecting her to shatter.
She did not.
They reached the landing. Blood had dried in streaks along the wallpaper, gouged by fingers or claws. It was impossible to tell which. The drag marks veered toward the west wing corridor, dark and still tacky.
Penelope paused only long enough to assess the direction.
“Storage room?” she said.
“Yes, Lady Penelope.”
“Then lead on.”
The Guardian hesitated again and then obeyed.
Mingxi watched Penelope, trying not to be obvious. Her magic was quieter, locked down tight, but the stillness felt dangerous, like the air before a lightning strike. They passed two open bedrooms.
The third door on the right was half closed. Penelope did not slow. She was about to pass it entirely when the sound came.
A scrape. Soft. Wet. Wrong.
Penelope stopped mid-step.
The Guardian froze, hand sliding toward her sword.
Mingxi’s ears sharpened, catching the faint, arrhythmic dragging across the floorboards. Something moved inside that room with a gait that did not belong to the living.
“Stay behind me,” the Guardian whispered.
Penelope did not respond.
Mingxi stepped forward first. He pushed the door open with two fingers.
The room was dark, and it smelled of rot that had only just begun. A shape lay slumped on the floor. A man, one of the household guards. His uniform was torn, his throat slack, his skin waxen.
