The atmosphere in the private ritual bathroom was stifling, thick with the scent of burning sage and damp stone. The room, designed for the extraction and stabilization of volatile energies, was cold, its high ceiling swallowing the flickers of candlelight that danced against the dark walls. Gillian stood by the sunken pool, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. He had moved from the balcony directly to this chamber, his body radiating a palpable heat that seemed to contradict the frozen air of the manor. The curse was no longer just a symptom; it was a predator, clawing at his nerves, demanding he release it or be consumed from within.
He turned toward the heavy oak door as it swung open, and Ghea stepped into the dim light. She looked small against the vast, oppressive architec
