The grandfather clock in the grand hallway of Mourning Manor struck midnight, its deep, resonant chime vibrating through the cold stone floors like a funeral bell. Gillian Vanevsky stood in the shadows of the mezzanine, his eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight dancing against the paneled walls. He was not a man given to idle observation, but tonight, his focus was absolute. He watched the main hallway below, where the silence was heavy, thick with the scent of old wood, floor wax, and the faint, metallic tang of the lingering winter chill.
Gillian took a slow, steady breath. His chest tightened, a familiar flare of agony from the curse that lived within his marrow, but he ignored it with the practiced indifference of an executioner. He was hunting, though not for a target to kill. H
