Soran’s POV
The mansion’s lower halls always felt wrong at night—like the walls were listening, waiting for someone to slip up and give them something to remember. I hadn’t planned on coming down here. I told myself I was just restless, just needed to move, just needed to burn off the itch under my skin that had started the second Isla said she’d stay. As a servant. For him.
But my feet carried me past the east stairwell, past the warded doors, down the spiral steps that smelled of damp stone and old blood. I knew the way. I’d walked it enough times as a kid—sneaking to watch Rowan get punished, pretending it didn’t twist something ugly in my gut every time the whip cracked.
Tonight the vault door was cracked open. Just a sliver. Enough for torchlight to spill out in a thin blue line ac
