The Ravenwood Palace

Into the Maw.

The path to Ravenwood wound upward through the forest, a narrow ribbon of stone half-swallowed by moss and roots. The mist clung to Lucas Blackwood as he climbed, curling around his boots, seeping into his coat. The further he went, the quieter the world became. No birds. No wind. Even the rain had stilled, as though the storm itself refused to trespass.

The palace loomed above — a jagged silhouette carved against the sky. Its towers thrust like broken teeth into the clouds, windows black and hollow as eye sockets. In the dim light, the stone seemed slick, not with rain, but with something darker, as though the walls themselves bled.

Lucas lit a cigarette, though the flame sputtered weakly, reluctant to burn in this air. He drew deep, the smoke steadying his nerves. Each step closer made the weight in his chest grow heavier, as if the ground itself resisted his approach.

At the iron gates he paused. They stood crooked, rust-eaten, chains hanging loose as though broken from within. He touched the cold metal — and swore he felt a pulse beneath his palm.

“Stone doesn’t breathe,” he muttered, though the words rang hollow.

He pushed the gates open. The hinges screamed like wounded things, the sound echoing into the vast courtyard beyond.

The courtyard was a graveyard of statues, their faces worn smooth by time and rain. Some stood with hands raised in prayer. Others looked as though they were screaming. The fountain at the center was long dry, its basin cracked, but in the silence Lucas could swear he heard the faintest trickle of water — or was it whispering?

The great doors of Ravenwood Palace loomed before him, tall enough to swallow a man whole. One stood slightly ajar, as if inviting him inside.

Lucas’s hand drifted to the revolver at his side. He pushed the door open.

The sound rolled through the empty halls like thunder.

Darkness. Stale air, heavy with the musk of rot and wet stone. His footsteps echoed as he stepped inside, boots striking marble floors veined with cracks. Cobwebs draped the corners, shivering faintly in a draft he couldn’t feel.

Above, a chandelier hung crooked, its crystals dull with dust. Portraits lined the walls, their frames tarnished. Faces of the Ravenwood line stared down at him, their painted eyes following his every move. Eveline’s portrait dominated the far wall — her dark gaze sharp, lips curved in the faintest smile. In the flicker of his match, it almost seemed to move.

Lucas drew a long breath, the notebook heavy in his pocket. The air felt alive here, pressing in around him. Watching. Listening.

“Anna Fletcher,” he called into the silence, his voice low but steady. “Detective Blackwood. If you’re here, I’ll find you.”

The silence answered with a groan from the upper floor, wood shifting under unseen weight.

Somewhere deep in the palace, a door slammed shut.

The sound echoed like laughter.

And Lucas Blackwood knew — he was no longer walking into Ravenwood. Ravenwood was swallowing him whole.