They stepped out of the tunnel, and the world shifted.
The damp claustrophobia of the underground gave way. Acres of land rolled out before them, framed by skeletal trees.
Then they saw it.
The house stood across the grass—grander, taller, almost regal in its severity. Brick and stone climbed upward in sharp, elegant lines, framed by towering windows and peaked turrets that sliced the sky like steeples. It was magnificent and quiet, reflected in the still black waters of a wide moat that surrounded it like a mirror laid flat.
But Eric wasn't looking at the house.
His gaze was fixed on Alaric—on the stiffening of his shoulders, the way his breath caught like he'd just seen a ghost.
Eric didn't know why his heart had started to beat harder.
He looked at the house, tried to see it as Alaric saw it—but it was distant to him, fogged in the edges of his vision, like something half-remembered from a dream. A dream he didn't know he'd had. A dream he was terrified he might have loved.
"Is that...?" he asked, not even sure what he meant.
Alaric didn't answer. He didn't move.
His face had gone rigid with disbelief, his eyes locked on the mansion like it had just spoken his name.
"This isn't right," he muttered, voice strained. "This isn't how it looked."
Eric glanced at him, startled but still barely registering the building beyond. "What do you mean?"
Alaric stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes scanning every window, every wing, every unfamiliar flourish. "It was smaller. Old, yes, but crumbling. No towers. No additions. The garden was dead and the upper floors were falling in on themselves." He shook his head. "Someone's been taking care of it. Expanding it. Making it… perfect."
Eric's fingers twitched at his sides. The word perfect rang hollow in his ears.
"I don't…" Eric hesitated, frowning. "I feel like I've seen this place before."
Alaric turned sharply.
"I mean, not like seen—I mean, it just feels... familiar." Eric looked down at his shoes, his voice suddenly quieter. "Like I've stood here. Like I've been here. But that's not possible, right?"
The wind stirred the trees behind them. The house ahead remained untouched—by decay, by time, by nature itself.
Eric looked up again, this time only long enough to notice the glass windows—too clean. Curtains swaying faintly.
"Are you sure this is the same house?" he asked, but his voice carried little interest in the answer.
Alaric's reply was a whisper. "I'm sure. That's the front step I bled on.That's the damn roof where I thought I'd die." His fists clenched at his sides. "But it was never this… pristine."
A shadow moved behind one of the upper windows—fast, like something pulling itself out of view.
Eric took a step back without meaning to.
The reflection on the water flickered.
"Someone's been here," Alaric said flatly. "Someone's been keeping it alive."
They walked in silence, the mansion looming closer—or so they thought.
Eric felt his throat tighten.
A shape caught his eye.
Off to the side, nestled between brittle trees and leaning iron fences, was a graveyard—half-choked by ivy, its stones cracked and leaning. The sky above it seemed darker somehow, the clouds more solid.
Eric's breath caught in his chest.
A man was standing there.
Still.
Too still.
He was dressed in the same old coat Eric had seen at the diner—the same slouched posture.
Eric's spine went rigid. That wasn't possible. That man had been hours away. Miles.
His heart thudded as he turned to Alaric, his voice caught somewhere behind his teeth.
But Alaric didn't notice.
He was moving faster now, feet pounding the even ground, his eyes locked on the massive double doors ahead. It wasn't his unnatural speed, not the monstrous blur Eric had seen once before—it was human. Desperate.
Like he needed to reach the house before something else did.
Eric glanced back—heart hammering.
The man in the graveyard was gone.
No movement. No trace.
Just wind through rusted gates and the faint groan of tree branches shifting above the graves.
Eric swallowed hard, the taste of metal rising in his mouth. He jogged after Alaric, casting one last glance over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Only stone.
Only silence.
And yet something unseen still watched.
Alaric reached the door first.
He didn't even hesitate—just shoved it open with a groan of old hinges and vanished inside like he was being pulled in. Eric slowed, watching the door swing closed behind him with a final click.
He was alone.
But strangely, it didn't bother him.
The wind didn't bite here. The sky felt less oppressive. For the first time in hours, he didn't feel watched or weighed down. No eyes pressing on his back. No steps echoing too close. Just silence and stillness and—
Belonging.
He didn't understand it, but as he stood at the threshold of that towering place, something in his chest loosened. He should've been unsettled—should've followed Alaric instantly, worried, alert.
But he wasn't.
It felt like everything here was his.
Not in a metaphorical sense. Not a place-he-could-rest kind of way. Literally his. The walls, the land, the cold iron fixtures near the door, the cracked symbol etched into the stone above the frame—it all felt like it had been waiting for him to return.
Eric stepped inside.
And the moment the heavy door closed behind him, the sound shattered.
Screaming.
Not fear—not pain. Joy.
High, echoing, manic laughter echoed through the front hall.
Eric bolted forward, boots skidding against polished stone, rushing past furniture covered in white cloths and staircases that twisted like spines.
He found Alaric in the grand foyer—arms outstretched, spinning in a slow, gleeful circle beneath the massive chandelier. The velvet runner crinkled under his feet, the light from cracked stained glass spilling red and gold across his pale face.
Alaric was laughing so hard his eyes shimmered.
"It's perfect!" he cried, his voice ragged with exhilaration. "Look at it, Eric! Look! The walls—they're clean! The rot is gone! Even the damn mural is still here!"
Eric's pulse thundered hot as he stared. He had never seen Alaric like this...he liked it
Alaric ran his fingers along the edge of the railing, tracing the ornate carvings like he was touching a long-lost lover. "They brought it back. Every piece. Every room. The blood's been scrubbed out. Do you know how hard that is to do? It lives in the wood."
His eyes snapped to Eric, pupils blown wide, lips split in a too-wide grin.
"And it's still breathing."
Eric didn't speak.
He couldn't.
The manor stretched wider as they moved, swallowing space like it made its own rules.
What should've been a narrow hallway unfolded into a vaulted corridor with marble arches and candle sconces that lit themselves as they passed. The floor beneath Eric's boots echoed like a cathedral, the air heavy with incense.
Every wall whispered to Eric.
Magic. Dense. Not just in the air but in the architecture. In the dust. The creak of floorboards. The walls pulsed with it—alive, aware.
And it felt like him.
Not familiar like déjà vu. Deeper. Like it answered to him. Like it belonged to him.
He ran a hand along the velvet wallpaper, and a surge of warmth slid up his arm, tingly and electric.
"…this is mine," he muttered under his breath before catching himself.
The thought felt too natural.
Too true.
A flicker behind his eyes. A memory, not quite real. Killian's voice—soft, sly:
"I knew he'd love it."
Eric blinked, startled. And then—smiled.
Not a nervous smile, not this time. A real one. Wide. Stupid.
"Of course you did," he whispered, glancing up like Killian might be watching from somewhere just out of sight. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic, you smug bastard."
He laughed—just a little.
Behind him, Alaric squealed.
Actually squealed.
He spun into a side room and clapped his hands together like a kid in a candy shop. "The ballroom! They restored the ballroom!"
Eric stepped in after him and shook his head. "Okay, I'll give you this much—it's dramatic as hell." He looked around, eyebrows raised. "Whoever's been taking care of this place clearly got the memo: haunted aristocracy but make it gorgeous."
Alaric twirled in the center of the room like he was performing for an invisible audience. "It's better than I remembered. Cleaner. Sharper. It's like—like it wants to be seen again!"
Eric watched him, amused. "You're seriously freaking me out. I didn't think anything could make you this happy that didn't bleed first."
Alaric grinned with all teeth, eyes wide. "I'm having a moment, Eric. Don't ruin it."
Eric held his hands up, smirking. "Wouldn't dream of it. You and your—" he gestured vaguely to the room "—ghostly rave can continue."
But still, his gaze drifted back to the ceiling, to the way the chandelier seemed to breathe. He felt the hum of his power behind every surface, every fixture. His power.
He felt home.
And that scared the hell out of him.
Alaric's joy hadn't faded—not even a little. He was still beaming like the whole house was a gift with his name on it, and
Eric knew it was.
At the mouth of a shadowed staircase—partially hidden behind a rusted suit of armor—Alaric paused, placing a hand against the wall. His fingers trembled slightly. "The basement," he whispered, reverently.
Eric tilted his head, a little disturbed. "You say that like it's a chapel."
Alaric glanced back at him, eyes bright with something that wasn't entirely human. "It kind of is."
Eric snorted, trying to shake the heaviness sitting in his chest. "Let me guess. You kept your holy relics down there? Little bone collections and prayer candles made of skin?"
Alaric gave a twisted grin, almost proud. "Torture chambers. Holding cells. Things I never thought I'd see again. I used to… work down there."
"'Work' is one hell of a euphemism," Eric muttered, but there wasn't any real bite to it. His eyes drifted back to the hallway behind him.
Alaric took a step downward. The shadows swallowed his legs. "I want to see if they left it all the same. If the walls remember me."
Eric's gaze locked on his friend. "You think they do?"
Alaric smiled without turning. "If I do, they do."
There was something eerie about the way he said it. Like the house wasn't just haunted, it was loyal.
Eric hesitated, then said, quieter, "Are you… sure you want to go alone?"
Alaric stopped on the third step. "You sound worried."
"I sound curious," Eric said, his voice steady but his jaw tense. "There's something weird about this place,aren't you curious who kept it clean all these years.."
Alaric finally turned back, half his face in darkness, the other illuminated by golden candlelight.
Eric stared, and for just a moment, his eyes flickered crimson—bright, unnatural, hungry. He blinked, and they were brown again.
He swallowed the dry lump in his throat.Alaric finally spoke "Maybe that's what worries me,I don't want to know."
They looked at each other for a beat too long.
Then Alaric grinned, feral. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, assume I'm indulging in nostalgia."
"Or bleeding out," Eric said. "Again."
"Maybe both. Can't ever have one without the other." With that, Alaric disappeared into the stairwell, laughter trailing behind him like perfume.
Eric stood there alone.
He didn't move just yet.
He wasn't afraid of being alone here.