The faceless creature turned, its long limbs trembling as if its own shadow betrayed it. But before it could take another step, the deep, cold voice of the red-eyed man echoed through the dark hallway.
"Kneel."
The air thickened instantly. The lamps flickered, the storm outside growled louder, and the faceless being's body jerked violently then fell to its knees. Its head twitched uncontrollably, hands pressed to the floor as though gravity itself had chosen to punish it.
The man's crimson eyes burned brighter, blood-red and unblinking. Calmly, he placed the lamp on the ground. The faint flame painted his pale face in gold and shadow. His steps echoed, slow and deliberate, as he began to whistle softly, like a lullaby meant for something already half-dead.
The faceless thing tried to crawl backward, its hands scraping the wooden floor with a dry, desperate sound. Yet the moment the red-eyed man reached it, he moved with inhuman speed. His hand wrapped around the creature's neck, and with one sharp motion, he slammed it down the sound cracked through the hall like thunder. The floor splintered beneath the impact.
"Shhh…" the man whispered, his tone almost gentle. "Be quiet. Someone might hear us."
Lightning flashed once more, bathing the room in white. The tall man's distorted body writhed in pain, its faceless head twisting. Then came a final, strangled cry snuffed out as the thunder rolled, covering its death. When the light faded, the hallway was silent again. Only the rain outside dared to make a sound.
---
Meanwhile, Amara had returned to the mansion. Her cloak clung to her, soaked through, as she quietly entered through the servant's passage near the garden. The storm's hum followed her inside, distant now, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
When she reached her chamber, she froze.
Elyss stood by the door still, cold, her face pale with anger and worry. "Where could the lady go at this hour," she began, her voice low but sharp, "and in the middle of the rain? Do you not know it's dangerous outside? There are people who would dare harm a woman alone at this time even a governor's daughter."
Amara lowered her gaze. "I… I'm sorry," she said softly. "I only wanted some air. I couldn't sleep. The dream came again."
At the mention of the dream, Elyss's expression shifted something between fear and exhaustion. "That dream… again?" she whispered.
Amara hesitated, almost speaking of the faceless man, of the sound of its steps, but stopped. The look in her maid's eyes was unreadable. Elyss sighed, her tone softening. "Very well. I will not tell your father. But promise me, my lady, never to do such a thing again."
"Yes," Amara murmured. "I promise."
Elyss turned to leave, her footsteps slow. "Then rest. You need it."
When the door closed, Amara sank into her bed. The sound of rain lingered against the window. Her mind wandered back to the art hall the dark hallway, the thunder, that tall, faceless thing. The fear still clung to her chest.
"Was it real?" she whispered to herself. "Or just another dream?"
But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, she knew the pain, the sound, the terror felt far too real. She hugged her knees beneath the covers and stared at the faint light of her bedside lamp until her eyes grew heavy.
Outside, the thunder rolled again.
The storm had faded by dawn, but the air still carried the scent of rain and iron. Amara turned in her bed, strands of her pale hair clinging to her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light spilling through the velvet curtains like weak gold. Her heart was restless not from the nightmare, but from the image of him.
That man that mysterious figure cloaked in shadow and silence his presence haunted her. She could still see the faint glow of his eyes, crimson like fresh blood under candlelight. There was something noble in the way he stood, something far from the demeanor of a commoner.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she whispered to herself, "Those eyes…"
Then her breath caught. Her heart skipped a beat as a realization struck her a memory she had nearly forgotten.
"There's only one house known for that color," she said in a hushed voice. "The House of Harvellene."
Her words seemed to linger in the air, cold and heavy.
The Harvellenes one of the oldest and most revered noble families in the kingdom. Their bloodline was said to be touched by the divine flame of the First Hero, a lineage marked by red eyes eyes that shimmered like rubies and burned like wrath. Legends spoke of them as saviors in wars long past, their strength unmatched, their beauty unforgettable. But that was long ago. Now, the Harvellenes were whispers and rumors nobles who rarely appeared in public, their true numbers unknown.
Amara sat upright, clutching the silk blanket around her. Why would one of them be here… in the art hall… at that hour?
Her gaze wandered toward the window, raindrops still clinging to the glass like tears. "That skin, that voice no ordinary man could carry such presence." She pressed her fingers against her temple. "But why… why was he there?"
A strange unease coiled inside her chest, twisting her thoughts into knots. What if he saw her? What if he knew she was there? She bit her lip, remembering how her footsteps echoed when she entered the art hall that night, how the shadows seemed to breathe as if alive.
Her thoughts grew heavier. Maybe… it wasn't just a dream after all.
Her eyes closed again. She told herself she was imagining things the storm, the sleeplessness, the haunting dreams. But still, that red glow wouldn't fade from her mind.
"I must have been hallucinating," she whispered softly. "That's all it was."
The words were empty. She didn't even believe them.
And yet, exhaustion finally won. Her thoughts drifted into fog, her body sinking back into her sheets as she fell into a fragile sleep. Outside, the morning light dimmed again behind the clouds.
---
By midday, the academy grounds were quiet except for the crows perched along the roof of the old art hall. The corridors smelled faintly of dust and rain.
Professor Renwald, a short, aging man with gray whiskers and a love for order, strolled down the hallway with a stack of books in his arms. He muttered to himself about careless students who left candles burning overnight.
But as he neared the art room door, his steps slowed. His nose wrinkled. There was… an odor faint but sickly, like something rotting behind the walls.
"Good heavens," he murmured, pushing the door open.
The smell hit him stronger now. It was metallic. Wet. The kind of scent that clings to the lungs.
The room was dim. Curtains still drawn. Puddles from the leaky roof reflected the gray light from the window. Renwald frowned and stepped forward.
"Who's been—"
Then he stopped.
Something lay on the floor.
At first, he thought it was a mannequin, one of those used by the students for painting. But then he saw the color the dark, dried red spreading beneath it. His hands trembled, the books slipping from his grasp and scattering across the floor.
He took one step closer. Then another.
It was a man. His clothes torn, skin pale as chalk. His face… human. Ordinary. Mouth slightly open as if caught mid-breath. But his eyes were dull lifeless.
Renwald fell to his knees, his heart pounding in horror. "Oh gods…" he whispered, voice breaking. "Help! Someone!"
His scream echoed through the empty halls, bouncing off the stone walls, scattering the crows outside into the sky.
But no one came right away. Only the echo answered him.
And in that silence just before footsteps came running from the other side of the corridor the faintest sound hummed through the room.
A soft whistle. Low. Gentle. Almost like a lullaby.
Yet there was no one there.
Only the dead man on the floor… and the flickering lamp in the corner, still faintly warm.