Cassandra stood frozen in the middle of the courtyard, the night pressing close on every side. She couldn't understand what was happening.
The breeze stilled. Below the cliffs, even the sea seemed to hesitate between waves. The hush was unnatural, too heavy, as though the very world were holding its breath.
Her fingers tightened in her skirts. Something's wrong.
A metallic pressure gathered in her throat, choking. The hair on her arms rose as if brushed by unseen hands. She scanned the paths, the hedges, the estate's shadowed wall, each corner darker than the last. The garden no longer felt peaceful. It felt hunted.
"Hello?" The word slipped out, fragile, and died in the hedges.
A slipper scuffed too loudly.
Her heartbeat spiked, drumming hot against her ribs.
From the treeline, something unfurled.
Not man. Not shadow.
A beast.
It slipped free of the hedges as if the garden itself had birthed it, limbs too long and jointed wrong, a marionette freed of strings. Rotted vellum skin clung to bone, split where slick sinew pulsed like a heartbeat too slow. A maw gaped wide, lined with ragged teeth, black rot dripping in ropes to spatter the stones.
The stench hit her—carrion and copper, blood baked in sun. Her stomach revolted; bile burned her throat.
Two glistening pits where eyes should have been tilted toward her—and somehow, impossibly, saw.
It clicked its jaw—stone grinding bone—then rasped a sound that once might have been laughter.
Cassandra stumbled back. Wet marble kissed her heel; her spine struck the fountain's rim. Cold seeped through her gown.
The beast flowed closer, each step a grotesque ripple.
"No." Her voice cracked. Her hand rose. Sparks gathered—weak, desperate—at her fingertips. She hurled them.
Light cracked the night. A ripple of force punched the creature's chest. Burnt rot seared her nose.
The beast staggered. It did not fall.
It laughed—low, rattling—and lunged.
Cassandra ran.
Branches clawed her sleeves, tearing silk into ribbons. Thorns scored her arms, sharp and hot. Gravel skidded beneath her slippers, stones slicing skin. Breath became knives, shallow and ragged, each inhale scraping her chest raw.
Behind her—wet impact, claws cracking stone, the grind of bone against bone. Too close. Too close.
Her heart hammered to bursting. The garden blurred into shadow and gold, every lantern a ghost of light swallowed by the thing that hunted her.
Don't look back.
She looked.
The beast surged, all limbs and rot, its jaw snapping, black saliva trailing like ropes. It was faster than it should be, faster than anything broken should move. That sound—half-laughter, half-growl—pushed her harder until she thought her legs would shatter beneath her.
She veered into a narrow hedge passage. Branches closed around her like a cage. Heart thrumming, she pressed herself into the shadows, back flat against damp leaves. Her hand clamped over her mouth, strangling her ragged breaths. If she stayed still—if she was quiet enough—maybe it would pass her by.
Silence stretched thin as wire. Only the hammer of her pulse and the rasp of her lungs filled her ears.
The hedge trembled.
The stench rolled in, suffocating. Slowly, impossibly, the beast's head pushed through the leaves just feet away, jaw yawning, rot dripping. It paused, sniffing, blind pits searching as though scent alone could pin her down.
Cassandra's nails bit her palms. Don't move. Don't breathe.
A treacherous tick of power fluttered in her chest—an involuntary spark. The leaves nearest her hand shivered, a whisper of light threading through their veins.
The beast's maw twisted in something like a grin. It clicked its teeth, bone on stone, and surged forward.
She broke from the hedge with a cry, sprinting, thorns ripping her skin anew.
A hedge corridor. A turn—
Dead end.
Her chest seized. The path ended in blank stone, moonlight spilling uselessly over ivy. No door. No gate. No escape.
The beast's shadow filled the path, blotting all light.
Move. There was nowhere to move.
Her mind screamed one word, over and over—survive, survive, survive.
"Fight," she hissed, voice splintering.
Magic flared wild and tangled, pulled by fear more than control. She threw both hands forward and screamed.
The garden shuddered. Force tore hedges, ripped gravel from the path, blew lanterns into showers of sparks.
The creature staggered, blistering. Not enough.
It charged.
She dropped and rolled; stone bit her side. She rose to a knee, palms braced.
The claw came again.
This time it connected.
White-hot pain ripped across her ribs. She flew. Marble cracked the breath from her chest. The world snapped black at the edges.
Her body refused air. She dragged for it, drowning on land. Something's wrong. A grinding shift inside. Broken.
A scream tore out of her, raw and jagged.
She crawled, blood wetting her lip. Nails digging into the dirt. Her hand lifted—weaker now—sparks stuttering like dying embers.
The beast loomed, breath of hot decay spilling over her face. Its teeth dripped strings of rot that hissed where they hit the stone.
"No," she gasped to herself. The sparks died. Her hand fell uselessly to her lap.
It leaned in, maw yawning wide, and for the first time she felt death not as a shadow, not as a whisper, but as a certainty.
Her heart stuttered. She hadn't lived enough, hadn't spoken enough—hadn't been enough.
The beast's breath seared her skin, its teeth filling her vision, jagged black cliffs closing in.
And then the world exploded in blue light