Mihai

The road to the estate seemed to grow quieter the farther it climbed.

By the time your carriage stopped before the iron gates, the world had narrowed to fog, damp leaves, and the looming shape of the manor above the trees.

You stepped down slowly, boots sinking into the soft earth.

Days ago you had still been in Bucharest, bent over your sewing table, threading needles by lamplight while imagining the small apartment you and Mihai Ionescu would one day share. A lawyer with gentle manners and kind eyes—your betrothed, your future husband.

He had been sent here weeks ago on business.

At first the letters came often. Sweet, careful pages written in his neat hand, telling you about the journey, the vast old estate, and how much he missed you.

Then they grew shorter.

Stranger.

And then they stopped.

The villagers along the road had muttered about this place when you asked directions.

About Count Adrian Văduva, the reclusive nobleman who rarely left the house. About the forest that surrounded his lands. About lights in the windows long after midnight.

The manor rose before you now, tall and silent, its dark windows watching the road.

Somewhere inside those walls was Mihai.

Your gentle, foolish sweetheart who trusted everyone.

Your hand closed around the iron gate.

And slowly, with a long creak, you pushed it open and stepped onto the Count’s grounds.