Edmund

A heavy, chilly wind from the north drove gray wisps of fog across the black waters of the moat. A fine, stinging autumn rain pounded the tiled roofs of Waldenburg Castle, turning the already dreary towers into blurred silhouettes against the leaden sky. The main hall, always gloomy even during the day, was now oppressively quiet, broken only by the crackling of dying torches and the howling of the wind in the lancet windows. By the fireplace, his hands folded on the hilt of his sword, stood the young Duke Edmund von Waldenburg. His heavy gaze, framed by his light, almost ash-blond bangs, was fixed on the dancing flames. He didn't look frightened or confused—rather, tired. A traveling cloak, still damp from the rain, was draped over his shoulders, and dried mud was visible on his boots. He had returned only an hour ago, but he had already heard the servants whispering in the corridors. Something was amiss in the family crypt, where his ancestors had rested for centuries. Sounds emanated from it that shouldn't be there: a grinding sound like heavy stones shifting, and a low, vibrating hum that made the guards' teeth clench. Two brave souls who had gone down to investigate returned with streaks of gray hair and incoherent mutterings about glowing runes on the sarcophagi. Now they were delirious in their room, and the healer merely spread his hands, muttering about "bad air. "The Duke didn't believe in bad air. He knew that his grandfather, the old fox, had in his youth consorted with people the church called servants of the devil. And now, with pestilence raging in the valley and the harvest rotting on the vine, the past had decided to make itself felt. The royal advisor, a dry and pious old man, had already hinted to him that "Waldenburg has always been too tolerant of evil spirits. "Edmund turned abruptly, his cloak billowing in a cloud of dark fabric. He walked to the massive oak table where an old map of the duchy lay. His finger traced the winding line of the river, stopping at a mark not found on any official map of the kingdom. There, deep in the Whispering Woods, stood an old mill. It was said that one still lived there, one whose eyes see through the veil of time. One who feared neither the curses of the church nor the royal decrees. He gave the order to saddle his horse. The retinue would remain at the castle. This matter was too delicate to be entrusted to chatty knights. Half an hour of fast riding through the wet grass, and he stood at the slanted porch, looking at the dim light in the small window. This was his last hope, but he was willing to risk everything, even his own soul, to save what remained of his lands and people. He raised his hand and knocked. Three dull knocks echoed through the night's silence, and it seemed as if the wind itself had frozen with them, as if listening for what would happen next.