Inside a giant mansion, silence reigned.
No servants walked the halls. No footsteps echoed across the polished floors. Chandeliers hung above empty corridors, their crystals catching faint light that had no one left to impress. The entire estate felt like the preserved corpse of wealth—beautiful, yet devoid of life.
In one of the inner rooms, death and something even stranger sat side by side.
A woman with black horns curling back from her temples like a crown of obsidian sat in a chair beside a bed. Her hair was a deep, rich purple, flowing down her back in smooth waves that contrasted sharply with her pale, flawless skin. Her eyes were pure black—no whites at all—just two bottomless abysses that seemed to swallow everything they looked upon.
Astarte.
On the bed beside her lay a black-haired boy.
Arthur.
