The Alcarte Manor wasn't situated in Fog City's bustling center, but lurked within an ancient, shadowy forest at the city's edge.

After what felt like an eternity of travel, the carriage finally halted. Peering through the mist-blurred window, Ella was struck first by an oppressive, unsettling silence that seemed to stretch forever.


The manor loomed before her, a massive structure of ashen gray stone. Its spires and flying buttresses carved menacing shapes against the fog-shrouded darkness.

No warm lights welcomed visitors—only scattered windows emitting dim, guttering candlelight, like the half-lidded eyes of a drowsing beast. The air hung heavy with the scents of damp earth, decaying leaves, and a faint, cold fragrance that reminded her of ancient crypts.

An elderly man with silver-streaked hair stood motionless at the entrance, dressed in impeccable black butler's attire—like a specter awaiting her arrival. Tall and thin, his face wore a carefully measured expression of deference.


"Miss Vein, welcome to Alcarte Manor. I am Samuel, the butler." His voice was deep and measured, devoid of any emotional inflection. "The Prince has prepared accommodations for you. This way, please."

His gaze lingered on Ella briefly—not examining, but confirming. Warning bells chimed in her mind; this elderly butler struck her as far more dangerous than the flamboyant vampires at the ball. He reminded her of an ancient, sealed tome with cryptic symbols on its spine—silent, yet containing untold secrets.


Samuel guided her through an entrance hall so vast her footsteps echoed, then up a wide spiral staircase covered in dark red carpet. Heavy tapestries adorned the walls, depicting ancient, bloody hunting scenes. In the flickering lamplight, the eyes of the figures seemed to track her movements.

Her guest room at the hallway's end proved unexpectedly spacious and luxurious.

Heavy purple velvet curtains blocked the window's view. Furniture of dark, dense wood featured intricate carvings that spoke of bygone craftsmanship. A fire danced in the hearth, fighting the chill but failing to dispel the pervasive sense of antiquity that hung in the air.

"Dinner will be brought to your room within the hour. His Highness wishes you to rest well," Samuel said with a slight bow. "Certain areas of the manor are quite old, with unstable structures. For your safety, please refrain from wandering beyond the guest wing unaccompanied after dark."

Warning or genuine concern? Ella nodded impassively. "Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Samuel."

The door closed behind her with a soft thud. Immediately, Ella began a methodical inspection of the room, like a predator securing its territory. She examined walls, floor, and ceiling for peepholes or hidden passages. Pushing aside the heavy curtains, she found only impenetrable darkness outside, with the vague suggestion of a courtyard far below, deep as an abyss.

Everything seemed normal—but this very normalcy felt deeply unsettling.

An hour later, right on schedule, a servant arrived with dinner—impeccably presented dishes on an elegant silver tray.

The servant's face remained expressionless as they moved with feline grace, setting down the tray before silently withdrawing.

Ella left the food untouched. Instead, she retrieved several specially treated test papers from her bag and discreetly checked the wine and broth—no common poisons or sedatives registered. Still, she remained wary. Camien hadn't invited her here merely to entertain a "brave" fallen noblewoman.

As night deepened, the manor fell into profound silence. Ella changed into dark, practical clothing that allowed free movement, secured her Silver Dagger, and slipped silently from her room.

In the corridor, only the faint crackling of oil lamps broke the silence. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. Avoiding the main staircase, she descended through narrow servant passages. The air grew colder, heavy with dust and a strange odor—something like spoiled blood mingled with herbs.

At a remote corner staircase leading downward, she paused. A portrait hung on the wall, partially covered by black silk. Almost compulsively, she lifted a corner of the fabric.

The painting revealed a silver-haired man in centuries-old attire, his features strikingly similar to Camien's but with a wilder, more unrestrained gaze and the ghost of a cruel smile. In his hand, he toyed with a fully bloomed rose so dark it was nearly black. The bottom corner bore a faded signature and the Alcarte emblem, but beside these was a smaller symbol nearly erased by time—a symbol Ella recognized from the title page of her father's notes!

Her heart raced. House Vein and House Alcarte—they truly had been connected long ago!

Just then, impossibly light footsteps sounded from below. Ella dropped the silk and melted into the shadow of a nearby stone sculpture, holding her breath.

It was Camien.

Gone was the formal attire from the banquet, replaced by a dark silk robe. His silver hair fell slightly disheveled, making him appear less imposing and genuinely tired. Instead of heading toward the stairs, he stopped at an inconspicuous door that resembled a storage room. He emerged moments later holding a small object that emitted a faint silver glow—like a shard from a broken test tube.

Ella watched as his pale fingertips touched the fragment, curling almost imperceptibly while his brows drew together slightly.

Not disgust, she realized, but something closer to reverence.

He didn't linger, turning quickly to leave, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

Ella remained hidden until she was certain he'd gone. She didn't approach the door—Camien was too vigilant, and the slightest disturbance might betray her presence. But that test tube fragment, combined with the strange scent in the air, pointed to one conclusion: somewhere deep within this mansion, something related to "disease" or "experiments" was concealed.

The following morning, Ella entered the sparsely occupied breakfast room to find Camien already seated at the head of the long table. He wore a perfectly tailored black morning suit, once again the picture of elegant, languid nobility—as if the solemn figure from last night had been merely a figment of her imagination.

"I trust you slept well, Miss Vein." He gestured toward a chair, his crimson eyes lingering on her face. "The manor's silence can be quite an adjustment for those accustomed to the city's constant noise."

"I found it most comfortable, Your Highness. The tranquility is quite soothing." Ella lowered her gaze, cutting into her food while adding casually, "Though I did experience some insomnia and thought I heard strange noises from beneath the western wing. Nothing serious, I hope?"

Camien lifted his silver coffee cup without hesitation, though his gaze sharpened momentarily before settling into even deeper languor. "Old buildings have their own voices, Miss Vein. Wind through ancient stones, perhaps, or mice in the walls." He set down his cup with a deliberate clink. "Though you mentioned the west wing… there are indeed some abandoned cellars there. I must say, your hearing seems remarkably acute."

Once again, he turned the conversation toward her. Ella felt the pressure but maintained her composure: "Perhaps it was merely my imagination. One tends to be more sensitive in unfamiliar surroundings."

"Caution is indeed a virtue." Camien nodded slightly, then abruptly changed course. "Much like House Vein itself, long renowned for its scholarly caution. If memory serves, your ancestor, Elias Vein, conducted rather fascinating research into certain ancient pathologies."

Ella's fingers tightened imperceptibly around her utensils. He was probing again, directly targeting her family history!

She looked up with carefully crafted bewilderment. "Really? I'm afraid I know precious little about my family's history. My father rarely spoke of such things."

Camien studied her for a long moment, his lips curving into a smile devoid of warmth. "Is that so? How unfortunate." He methodically dabbed his mouth with a snow-white napkin, his tone deceptively casual. "Sometimes, Miss Vein, forgetting demands far more courage than remembering."

Breakfast concluded in an atmosphere of false tranquility masking dangerous undercurrents. As Ella rose to leave, Camien's voice stopped her.

From nowhere, he produced a flower—a deep red, almost black rose with velvet-thick petals, their edges bearing sinister, charred traces as if scorched by flame.

"Fog City's mists are too dense for much sunlight to penetrate." He presented the black rose with elegant formality. "Yet this 'Night Shadow Rose' thrives in the darkest corners. For you, Miss Vein—consider it… a welcome gift."

His ice-cold fingertips brushed against her palm. The rose was hauntingly beautiful, its sweet fragrance so intense it made her head swim.

Ella accepted the flower, her fingertips grazing its sharp thorns. A sudden sting, and a bright drop of blood welled up, falling onto the ink-black petals—the crimson startlingly vivid against the darkness.

"Careful," Camien's deep voice carried an almost gentle warning, though his eyes remained as fathomless as an ancient well. "Beautiful things often bear the sharpest thorns. Much like this manor—some corners are far more… dangerous than they appear."

He turned and left her standing alone with the ominous black rose, the sting on her fingertip and that single drop of blood like a freshly branded mark—a seal of both warning and temptation.