“So it seems Young Master has been missing Madam,” the voice said. “Well, she did leave when you were still a child.”
At Harlotte’s excuse, Seraphina’s eyes flickered with emotion—just for a moment. Perhaps she recalled the woman who had stood unflinching in the heart of hell, radiant and eloquent.
“But tell me, Young Master, do you still remember Madam’s appearance?”
“Never mind. Whether I remember or not makes no difference.”
“What you wish to know I cannot reveal to you yet. After all, you are not truly this castle’s master.”
“A young master is not the same as the master, wouldn’t you agree?”
With that, Seraphina sighed and turned away, her departing words lingering in the air.
“If Young Master has no engagements tomorrow, you would do well to remain close to the elder or younger Miss after nightfall.”
Watching her retreating form, Harlotte felt cold sweat soak his back. She seemed to know everything, yet wished to tend to nothing, speak of nothing.
The stewardess was loyal—unless he broke the covenant. But what was that covenant? He still knew nothing.
Since he could not enter his mother’s chamber, one final task remained: observe the castle after 9:30 PM. Had what he’d seen been illusion or reality? That mattered.
Back at his door, he leaned against the frame, watching each passing second. His pocket watch’s ticking grew louder as the minute hand approached the next mark.
Almost on cue, a sudden “clang” sounded behind him. Harlotte spun around to see the once-gray-green wall now undulating in waves. Viscous slime seeped from the cracks, dripping onto the flagstones with a hiss of corrosion—identical to the last spatial distortion he had witnessed.
The reliefs along the corridor twisted; the knights’ faces blurred into black shadows, the holy maidens’ eyes hollowed into ink-black voids. All those “gazes” seemed fixed upon him, chilling him to the bone.
In an instant, Harlotte dashed back into his room and slammed the door, leaning against it as he panted. Outside, slime continued to drip and distant whispers—countless voices chanting unknown prayers—made his scalp crawl.
Strangely, once inside, the sounds faded to silence almost immediately.
Eyeing his pocket watch again, five more minutes passed before he dared to open the door once more.
This time, the corridor had lost its grotesque distortion and instead lay shrouded in profound darkness. The ever-burning sconces had all gone dead, plunging the hall into utter silence.
Even more unsettling, his room’s light vanished the moment it crossed the threshold. Though the door stood open only an inch, a stark line divided radiance and shadow.
Harlotte swallowed hard, yet dared not extend a hand into the void. Instead, he searched his room and found a brass lantern. He lit it, then wedged its handle with a wooden clothes hook and gently pushed it halfway into the hallway—half the lamp still inside his room, half outside.
As the lantern emerged, a startling sight met him: the flame visible within his room remained alight, while the half in the corridor was swallowed by an unseen force. The flame outside vanished as if cut in two by an invisible blade.
He blew softly on the inner flame, just enough to tilt it. With that slightest shift, the exposed top flickered and was immediately consumed by darkness—yet the indoor flame did not waver, as though a force had cleaved it into separate segments.
The castle’s corridors seemed under a spell that forbade any light.
Harlotte imagined what madness would befall anyone else venturing these halls at this hour. He might have invited another to test it—for his own relief—but he himself would never risk it again.
He closed the door and again counted five minutes by his watch—then opened it.
Darkness.
He shut it and waited another five minutes.
Opened: still darkness.
Unperturbed, he continued his five-minute experiments, each cycle the same pitch-black.
On the twelfth attempt—after an hour—he opened the door to find the darkness gone, replaced by something profoundly irregular. The castle’s every feature was built on symmetry—rooms, adornments—leading Harlotte to suspect his mother or their ancestors were obsessives. Yet now he understood: that perfect symmetry was meant to counteract this night’s absolute asymmetry. Outside lay utter chaos, dizzying to behold.
Just a glance had already given him a sense of his sanity draining.
He shut the door once more—and five minutes later could not reopen it. It felt as if something outside barred his way; no strength could budge the door.
“Thirteen cycles of five minutes? No—five minutes might not be precise. Next time I’ll shorten the interval. I need to map every danger that emerges after 9:30 PM.”
Realizing he could explore no further tonight, Harlotte returned to his bed, intent on sleep. Just as he drifted off, he heard the door click open.
His muscles tensed. After 9:30, no one was meant to leave their chamber. Yet someone entered—and he was certain he had locked the door.
Damn it—had the Head Guard abandoned the castle? But it was not yet a full moon night. He dared not move, focusing on steady breaths to feign slumber.
The next moment, something settled onto his bed—and a soft, warm tongue began to lick his neck.