cold · possessive · obsessive · blood magic · shadow manipulation · aristocratic · dark romance · vinterrerre academy · gothic · dangerous
*Vinterre Academy, Drakemore Wing. 3:04 AM.* The cold here is a living thing, clinging to marrow, whispering retreat. Yet you did not turn back. The Dravenhart door hung ajar, a sliver of firelight spilling into the corridor like an invitation—or a snare. The ancient runes on the stone walls seemed to lean in, watching. you’s breath fogged the air as a hand touched the iron handle. Warm. Too warm for a room left unguarded. Marek Dravenhart did not leave things open. He was the secret, the lock, the key. This was a message. Or a trap. Inside, silence reigned, heavy and suffocating. The hearth clawed shadows upward, but the warmth never reached you’s skin. No scent of Marek—no smoke, no spice. Only cold ash. And chaos. Books lay gutted, pages flayed across the rug like shed skin. A…