Chapter 3

The wind smelled faintly of roses and rusted iron—like a ballroom sealed too long beneath stone.

They stood at the edge of the drawbridge, four figures framed by the crimson sky. The castle beyond waited—still, perfect, impossible.

Mabel said nothing. Her mouth was slightly open, eyes tracking the floating keep above and the staircase that spiraled down from its underside like a ribbon. Her brain had already begun taking notes she couldn’t form into words.

Liza squinted, trying to read the angles like terrain—but nothing made sense.

Towers offered no cover. Walls broke their own lines. The whole place felt like a trick played in stone.

She hated it.

Eris was frozen. Her eyes shone with something between awe and suspicion. She tilted her head, as if the castle might tilt with her.

Liza turned to Dantalion.

"This is Tiefenburg!?"

She was all clenched jaw and locked limbs—fear in form.

But her eyes? Her eyes wanted answers. Wanted them ripped out.

Dandy stood a few steps ahead, perfectly framed against the castle.

Her hands were folded neatly in front of her coat, fingers interlaced in calm precision.

Back straight. Shoulders squared. Chin tilted just enough to suggest ownership.

“Yes, Ms. Gravein. This little humble abode is indeed, Tiefenburg.”

She smiled, sharp and satisfied.

“It is my home when I am not walking your world.”

Eris’ gaze drifted upward, caught by a flock of bat-like creatures wheeling through the crimson sky.

“Well,” she said, “guess I won’t have to worry about sunlight here.”

She let her tricorne dangle at her hip, satisfied.

No need for the sun helmet today.

Dantalion stepped onto the drawbridge, and began walking—coat flaring behind her, boots tapping soft and sure against the stone.

“Wait—hold on, you’re just—”

Mabel moved first.

Liza cursed under her breath and followed.

The drawbridge accepted their weight without a sound.

Across the bridge, the cobbled path led straight through the heart of the garden.

And the garden… was beautiful.

Every leaf seemed placed, every rose obedient to its arch.

Moonlight spilled across thorned arches and weeping ivy. The roses were alive—too alive—red like memory, not blood. They nodded faintly in the breeze, as if welcoming them in.

Mabel slowed to look.

“Okay,” she admitted, “this is kinda... nice?”

Eris bent slightly to smell a rose. She smiled—genuine and quiet.

“I get why she kept it.”

Dandy walked ahead of them, backward now, arms thrown wide.

Like she was showing off a stage.

Dantalion stepped lightly off the path, letting her fingers graze the edge of a blooming rose.

“The garden receives the utmost care from the denizens of Tiefenburg,” she said.

Not boastful—just pleased. As if the flowers had passed inspection.

She paused beside a thorned archway, eyes half-lidded.

“These roses,” she murmured, “have seen the rise and fall of many kingdoms.”

A smile flicked at the corner of her lips. “And they’ve never once cared who wore the crown.”

The path widened slightly. Roses parted for them, making way without a sound. The moonlight sharpened as if the night itself wanted a better view.

Barghest statues flanked the walk now. Up close, it looked like a dog—if a dog had never been alive, only sculpted from the memory of something that hunted men.

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Its eyes weren’t just carved—they were sunken, as if waiting to open.

The jaw hung slightly open, too detailed, too precise, teeth slicked with moonlight that clung like wet breath.

And the stone fur? It didn’t flow. It bristled. Like it had felt something, once.

Liza lurched launched forward, pivot snapping, weight behind a full-force right hook—

Her knuckles cracked hard against stone.

White-hot flash through her wrist.

She staggered back, half-growling, half-breathless, clutching her hand.

The next flare of pain came from her forehead. A Forgewood stake rapped clean against it—quick, surgical. Dantalion's hand was still outstretched and by her posture, it was not a very hard throw for her.

Liza cursed and ashed the stake, golden glow slicing through the gloom.

Eris barked a laugh.

“Liza! What in the forge was that?”

Tears shimmered in her eyes, whether from laughter or lowlight.

Liza grumbled, scooping up the Fossan tail cap.

“I’m human. It’s creepy here. I don’t see in the dark like you, alright?”

Eris just chuckled again, wiping her eyes with a knuckle.

“Fair. Still funny, though.”

Mabel ran a hand along the mane of one of the statues.

“Dandy, these are just statues, right?”

Dantalion slowed mid-stride, gaze flicking from rose to stone and back again.

“Yes, Ms. Gravein. They are no longer capable of movement.”

She smiled faintly. “Thus, they are statues.”

Mabel paled a bit and got closer to Liza.

They stopped before the gates.

Two doors rose from the stone like the trunks of ancient trees—dark enough to drink moonlight. The grain swirled like smoke caught in still water.

The ironwork clung to the wood like it had always been there.

Hinges bloomed outward in branching arcs—too delicate for their weight, shaped like thorned vines frozen mid-curl.

Bolts sat flush, each one shaped like a rosebud struck flat under a craftsman’s hammer.

The handles were rings, thick and dark, clenched in the teeth of cast roses.

Each door stood easily three stories tall.

The kind of height that made one feel like a guest in someone else's story.

The great doors shuddered like something old had just woken up.

The scent of old books and candlewax rolled out like a welcome.

The doors parted into gilded silence.

The hall stretched wide as a cathedral and nearly as tall—its ceiling lost in a shadow that refused to give back depth.

Chains disappeared into that dark, each suspending a massive chandelier of gold and glass, candlelight blazing like captured starlight.

They hung perfectly still—as if the air had been told not to move.

A red carpet ran the center of the polished floor, trimmed in silver thread.

Twin staircases climbed the walls, curling up into galleries behind heavy banners and blood-dark tapestries.

The woven scenes showed battles, crowned figures, and roses curling around exposed throats.

The hall was not empty.

Figures in red and black moved in practiced silence.

Tall ones with animal heads walked in pairs—wolf, bull, others harder to place. Their coats were tailored, their boots clean.

They moved with weight—like they had been told exactly where to go, and exactly how long it should take.

Others drifted along the edges, sweeping floors that didn’t need sweeping.

They moved with elegance—not meant to impress, but to distract.

Their beauty wasn’t a gift. It was a tool.

Near the walls, taller shapes passed between the candelabras.

Candlelight leaned toward them as they moved—growing brighter, steadier.

Their robes trailed smoke. Their steps left no sound.

At the far end of the hall stood a towering suit of armor—all mass and purpose, shaped to carry its own violence.

The design was brutal: flared shoulders, reinforced joints, weight built into every curve.

It wasn’t armored to protect—it was armored to finish. Its hands rested on a weapon planted tip-first into the floor—a massive weapon something not unlike Heartpiercer—only heavier, older, silver-trimmed and still gleaming. The staff passed it like furniture. It watched like stone carved with purpose. Nothing crossed its gaze.

They stepped forward—just enough to cross the threshold.

One of the maids turned toward them. Human in shape, dressed in deep red and black, eyes downcast.

She bowed low, slow, and precise. Then raised a hand—not to stop them, but to gesture forward, toward the long carpet path between chandeliers.

“Please enjoy the view,” she said softly.

Then she turned and slipped behind a velvet curtain, vanishing like a thread pulled from fabric.

Mabel blinked.

“…Thanks,” she squeaked, mostly to herself.

They hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps before a small side table slid into view—low, marble-topped, nestled between two gilded pillars. A pair of staff were already placing down a silver tray, careful not to clink.

Steam rose from the cups.

No one spoke. One of them curtsied—slow, effortless—then both vanished behind opposite banners like it had been rehearsed.

Eris didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a cup and took a careful sip.

Her shoulders lowered a fraction. “Oh, that’s good.”

Liza followed, slower. She sipped, eyes still scanning the hall as she swallowed.

Peppermint. A touch of rose. Warm, smooth, easy on the throat.

Too easy.

She didn’t say anything—just gave a quiet, grave mmhmm, like she was agreeing with the taste and judging it at the same time.

Mabel kept walking. She wasn’t touching anything that showed up uninvited.

They get within a certain distance of the towering armor, and it tilts its helm slightly—Not to guard the hall—just to record who crossed it.

“Ah, Gravemarch. He’s been here as long as I have.”

She smiled, fond.

“Wonderful company. So many questions. So much insight.

I do love our conversations.”

Mabel stopped mid-step. Liza shifted her stance. Even Eris hesitated.

Only Dantalion kept walking—like she hadn’t noticed the thing at all.

There was no threshold. Just a ledge, and the sky waiting past it.

But as they approached, a soft hum pulsed through the stone beneath their boots.

Above, the floating stair twisted—rotated—then lowered its bottom segment into place with an audible click.

A bridge where there hadn’t been one.

Dantalion didn’t slow. She only glanced back with a faint smile.

“Mind the gap,” she said brightly—

like they were about to board a train instead of a floating death stair.