Cont: Novel – Tides of Desitny

The storm Eleanor had cryptically mentioned was not far off—Aileen could feel it in her very bones. The day was unusually still, with the kind of silence that pressed against her ears, amplifying the smallest sounds: the creak of the manor’s old wood, the faint rustle of leaves outside, and her own shallow breaths. The journal and the newfound key felt heavier than ever in her hands, as though they carried the weight of lives long past.

Aileen decided she needed clarity, and the only way to get it was to confront the lingering specters of the manor head-on.

---

The Mirror’s Echo

The mirror in the study had taken on a foreboding presence since Eleanor’s ghostly appearance. Something about it now called to Aileen, as though it held not only her reflection but also the fragments of a deeper truth. Armed with a flickering candle and the journal tucked under her arm, she returned to the room.

The mirror’s surface was once again undulating faintly, a ripple breaking across its silvery depths. This time, as she stepped closer, Eleanor’s figure emerged more sharply, as if waiting. Her lips moved, and though no sound escaped the glass, Aileen felt the words resonate in her mind:

“The garden was where it began… and where it must end.”

The connection severed abruptly, and the mirror turned flat once more. But not before something else flickered into view: a shadow behind Eleanor’s spectral figure, broad-shouldered and menacing, with eyes that glinted like cold steel. Aileen stumbled back, gripping the journal tightly, her pulse roaring in her ears.

---

Unearthing the Past

Determined to follow Eleanor’s clue, Aileen returned to the garden, where the neglected fountain stood sentinel over the overgrown remains of a once-beautiful sanctuary. The ornate key now felt like an extension of her, its cool metal grounding her as she approached the fountain.

She bent down, tracing the carvings of angels once more. One cherub’s outstretched hand seemed to point toward the fountain’s base. Digging through the soft earth, Aileen uncovered a latch—rusted, but still intact. The key fit perfectly.

With a groan, the stone base shifted, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a weathered wooden box, its hinges fragile but functional. Aileen’s fingers trembled as she lifted the lid to reveal its contents: a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon, a gold locket, and a small vial of what looked like dried blood.

The letters were addressed to Eleanor, penned in a hand both elegant and urgent. The ink spoke of love, betrayal, and despair, the words heavy with Damien’s desperation. One letter, however, stood out. It was unsigned, the handwriting jagged and frantic:

“The storm will not forgive. Neither will I. This house will be your tomb, Eleanor, and his too.”

---

Confrontation in the Halls

Aileen felt the cold embrace of fear as she returned inside. The manor seemed alive, the shadows growing deeper, the walls pulsing faintly as though the house itself was reacting to her discoveries. As she climbed the staircase, footsteps echoed behind her. Turning sharply, she saw no one, yet the sound persisted, closing in.

She broke into a run, her heart pounding as she reached her room and slammed the door shut. The candle flickered violently, then extinguished, leaving her in darkness. A whisper, faint but chilling, curled around her like smoke:

“You’ve seen too much.”

The air turned frigid, and Aileen felt a presence behind her. Whipping around, she faced an empty room—save for the journal, which had fallen open on the floor. The ink on its pages was bleeding, the words shifting and reforming:

“The truth lies beneath the ballroom.”

---

The Ballroom’s Secrets

The ballroom had always been locked, its grand doors adorned with gilded handles that spoke of elegance long past. Aileen hadn’t dared to approach it until now. With the journal clutched to her chest and the newfound locket hanging around her neck, she descended the stairs, her steps echoing ominously.

The doors swung open effortlessly, as though the house itself was inviting her in. The room was breathtaking even in its decay: a massive chandelier hung precariously, its crystals casting fragmented light across the cracked marble floor. Faded murals adorned the walls, depicting scenes of celebration that seemed to watch her with sorrowful eyes.

At the room’s center was a large circular panel on the floor, its design matching the carvings on the fountain. Aileen knelt and ran her fingers over the edges, finding the faintest groove.

The key fit once more, and the panel shifted, revealing a staircase spiraling down into darkness. Aileen hesitated, the weight of Eleanor’s words echoing in her mind. “The garden was where it began… and where it must end.”

---

Descent into Shadows

As Aileen descended, the air grew colder, the scent of damp earth and mildew filling her nostrils. The faint sound of water dripping echoed in the dark. Her candle barely illuminated the path, its flickering light casting monstrous shadows on the stone walls.

At the bottom, she found herself in a cavernous chamber, its walls lined with alcoves holding dusty relics: masks, jewels, and weapons, all seemingly untouched for centuries. At the room’s center was a stone pedestal, upon which rested a book bound in black leather, its cover engraved with a symbol she had seen before—on the locket around her neck.

As she reached for the book, a voice rang out, low and commanding:

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

A figure stepped out from the shadows, his face obscured by a hood. He held a torch, its flame illuminating sharp features and eyes that bore an unsettling resemblance to Damien’s portrait.

“Who are you?” Aileen demanded, her voice trembling but firm.

The man tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “The one who has been waiting.”

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The Chains of Obligation

The year was 1925, and spring had arrived in Rothschild Manor with deceptive gentleness. The sun painted the stone walls in warm hues, and the garden bloomed with wild abandon, a riot of roses and ivy that threatened to overrun the estate. Yet, for Eleanor, the beauty of the season only sharpened her despair.

Her engagement to Harold Blackthorn had been announced weeks earlier. The news was delivered with pomp and celebration, but to Eleanor, it felt like a sentence. Harold was everything her father admired—wealthy, influential, and rigidly traditional. But to Eleanor, he was a stranger cloaked in propriety, his intentions as cold and sharp as the winter winds that had only just passed.

Her heart, however, belonged to Damien Carter.

---

Damien was no match for Harold in the eyes of society. A painter with little to his name but his talent and a fierce, restless soul, Damien represented everything Eleanor’s family despised. His love for her was raw, unpolished, and free of the suffocating expectations that weighed on her every moment.

They met in secret, in the forgotten corners of the estate—the overgrown gazebo near the woods, the hidden passages beneath the house, and occasionally, beneath the great willow tree where Damien often sketched her.

But the walls of Rothschild Manor had ears. The whispers of their forbidden love grew louder, carried by servants too loyal to her father’s strict authority to keep silent.

---

April 20, 1925

Eleanor sat in her bedroom, her reflection in the gilded mirror distorted by her tears. The woman in the mirror no longer looked like her. She was a stranger—a prisoner draped in fine silks and jewels, with sorrow etched into every line of her face.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” she called, quickly wiping her eyes.

The door creaked open, revealing Damien. He looked disheveled, his dark hair tousled and his hands smudged with charcoal. He closed the door behind him, his expression both urgent and tender.

“Eleanor,” he said, crossing the room in long strides. “We don’t have much time. Your father knows.”

Her heart sank. “Knows what?”

“About us. The servants are talking. He’s furious.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. “What will he do?”

Damien reached for her hands, his grip firm. “It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. Tonight.”

She shook her head, panic flooding her chest. “Damien, he’ll never let me go. You don’t understand the lengths he’ll go to—”

“I do understand,” Damien interrupted, his voice low and fierce. “But I won’t let him keep you here. We’ll run, Eleanor. To the coast, to Paris, to anywhere but this cursed place.”

Eleanor wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that their love could outlast the wrath of her father and the shadows of the manor.

But the house had other plans.

---

As night fell, the manor seemed to come alive. The walls groaned as if resenting their plans, and the air grew heavy with an unspoken warning. Eleanor and Damien met by the old willow tree, where a carriage awaited them.

Damien helped her into the carriage, his touch steady despite the tension that crackled between them.

“We’ll be free,” he said, climbing in beside her. “I promise.”

But as the carriage began to move, a loud, piercing scream shattered the night. It came from the direction of the manor.

Eleanor froze. “It’s my father,” she whispered.

“No,” Damien said firmly. “It’s the house. Ignore it. It’s trying to stop us.”

The scream came again, louder and more anguished. Eleanor’s hands flew to her ears, her resolve crumbling. “I can’t, Damien. I can’t leave him.”

Damien grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Eleanor, listen to me. Your father doesn’t own you. This house doesn’t own you. If you go back now, you’ll never escape.”

Tears streamed down her face. “You don’t understand. It’s not just my father—it’s something else. Something dark. It’s in the walls, Damien. It’s in the mirror.”

He stared at her, his expression a mixture of confusion and desperation. “Eleanor, please. We have to go.”

But the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. The horses reared, their eyes wild with fear. The coachman jumped down, shouting something neither of them could hear over the howling wind that had risen out of nowhere.

The door of the carriage flew open, and a shadow loomed outside.

---

Eleanor screamed as a figure stepped into the moonlight. It was Harold Blackthorn. His face was pale with rage, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Going somewhere, Eleanor?” he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

“Leave her alone,” Damien said, stepping out of the carriage to face him.

Harold sneered. “Ah, the painter. Did you really think you could steal her away from me?”

Eleanor climbed out after Damien, her knees weak. “Harold, please. Just let us go.”

Harold’s eyes gleamed with something dark and dangerous. “You think you can shame me? You think you can run away with this—this nobody?”

He lunged at Damien, and the two men grappled in the mud, their shouts and grunts filling the night.

Eleanor stood frozen, her heart pounding. She wanted to intervene, but terror rooted her in place.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them began to shake. The wind howled louder, and a low, guttural sound rumbled from the direction of the manor.

Both men stopped fighting, their faces turning toward the house. The windows of the east wing glowed with an eerie, flickering light, as though flames were dancing behind the glass.

“The house,” Eleanor whispered.

“It’s angry,” Damien said, his voice low.

Harold took a step back, his bravado faltering. “What is this?”

No one answered. They could only stare as the light in the windows grew brighter, the rumbling louder. The night seemed to close in around them, the air thick with menace.

“Eleanor,” Damien said, grabbing her hand. “We have to go. Now.”

But Eleanor couldn’t move. The house was calling her, its voice a siren song that wrapped around her mind and refused to let go.

“Eleanor!” Damien shouted, shaking her.

She tore her gaze away from the manor and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. “I can’t. It won’t let me.”

Harold, now pale and trembling, muttered something under his breath and took off running into the darkness.

Damien tightened his grip on her hand. “Then we’ll fight it. Together.”

But as they turned to flee, the ground beneath them split open, and the night swallowed them whole.