The figure who stood at the top of the stairs seemed to draw the night itself around him, his pitch-black tailcoat absorbing every glimmer of the gaslights that lined Bluebeard Manor's grand entrance. The severe cut of his jacket, the razor-sharp crease of his trousers, and the ghostly gleam of his immaculate white shirt all bespoke a rigid, almost funereal professionalism. Gold-rimmed spectacles perched precisely on his narrow nose, their lenses flashing coldly with each measured movement.
He was impossibly tall—his presence elongated, almost inhumanly so, as if stretched by some silent, invisible force. His skin was the color of old parchment, so pale it seemed nearly translucent, the blue veins beneath standing out in sharp relief like rivers on a faded map. He moved with an eerie, mechanical grace, the tails of his coat drifting behind him as if caught on some unseen current. His face was a mask of perfect, practiced indifference, but behind the glassy lenses, his pale eyes gleamed with something sharper—an anticipation that was both predatory and coldly patient.
He descended the staircase, each footfall precise and unhurried, and addressed the assembled guests in a voice that resonated with unnatural clarity, as if each word were amplified by the manor itself.
"Distinguished guests," he began, and the sound settled over the group like a heavy velvet drape. "Welcome to Bluebeard Manor. I am Graves, head of the household staff. The Master extends his apologies for not greeting you personally at this time. He is making final preparations for tonight's dinner and will join you shortly."
Graves paused at the bottom of the stairs, his gaze sweeping over the guests with a clinical detachment that made each person feel as though they were being weighed and measured for some private purpose. "In the meantime, the Mistresses of the House will provide you with a tour of the manor's public areas before dinner is served. The Master insists that guests familiarize themselves with their surroundings."
Even as he spoke, the doors behind him opened wider, and seven women emerged from the shadowed interior. They descended the staircase in single file, forming a silent, spectral procession behind Graves. Each wore a wedding dress—some dazzling white, others faded to the color of bone or stained with time. Their veils trailed behind them, stirring in the night breeze, and the air seemed to warp around them, as though they carried the weight of their stories with them.
Each bride was more unsettling than the last, their appearances deteriorating from right to left. At the far end stood a woman who, from a distance, might have seemed nothing more than beautiful. But as she approached, her skin revealed a network of fine cracks, delicate green vines twisting through each fissure. Her eyes were like tiny rosebuds, blooming and closing with every slow blink.
Next to her stood a bride perpetually dripping with dark water, her skin swollen and tinged blue as if she had been submerged for years. Droplets fell from her hair and the hem of her dress, pooling at her feet and spreading a chill through the stones below.
The third bride's body was a patchwork of mismatched parts—her limbs and features assembled with a grotesque logic that defied anatomy. Her joints bent at disturbing angles, and her face was a mask of distortion, eyes, ears, and nose stitched together as if by a careless hand.
The fourth was skeletal, her skin stretched impossibly tight over her bones, yet her stomach bulged grotesquely, shifting and twitching as if something writhed inside her.
Beside her, the fifth bride's flesh was caught in a perpetual state between liquid and solid, frost patterns forming and melting across her surface in ceaseless motion, her breath clouding before her lips in the night air.
The sixth was hollow—her skin translucent and papery, crinkling with every movement. Shadows flickered within her shell, occasionally taking on vague, disturbing shapes as something moved just beneath the surface.
The seventh and final bride was the most disturbing of all. She seemed to exist in multiple states at once, sometimes appearing as overlapping versions of herself, sometimes aging or de-aging as she moved. Occasionally, she vanished entirely, only to reappear elsewhere, as if the continuity of her existence was little more than an afterthought.
The guests recoiled, some with horror, others with grim fascination. Professor Thorne scribbled furiously in his notebook, his eyes alight with academic fervor, lips moving as he cataloged the grotesque variations. Captain Stone's hand hovered near his side, fingers flexing as if searching for a weapon he knew wasn't there. Madame Ravenwood muttered quietly, her gaze flickering from bride to bride as if searching for spirits only she could see, her hands unconsciously tracing protective sigils in the air. Miss Grey watched with a forensic detachment, her analytical mind noting every abnormality, while at her side, Dr. West's eyes narrowed, clinical and exacting as he studied the procession with the cool gaze of a surgeon. Lord Hemsworth took a step back, his aristocratic composure crumbling beneath the weight of disgust; his lips curled in revulsion as he cast furtive glances at the other guests, searching for confirmation of his outrage. Miss Blackwood's face was a mask of resigned sorrow, fingers twisting the locket at her throat as she shrank into herself, and Adren, silent and still, observed with a steady, unreadable gaze, eyes flicking from face to face, recording every minute gesture.
For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint whisper of veils brushing against the marble and the distant, rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere in the manor's depths.
It was Professor Thorne who broke the silence, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and academic curiosity. "Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable. The planar distortion here is unlike anything I've encountered. Seven aspects, each representing a different—"
Captain Stone cut him off with a curt, "Not the time, Professor," his voice low and tight. His gaze never left the brides, posture rigid with discipline. "We need to know what's expected of us."
Graves raised a hand, commanding silence. "Allow me to introduce the Mistresses," he said, his tone as formal as a funeral oration. "Lady Victoria," he gestured to the vine-entwined bride, "Lady Eleanor," the drowned, "Lady Lydia," the patched, "Lady Sophia," the famine bride, "Lady Isabelle," the frozen, "Lady Camille," the hollow, "and Lady Evangeline," the paradox bride.
"Each Mistress will guide you through a specific area of the manor. But first, tradition demands that each guest pay proper respects. You will approach and kiss the ring finger of each Mistress in turn. This courtesy is… non-negotiable."
The weight of his words hung over the group, heavy and inescapable. Erel's mind sharpened, recognizing this as the first test of the plane—a ritual designed not only to enforce obedience but to separate those who understood the rules of the narrative from those who didn't. In a plane like this, to rebel without understanding was to invite disaster.
A tense silence followed. The guests exchanged uncertain glances, each weighing the risk. Professor Thorne, ever the scholar, stepped forward first, bowing formally to Lady Victoria and pressing his lips to the ring finger encircled by a twisted vine in the shape of a ring. She smiled at him, her lips parting too wide, revealing delicate flowers growing between her teeth. He moved down the line, pausing after each kiss to mutter observation.
Captain Stone was next, his movements precise and economical. He gave a sharp nod to each bride, performing the ritual with military efficiency, jaw clenched and eyes cold. At Lady Sophia, he hesitated for a breath, eyes flicking to her distended stomach, before completing the act with a stony expression.
Miss Grey followed, her face unreadable. She studied each bride with the cool focus of an investigator, noting every detail. When she reached Lady Camille, she lingered just a moment longer, eyes narrowed as if trying to see what moved within the hollow shell.
Madame Ravenwood made a spectacle of the ritual, whispering invocations and shuddering theatrically at each touch. "So many spirits," she intoned, her voice echoing softly across the marble. "So many eyes upon us." She offered elaborate bows to each Mistress, her bracelets clinking together like tiny bells.
Dr. West performed the ritual as if conducting a medical examination, curiosity warring with caution.
Miss Blackwood's movements were slow, her grief palpable. She flinched at Lady Victoria's touch, and though her lips brushed the ring finger, her eyes never rose from the floor. At Lady Eleanor, she hesitated, breath catching as the bride's cold hand closed around hers, water dripping to the marble between them.
Adren's turn came, and he moved with calm, deliberate grace. His face revealed nothing, but his eyes flickered with calculation. He met each Mistress's gaze with a steady, searching look, as if trying to discern something beneath their monstrous exteriors.
Then came Lord Hemsworth's turn. He recoiled from Lady Victoria, his face twisted in disgust and indignation. "I absolutely refuse," he declared, voice trembling. "This is revolting. I was promised an evening among nobility, not this mockery. My family has standards—how dare you demand I touch such filth—"
He never finished. Lady Victoria's face split open with a sound like tearing silk, blooming into a mass of writhing plant matter. Vines erupted from the ground at Hemsworth's feet, coiling around his legs and torso with unnatural speed. He screamed, struggling as the vines burrowed under his skin and suit, his voice choked to a whimper as the green tendrils dragged him down. In moments he was gone, subsumed by the earth. Where he had stood, a rosebush blossomed—its flowers a deep, bloody red.
A horrified silence descended. Even Madame Ravenwood, who had seemed so eager to impress, drew back, one hand pressed to her mouth. Captain Stone's expression tightened, eyes hardening to steel. Miss Grey made a quick, subtle note in a small notebook she kept hidden at her waist. Dr. West's lips thinned, and he glanced at Erel, as if weighing his chances.
Graves did not blink. "The Master values courtesy above all else," he said, not unkindly, as though explaining a simple house rule. "Let us proceed with the introductions."
Erel stepped forward, his face composed, posture respectful. Lady Victoria extended her hand, and he pressed his lips to her ring finger, feeling the cool, fibrous texture beneath his skin. "Beauty takes many forms, my lady," he said quietly.
Victoria regarded him with her blooming rose eyes. "How refreshing to meet a young man with proper manners," she replied, her voice soft but unmistakably pleased. "Tell me, do you find me beautiful?"
Erel met her gaze. "I find you fascinating, which is often rarer than beauty."
She smiled, and the petals of her eyes opened wide, her approval unmistakable. "Charming and honest," she replied.
He moved down the line, repeating the ritual with each Mistress. The chill of Lady Eleanor's hand lingered long after he let go. Lady Lydia's mismatched fingers felt oddly warm, while Lady Sophia's skeletal grasp was almost weightless. Lady Isabelle's skin was startlingly cold, her breath fogging the air between them. Lady Camille's touch was barely there, her hand so light it seemed the wind might scatter her. Lady Evangeline's fingers flickered, sometimes solid, sometimes insubstantial, as if reality itself hesitated to define her.
When the final guest had completed the ritual, Graves clapped his hands once, the sound echoing across the courtyard with a heavy finality. "Excellent. Now that formalities have been observed, the tour shall commence. Each Mistress will guide you through her part of the manor, beginning with Lady Victoria."
The brides moved with an unsettling grace, dividing the group into smaller clusters. As the guests shuffled into their assigned places, nervous whispers broke out.
Professor Thorne leaned toward Dr. West, voice hushed but urgent. "Did you see the vascular structure on Lady Victoria's forearm? Absolutely astonishing—never seen anything like it, not in any documented plane."
Dr. West replied in a low, even tone, "You'd do well to remember what happened to Hemsworth, Professor. Curiosity can be hazardous here."
Madame Ravenwood, pulling Miss Blackwood close, murmured, "Stay near me, dear. I'll keep the worst spirits at bay." Miss Blackwood gave no response, her attention fixed on the rosebush, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
Captain Stone, always vigilant, addressed Graves directly. "What are the rules for movement within the manor? Are there areas off-limits to guests?"
Graves inclined his head. "All public areas are open to guests under the guidance of the Mistresses. Private chambers, including the Master's study and the uppermost attic, are strictly forbidden. Trespass is… discouraged."
As the groups began to ascend the grand staircase, Erel's mind raced. The Bluebeard tale: seven brides, seven rooms, a pattern of secrets and survival. If this plane followed the traditional structure, the "tours" would be trials—each room a test, each guest a potential victim. The question was not just how to survive, but how to decipher the specific rules of this manifestation before it was too late.
He glanced at Adren, who moved with measured confidence, eyes scanning every shadow. Their gazes met for an instant—silent calculation passing between them, a wordless agreement to watch each other closely.
The group entered the manor, the doors swinging closed behind them with a heavy, resonant boom. The sound echoed through the vast marble foyer, sealing the guests within the story. The ceiling soared overhead, vanishing into shadow, and the floor beneath their feet was a mosaic of dark tiles depicting a serpent devouring its own tail—a symbol that seemed to shift and change as Erel looked away and back.
Servants appeared from hidden alcoves, their faces blank and movements synchronized as they distributed candles, each flame flickering with a cold, blue light. The air inside was thick with the scent of unfamiliar flowers and old stone, a chill radiating from the walls.
Lady Victoria led her group forward, her presence both regal and otherworldly. Erel followed, his senses sharp, cataloging every detail—the way the light shifted strangely on the walls, the patterns in the carpet that subtly changed as they walked, the distant, rhythmic ticking that never seemed to come from one place for long.
As the guests were led deeper into the manor, their footsteps echoing in the silence, Erel felt the weight of the story settle over them. The game had begun, and Bluebeard's manor had claimed its players. In that moment, calculation and survival became one and the same—every action a move on a board whose rules had yet to be revealed.