Chapter 1 The manor at the edge of the sky

The road to Blackwood Manor twisted like a serpent through the hills, climbing higher and higher until the sky seemed to press closer than the ground. Aria sat in the back seat of the rattling car, her headphones in but playing nothing. She didn't need music. The silence of the approaching dusk was loud enough.

Outside, the trees leaned in, their shadows long and reaching. The last time she'd seen them, she was ten years old and asking too many questions. Now, at seventeen, she was older, quieter, and no closer to answers.

"Almost there," said Aunt Miriam, from the driver's seat, her voice clipped and tired. "Try not to get lost in your thoughts again."

Aria said nothing. What was there to say? She'd been sent here like a package, addressed but unwanted, following the death of her father in a car accident three weeks ago. There had been no funeral, no family gathering-just a quiet court order and a one-way trip back to the place her father had spent his entire childhood avoiding.

Blackwood Manor.

They rounded a final bend and there it was: perched on a bluff overlooking a sea of pine trees, the manor rose out of the mist like a memory refusing to be forgotten. Gray stone walls streaked with moss, windows like watching eyes, and that damned crooked weather vane still spinning in circles even when the air was still.

"You'll be staying in the East Wing," Miriam said as the car crunched to a stop on the gravel drive. "Don't go exploring. The house is... not as stable as it looks."

That seemed generous. The manor looked like it had been stitched together by a drunk architect with a taste for gothic novels. Aria stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. The air smelled of rain and something older-like burned wood and earth turned over too many times.

Inside, the house was dim. The walls were lined with faded tapestries and portraits of long-dead relatives who stared down at her with suspicion. The floors creaked with each step. The East Wing was up a narrow staircase that groaned like it resented her weight.

Her room was small, with a window facing the forest and a bed that sagged in the middle. A single trunk sat at the foot, already unpacked with her belongings-done, no doubt, by the silent housekeeper who vanished like mist whenever Aria turned to look.

She spent the first few days exploring what she could. The library was locked. So was the conservatory. The only rooms she could access were her own, the dining room where Miriam never ate, and the main hall, where an enormous grandfather clock ticked in ways that seemed inconsistent with time itself.

And then there was the cellar.

She first found the entrance to the cellar on the fifth day. A wooden door, half-rotted and tucked behind a moth-eaten curtain in the pantry. There was no lock, no light switch-just a narrow stair descending into shadow.

Curiosity, as always, got the better of her.

She returned that night with a flashlight and a lighter she'd stolen from her father years ago, back when he still smoked. She crept past the pantry, eased open the door, and descended.

The air grew colder with each step. At the bottom, she found a stone floor and shelves of dusty jars filled with unidentifiable contents. Herbs, maybe. Roots. Or parts of them. Cobwebs draped everything like lace. The beam of her flashlight caught on something metallic-an old sconce mounted in the wall. She pressed it out of boredom.

The wall shifted.

A click echoed through the cellar, and a panel of stone slid back to reveal a narrow passageway.

She should have run.

Instead, she stepped inside.

The tunnel bent downward, curving beneath the house. The walls were damp, carved with symbols she didn't recognize. Her flashlight flickered, then died. The lighter sputtered to life with a flick, casting a tiny flame against the darkness.

That's when she saw it.

A door.

Not wood. Not iron. Stone.

It stood alone, set into the wall as though it had always been there. Around its edges were runes that pulsed faintly in the glow of the flame. Aria stepped closer, heart hammering.

She reached out-and it hummed beneath her fingers.

A low vibration, not unpleasant but definitely alive. She pulled her hand back. The flame flickered, then extinguished.

Darkness.

A whisper.

"Aria..."

She ran then, back up the tunnel, up the cellar stairs, and into the kitchen. She slammed the pantry door shut and pressed her back against it, breathing hard.

Nothing followed.

But something had spoken.

For the first time in days, Aria didn't sleep.

The next morning, Miriam didn't ask why her hands were dirty or why her eyes looked hollow. She only passed her a thin envelope at breakfast and said, "Your grandmother kept a journal. It's in the library now."

"But the library's locked."

"Not anymore."

Aria didn't question it. She took the envelope and walked straight to the library doors, which now stood slightly ajar. Inside, the air was heavy with dust and age. Books lined the shelves from floor to ceiling, many crumbling at the spine.

The journal was easy to spot. It sat on the central reading table, bound in green leather with the name C. Blackwood embossed in gold.

She opened it.

There is a door beneath the manor, the first line read. It is older than the house. Older than us. It calls to the bloodline.

Aria's fingers tightened on the edge of the page.

We were warned never to open it. But we didn't listen. And now the Hollow stirs.

The entries grew more frantic as the journal continued-scratched notes, ink stains, diagrams of runes, warnings in languages Aria couldn't read.

The Door chooses. Not all who enter return. Some are taken. Some are changed.

There were mentions of "the Hollowway," of "the Key," and something called "the Binding." She turned the final page and found only a single sentence:

If it calls your name, it's already too late.

She slammed the book shut.

Back in her room, she examined the key she wore around her neck. It had been her father's-a simple piece of iron on a leather cord. He never said where it came from. She had always assumed it was some forgotten keepsake.

But now it pulsed with warmth against her chest, in rhythm with her heartbeat.

That night, when the stars hung low and thick over the manor, Aria stood once again at the pantry door. She held the journal in one hand, the key in the other.

She had to know what lay beyond that door.

And why it knew her name.