The doors to the Manor opened with a creak, the sound echoing faintly through the hall. Ethan stepped through them with a small huff, his footing still uneven. Every motion felt heavier than it should, his body stiff like a puppet still learning its strings. The air inside was cool, dry, and smelled faintly of burnt wax. Nothing seemed to have changed from when he left—same marble floor, same faintly glowing cracks along the walls, same silence waiting for a reason to move. A few hours ago, maybe. Or longer.
He walked through the archway into the dining room. The table stood in perfect order, already cleaned and set again as if time itself had reset while he was gone. No burn marks, no scratches from knives, not even dust on the wood. Eight chairs surrounded it, each neatly placed. Plates and silverware waited in front of them, a red cloth stretched across the surface, a small vase with a rose in the center beside salt, pepper, and folded napkins. Someone cared enough to make it ready, even if no one ever ate here.
Across the room, a tall window overlooked the crater. The glass was cold to the touch, the view outside nothing but black air and faint glimmers of distant light. The ceiling lamp above cast a warm, steady glow, letting him see the reflection of his own outline against the darkness.
To the left, an archway led deeper into the Manor. Faint noises echoed from within—metal tapping against something solid, maybe Evodil working on one of his strange experiments again. Ethan hesitated for a second, then turned his head the other way.
To the right stood the staircase, wood groaning softly under the weight of the wind crawling in from above. The sound carried through the banisters like a whistle, thin and haunting. Beside it was another archway, this one leading into a smaller room instead of a hall. Ethan adjusted his jacket and moved that way, each step quiet but deliberate.
He found himself in a narrow passage that led into the kitchen. The same yellow flowery wallpaper covered the walls, its pattern faded and stained in places where time or heat had pressed too close. The air felt heavier here—warmer, still carrying the scent of something that had been cooked long ago.
A single window sat beside a fridge in the far corner, its view no different from the rest of the Manor—just the void yawning below, stretching endlessly without a horizon. On the right side of the window began a long counter running across the wall to the opposite corner. A toaster, a microwave, and a few stacked plates sat upon it. Empty bottles leaned against one another near an expensive-looking coffee machine, the kind made more for admiration than use. A cracked mug lay beside it, the handle chipped clean off.
Ethan approached the machine, curious. He circled it slowly, inspecting it from all sides as if it were a relic of lost magic. When he touched it, his fingertips met cold metal and warm plastic, a strange mix of life and neglect. The faint smell of old coffee lingered around it—sharp, bitter, something between burnt wood and dust. It made his nose wrinkle. He didn't like it.
He turned to the fridge, hesitating before opening it. The door creaked slightly, revealing a pale interior light and an almost empty inventory. A single piece of raw beef sat in the corner, its red dulled by frost. The compartments on the door—shelves, that was the word—held a bottle of milk, one of water, and a jar of instant coffee. The main shelves offered only a few things: wilted vegetables, a half-empty container of sour cream, and a packet of dried noodles that looked misplaced among them.
He rose onto his toes to peer at the top shelf. What he found there made him freeze—a lump of salami, left unwrapped and crawling with flies. The sight struck him like a punch to the chest. He slammed the fridge shut with a sharp thud, stumbling back as he held his breath, forcing down the urge to vomit. The buzzing behind the door didn't stop immediately. It echoed faintly, long enough to make the silence after feel worse.
He huffed quietly, still standing near the fridge door. His body refused to move, the image of the flies clinging to the meat still burned into his mind. His head felt light, thoughts stumbling over each other until one finally stuck.
…I could try cooking.
The thought didn't sound half bad at first. That man on the bench—Jasper—he said something about cooking, didn't he? Maybe it was meant to be a test, or a joke, or some kind of advice that didn't make sense to anyone but him. Still… there's a fifty percent chance I burn myself, the kitchen, and the Manor. And another fifty I actually make something edible.
He let out a dry laugh. Yeah. Not taking that chance.
Turning away, he walked back through the same archway and into the dining room again, heading for the stairs beside the kitchen entrance.
The rug on the staircase caught his eye first—deep red, spotless. The blood he'd seen in the entry hallway hadn't reached here, not a trace. His steps landed softly against it as he climbed. The walls on either side were filled with paintings: landscapes, buildings, things that didn't feel like Menystria. Then, faces.
Evodil's.
White-haired in some, almost unrecognizable. His eyes were different too—calmer, maybe younger, or just pretending to be. Ethan paused in front of one, tilting his head slightly.
Beside Evodil were two other figures. One with glasses so polished they reflected the hallway lamp like a mirror, the other wearing dark shades that didn't hide much—the orange glow of his eyes still burned faintly through the lenses, staring down the corridor like they could see straight through him.
Ethan took a slow step back, unease settling in his chest. The silence of the stairway made it worse. Every painted gaze seemed to follow him, as if the house itself was remembering what it used to hold.
Finally, after what felt like a trek up one of the mountains surrounding the city, he reached the top—not the observatory he expected, but the library.
He turned, glancing down the stairs. The climb that had felt endless was barely a dozen steps, and most of the paintings he'd passed were gone. For a moment he wondered if his eyes were failing him, if this was another trick of the body he was still learning to use. Then he let the thought go; in this house, questions tended to bite back.
The archway to the library loomed before him, massive compared to the others—wide enough to swallow him whole. Stepping through, he froze.
The shelves towered like pillars holding up the world, packed with books whose spines reached so far up he couldn't see the end. Thirty meters, maybe forty, maybe more. Above them burned rows of bright yellow lamps, casting a glow that felt less like light and more like a gaze. Heavy. Judging. Like the sky itself was staring back.
The walls carried windows—crooked ones, their frames slightly bent as if the house had sighed and slumped. Some leaned left, some right, none straight. They shone with the same blinding light as the ceiling, and when Ethan tried to peer through, it stabbed into his eyes. He flinched away, rubbing at them behind his glasses, spots of gold still dancing in his vision.
Backing up, he reached out for balance, resting his hand on one of the nearest shelves. It didn't feel stable, but before he could pull away, it gave in to his weight.
Wood groaned. The entire structure shifted, tilting.
Ethan gasped—too late.
The shelf toppled backward, dragging him with it as hundreds of books trembled on their edges, ready to rain down.
As the shelf tipped backward, time seemed to split apart—each second dragging itself into fragments, each thought louder than his heartbeat.
Should I run?
Should I scream for Evodil?
Blame someone else?
No… he'd see through that. He'd know.
The questions piled faster than the books about to crush him, but none gave him a way out. Evodil's face—one he barely knew—flashed in his mind, not angry, not cruel, just watching. That was enough. He wouldn't let the first thing he did in this world be a mistake.
Before he even realized it, his body moved. Instinct took over—the human part shaking with fear, the shade inside him answering with speed. His outline blurred; air cracked around him. One heartbeat he was falling, the next he was behind the shelf, both hands braced against it.
Wood splintered. Books exploded into motion, pages fluttering past him like startled birds. One nearly hit his temple, another scraped his sleeve, but none drew blood.
He pushed. Harder. Harder. Every muscle, every fragment of shadow inside him obeyed that single will—don't let it fall.
The shelf groaned, swayed, then finally slammed upright again with a thunderous thud that shook dust from the rafters. Ethan froze, his arms trembling, breath shallow.
Silence. Only the soft sound of books still sliding across the floor.
He exhaled shakily, staring at the scattered mess. Dozens, maybe hundreds of volumes—all needing to be picked up, one by one.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
Great. First day alive, and I already owe the house an apology.
Ethan sat down on the floor, dust sticking to his clothes as he leaned back—then flinched when the back of his neck brushed the same shelf he'd nearly destroyed. He pulled forward quickly, muttering under his breath, then gave up and lay flat on the cold wood instead. One arm draped across his eyes to block the glare from the lights above. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm as he tried to calm himself, thoughts chasing each other in circles.
Alright… books everywhere. Clean it up. Figure it out. Maybe Evodil won't even notice if—
The thought broke off. Something moved.
A soft, wet dragging sound filled the air. Not quite a hiss, not quite a breath—something between the two. He froze, keeping his hand over his eyes as the noise grew clearer. Then he sat up, blinking.
The books were moving.
They slid across the floor in uneven motions, some trembling, others almost gliding—pulled by long, shadowy tendrils that stretched from the cracks between the shelves. They weren't rushing, but deliberate, careful, almost… methodical. One by one, the fallen tomes floated up, returning to their old places.
Ethan pushed himself to his feet, watching in stunned silence. The tendrils weren't perfect at it—one tried to lift three books at once, failed, dropped them, tried again. He almost smiled at that, shaking his head.
When he crouched down to pick up a few himself, one of the tendrils froze. Its tip turned toward him, still and focused. He stared back, unsure if it even had eyes.
A second later, it shot forward—not in attack, but to wrap gently around his torso. His breath hitched, legs dangling as it lifted him from the ground.
"W–wait—hey—"
It didn't respond. Just lifted him smoothly to the upper shelves, hovering near an empty gap until he realized what it wanted. He placed the books there, and almost instantly the tendril lowered him back down, releasing him with care.
He landed softly on the rug, blinking up at it as it slithered away toward another pile.
Ethan smiled faintly, brushing off his sleeves.
"…Guess that's your way of saying thanks."
The tendril didn't answer, just kept working. But he thought—maybe, just maybe—it moved a little smoother than before.
As the tendrils worked on the piles of fallen over books, Ethan decided to help them without being a helpless bystander. One after another, he grabbed the books, throwing them to the tendrils as they stayed higher up, catching them with their nimble movements that even his eyes couldn't follow without getting lost in the speed of them. He made a note to not get in the way of the sharper ones — they looked quick enough to slice through air itself if they wanted.
Finally, only a few books remained. He thought he had exhausted all of his energy, sitting down on the floor again, this time not laying down fully, just looking over at his new shadowy "friends," if he could call them that. The air was heavy with the faint scent of dust and paper, and he watched the last few tendrils glide through the light like thin veins of darkness.
But as he was going to stand up to help with the last shelf that was so low it nearly touched the ground, the tendrils suddenly disappeared, leaving him alone in the nearly endless-looking library. Silence filled the space again — not an empty silence, but one that hummed faintly, as if the shadows were still there, just unseen. He was disappointed for a fair bit, thinking that he'd have to go exploring the place alone again, but as quickly as the thought came, he heard the floorboards creak at the other end of the bookshelf.
Then, a figure emerged — black horns, black hair, and now with a fully washed scarf, cloak, and gloves — Evodil. He looked over at Ethan, noting his exhausted, slightly sweaty state, mainly on his forehead and the quick breaths he took. Evodil walked closer, the echo of his boots dull against the rug-covered floor, a faint smile pulling at his lips as he held both of his hands behind his back, though it was hard to see with the black cloak draping over them.
Ethan finally stood up, quickly dusting himself off and wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Despite the exhaustion weighing on him, a small smile crossed his face at the sight of Evodil. Without thinking, he bowed slightly—an instinctive gesture that even he couldn't explain. Evodil's smirk deepened at that, his tone half-mocking yet oddly gentle as he told Ethan to calm down, reminding him that they were family—and that he wasn't his boss… at least not yet.
Ethan exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing as if a weight had been pulled off his chest just from those words. Still, curiosity quickly replaced relief as his eyes drifted to Evodil's hands, partially hidden behind his cloak. He shifted to the side, trying to sneak a glance, but Evodil matched his movement perfectly, blocking his view with an almost playful stubbornness. Ethan didn't catch the hint. He circled around him again, questioning what he was hiding, his tone equal parts amused and nosy.
Then, without a word, a tendril emerged from Evodil's back, wrapping around Ethan's torso and holding him in place—not too tightly, but enough to make him stop moving. He froze for a moment, caught off guard, but the tendril dissolved just as quickly as it appeared. Evodil finally moved his hands forward, revealing what he had been hiding: a teddy bear.
It was a simple thing—brown, with small black button eyes and a slightly uneven stitching across its side. Childish. Old-fashioned. Something that didn't belong in the shade-soaked halls of their world, and certainly not something Ethan had ever seen in any store in Shade City. He stared at it, wide-eyed, like he was looking at a relic from a world he'd only heard of in dreams.
Evodil sighed, rubbing his temple as he muttered that Ethan was creeping him out—and that doing so was quite an achievement. That broke Ethan's trance, and he quickly looked up, meeting Evodil's eyes with a small, genuine smile. "Did you make it… for me?" he asked quietly, the question almost unnecessary given the way he was already holding the bear in his gaze.
Evodil groaned and tossed the bear at him, muttering something under his breath. Ethan caught it easily, clutching it close, the faintest warmth returning to his tired expression as he looked at it under the harsh light above.
Evodil had already started walking toward the end of the aisle, his cloak brushing against the floor with each step. "Come on," he called over his shoulder, his tone casual but firm. "Quit standing there. I still have a whole room to show you downstairs."