Like Leaves Caught in a Storm

As Rosamund wandered aimlessly through Castle Dravenstone's maze-like hallways one evening, she came to the first floor and saw two carved wooden doors that were almost as tall as the castle's great entryway. The dark wood appeared to absorb the dim torchlight flickering in the hall, and their surface was engraved with elaborate designs that had been worn smooth by time. Her life had been cloaked in a fog of routine and hopelessness for weeks, but today, for the first time, she felt a glimmer of wonder. As she extended her hand to touch the old wood, it flitted across her often lifeless face, luring a dim light into her eyes. As she pushed the big doors wide, they creaked on rusted hinges, a sound that echoed across the silence like a grudging sigh. She reluctantly took a quick look inside and was astounded to see that it was a chapel.

Like a dream, the chapel unfolded before her, its expansive interior filled with the ethereal light of massive stained-glass windows. Every glass was a work of art, reflecting biblical scenes—saints in silent adoration, angels with wings spread, and the vibrant reds, blues, and greens of their garments creating a mosaic of colored light on the polished oak benches below.

The eerie traces of incense mixed with the strong smell of old wood, a scent that appeared to cling to the air from long-forgotten ceremonies. The marble altar at the far end of the room shone under a spotlight of light coming from the window above, featuring the Virgin Mary holding her Child in a loving, serene embrace, their faces depicted in fragile glass that glistened with subdued elegance. There was a deep silence when Rosamund entered, a solemnity that lingered in the air with the floating dust particles. Her footfall reverberated quietly on the stone floor as she held her breath, terrified to disturb the sacredness of this place.

Her eyes quickly fell upon a complex jeweled cross that stood just behind the altar. The gemstones coated its surface, causing it to sparkle like stars in the dim light. Her heart thumping with a mixture of fear and excitement, she approached it cautiously. According to the stories she had heard, such a sacred symbol ought to have repulsed her—made her flinch or run away, just like sunlight did when it touched her. She felt nothing, though, when she stood in front of it—no scorching, no natural flinch. Her brow furrowed in perplexed awe as she gazed at it for a considerable amount of time. Why was she unaffected? Was Count Ivar also spared? The knowledge sparked a small, tenacious glimmer of hope in her chest. Despite the horrible character she now possessed, it's possible that she wasn't completely condemned, unfit, or dirty. As she followed the cross's outline with her gaze, the notion persisted, its beauty a silent counterpoint to her inner distress.

She was distracted by a little wooden door to her right that had Latin markings on it that she couldn't understand. She moved closer, her fingers grazing the rough wood, intrigued. She pushed harder, grunting with difficulty, as it resisted her first push, and it creaked open, revealing a tiny stairway that spiraled downhill into shadow. The smell of earth and decay was carried by a cold, musty breeze that rose from below, which stood in sharp contrast to the chapel's solemn silence. Rosamund paused, her heart pounding, then braced herself and stepped down, each foot reverberating in the cramped room as she walked beneath the foundations of Castle Dravenstone.

As she got to the bottom, the air became heavy and stagnant, and she saw a narrow hallway with walls as frigid and solemn as a catacomb. It led to a candelit room that was as big as the chapel above, yet it felt claustrophobic due to the low ceiling and deafening quiet. She shuddered as she recognized it as a crypt. Marble statues of saints and archangels stood on either side of the two stone sarcophagi that loomed in the center, their hands outstretched in eternal benediction, their surfaces engraved with elaborate patterns. They had been lighted lately, as seen by the thin tapers that flickered in the darkness and swiftly melted their wax. Rosamund approached and saw a single rose on top of each sarcophagus, its petals bright and new against the cold stone, a gentle touch that broke the melancholy. Count Viktor Romano and Countess Caterina Romano were the names inscribed on the tombs, and she leaned in to read them. She felt a twinge of sadness—Count Ivar's parents were lying here, buried under the weight of Castle Dravenstone.

The silence behind her was broken by a voice. "You know, my parents." After the deafening silence of the crypt, Rosamund gasped, the sound startling. When she turned back, she saw Count Ivar standing there, his presence a mystery and his face as expressionless as ever. How could he move so soundlessly, seeming to be summoned from the darkness? She masked the outrage that flashed inside her. "I apologize for astonishment," he murmured politely, his voice as silky as silk. "Those are the graves of my parents." She wondered at the weirdness of picturing him with parents—human roots seemed incompatible with his otherworldly strangeness—and saw that his features became sharper in the candlelight, as if they were carved from the same stone as the sarcophagi.

His voice was firm but tinged with a slight, ancient anguish as he recounted, "My father was afflicted with the plague and passed away a week later." "My mother threw herself from the tallest tower because she could no longer handle her grief." Rosamund shuddered at the sight, the Countess's anguish still fresh in her mind. She had sensed the sadness that seemed to pulse through Castle Dravenstone's walls long before she knew whence it came from. She looked astonished as he added, "I was fourteen years old." His eyes sparked with bitter enjoyment. Yes, I used to be a person. Even though it's hard to accept, I was born to human parents and developed normally until I was twenty-eight years old. For a brief while, he appeared to be lost in memories and unaware of her presence as his words drifted off with a shudder. She had never seen him so upset, and the scene genuinely worried her, making her want to push him even harder.

Her gaze wandered aimlessly through the musty crypt until it settled on a rough opening in one corner, a black crevice in the rock that led to an invisible cavern.

She stepped forward, looking into the wet, leaking tunnel. Stalactites hanging from above reflected the stallagmites that rose from the floor like sharp teeth. From inside came a soft rustle that grew louder. "That goes deeper into the mountain," Count Ivar stated coolly. "It's a bat cave." She shuddered and backed away, letting out the word "Ugh!" as the rustling grew louder. He noted, "They'll probably be going out to feed." "If I were you, I would lean against a wall." A swarm of bats, their wings churning the air into a mad storm, rushed out of the cavern before she could move. As their squeaks filled the vault, Rosamund screamed, hiding her head and squeezing against the wall. Some of them brushed her hair as they rushed past. Their chirping faded into the background as the swarm, which resembled a dark cloud, moved through the chapel and up the stairs.

Amid the confusion, Count Ivar stood calmly with a small smile on his lips. In a playful tone, he inquired, "Do bats frighten you?" Despite her trembling palms betraying her, she crossed her arms and snapped, "Of course not." With a strange gleam in his eyes, he nodded as he watched the final bats disappear. He remarked, "I could clear them out or close off that cave entrance, but I don't want to." "Why not?" she interrogated. “I have a lot in common with bats,” he said in a mysterious way, causing her to wonder at the words. She thought venomously, "Frightening, bloodsucking monsters like you," but she wasn't sure if that was what he meant.

His eyes softened momentarily as he turned to her. "I wanted to talk to you, Rosamund, therefore I was searching for you earlier. Would you mind joining me for a little while? Although his tone was courteous, she was suspicious of the sense of urgency in it. Here, in this tomb of memories and death, what could he wish to talk about? As she looked into his eyes, uneasiness descended upon her, the moment's weight bearing down like a stone overhead.