Chapter 1 Whispers in the Dark

The cathedral loomed over the city like a watchful sentinel, its spires piercing the sky, its stained glass whispering ancient stories in the glow of the dying sun. Isolde had always found solace in its shadows, in the quiet hum of forgotten history buried within its stone walls. As an archivist, her days were spent among dust-laden tomes and crumbling manuscripts, tracing the echoes of lives long past.

Yet, despite the cathedral's grandeur, her world felt painfully small. The silence that once brought comfort had become a prison. She craved something more-something beyond ink-stained hands and the dim glow of candlelight.

The first time she saw him; she thought him a Specter.

He stood at the threshold of the cathedral's great hall, half-draped in the twilight, his figure motionless yet radiating an undeniable presence. The flickering candlelight caught in his dark eyes, giving them an almost unnatural gleam. He was dressed in garments both elegant and antiquated, a long coat that clung to his tall frame, the collar high, shadowing the pale curve of his throat.

"Isolde."

The way he spoke her name was as though he had whispered it for centuries, as if it had always belonged to him. A shiver ghosted down her spine. "Do I know you?"

A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. "Not yet."

His voice carried an old-world cadence, a melody wrapped in mystery. Isolde's pulse quickened-not out of fear, but out of something far more dangerous.

"Who are you?" she asked, though a part of her already knew the answer wouldn't come easily.

The stranger stepped forward, the heavy doors groaning shut behind him. "A traveller. A seeker of forgotten things." He let his gaze drift across the vaulted ceilings, the towering pillars. "And you... are a keeper of them."

She swallowed, her throat dry. "I am an archivist."

"Indeed." His gaze flickered to her hands, ink-stained and trembling. "And do you ever wonder if some things are meant to stay forgotten?"

A sharp gust of wind rattled the stained glass above, sending fractured colours dancing across the stone floor. Isolde forced herself to hold his gaze.

"History is meant to be remembered," she said.

A soft chuckle. "History is a cage, sweet Isolde. It binds the living to the dead. Tell me... do you long to be free?"

She should have turned away. Should have dismissed him as a passing stranger, a dream conjured by candlelight and too many lonely nights.

Instead, she whispered, "Yes."

And in that moment, with a knowing tilt of his head, he stepped closer-too close. The scent of old books and something darker, richer, filled the space between them.

"Then," he murmured, "perhaps we are not so different after all."