Court of the Cursed

The morning after Abigail Russo's death, the mansion was unusually quiet. Mathew sat at the long dining table, his untouched breakfast before him. The sunlight filtered through the grand arched windows, casting intricate patterns on the tablecloth.

Alden entered the room with his usual grace, carrying a folded newspaper. "Your morning reading, sir," he said, setting it down beside Mathew's plate.

"Thank you, Alden," Mathew replied absently, his eyes distant.

The butler observed him for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in the untouched coffee and the slight furrow in Mathew's brow. "The case seems to have left its mark," Alden ventured, his tone gentle but probing.

Mathew's lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. "I imagine it would leave a mark on anyone. The defendant died in my courtroom. Not exactly the conclusion I anticipated."

"Nor anyone else," Alden agreed, stepping back to stand at attention. "The papers are calling it 'The Trial of Shadows.' Quite the poetic title for a tragic event."

Mathew glanced at the paper, the headline glaring back at him: *"Beauty, Death, and Mystery: Abigail Russo's Haunting End."* He sighed, pushing it aside. "The media always finds a way to make the macabre romantic."

Alden inclined his head. "They do thrive on intrigue. But it's not just the media. The staff at the courthouse spoke of… peculiarities during the trial."

Mathew's eyes flicked to Alden. "What peculiarities?"

"Whispers of flickering lights, strange noises, and an oppressive air," Alden said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Superstitions, no doubt, but unsettling nonetheless."

Mathew leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window. "Superstitions have a way of taking root in fertile soil. People fear what they don't understand."

Alden regarded him carefully. "And you, sir? Do you fear what you don't understand?"

Mathew didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood and walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Fear is a distraction, Alden. It clouds judgment."

"And yet, it keeps us vigilant," Alden said, his voice thoughtful. "Sometimes, a healthy dose of fear is necessary."

Mathew's gaze remained fixed on the London skyline. "Perhaps."

---

The day passed in relative quiet, but Mathew couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. Even the mundane moments felt heavier, as though the world was holding its breath.

That evening, Alden found him in the study, staring at the flames dancing in the grand fireplace.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" Alden asked.

"Yes, thank you," Mathew replied without looking away from the fire.

Alden returned moments later with a glass of whiskey, placing it on the side table. "You've been quiet today," he noted.

Mathew took the glass, swirling the amber liquid. "Just thinking."

"About the trial?" Alden asked.

Mathew nodded. "And about what it all means. There's a pattern to these events, Alden, but I can't see the full picture yet."

Alden hesitated before speaking. "If I may, sir, you've always had a way of seeing what others cannot. Perhaps the answers are closer than you think."

Mathew glanced at him, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Ever the philosopher, Alden."

"I merely state the obvious, sir," Alden said with a faint smile.

---

That night, as Mathew prepared for bed, the unease that had lingered all day began to sharpen. He dismissed it as the residual tension from the trial, but deep down, he knew it was more.

He lay in bed, his eyes on the ornate ceiling, his mind churning with unanswered questions. Why did he have this power? Why was he able to see Abigail's true form when no one else could? And why had his shadow revealed those wings?

His thoughts spiraled until exhaustion finally claimed him.

But it didn't last.

Mathew woke abruptly, his chest heaving as though he had just surfaced from deep water. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs.

He sat up, running a trembling hand through his hair. The room was silent, the darkness almost oppressive. But the silence wasn't comforting—it was charged, like the air before a storm.

He froze, his senses prickling. There was a presence.

It wasn't loud or overt, but it was there, pressing against the edges of his awareness. He scanned the room, his sharp eyes piercing the shadows.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm despite the unease coiling in his chest.

No answer.

Mathew rose from the bed, his movements deliberate. He walked to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain. Outside, London shimmered under the pale moonlight, but the city's beauty felt distant, almost alien.

The feeling of being watched grew stronger. It wasn't the malevolent force he had sensed in Abigail's domain, but it was no less unsettling.

For a long moment, he stood there, his breath steady, his mind racing. Whatever it was, it hadn't attacked, but its presence was undeniable.

And it was watching.

---

The mansion remained silent, but Mathew knew that his life was about to change again. This wasn't over.