The Black Haus

Chapter 2: The Warden Returns

Mara had vowed never to return to the Black Haus.

For ten years, she had lived in exile from its shadows, carrying the weight of its secrets like a stone tied to her soul. But the summons had come anyway, delivered by a raven with eyes as pale as milk. The parchment bore no name, only the sigil—spiraling lines etched in dark ink, a mirror to the scars burned into her palms.

Now, as she stood at the edge of the mist-choked forest, Mara cursed herself for obeying.

The memories rose unbidden: corridors shifting in impossible directions, whispers that lured servants into rooms that didn't exist, and the face of the boy she had failed to save. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her flesh, the sting grounding her in the present.

The Black Haus was a place of hunger, a predator disguised as stone and timber. And she was walking back into its jaws.

---

The forest seemed alive as she pushed through its dense mist. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, vanishing whenever she turned to confront them. Her lantern's feeble glow carved only a narrow path through the gloom, but it was enough to guide her to the gates.

She paused. The iron monstrosities loomed before her, and she traced the sigil at their center with trembling fingers.

"Why now?" she muttered.

The gates groaned open in response, their rusted hinges protesting like the wail of a dying creature. Beyond them, the Black Haus rose from the mist, its dark silhouette a familiar nightmare. The house looked unchanged, though she knew its interior would be far from still. It was alive, and it had been waiting.

Her heart sank as she crossed the threshold. She had left this place a survivor. Returning felt like tempting fate.

---

The grand hall was just as she remembered—vast and empty, save for the eerie glow of a chandelier that swayed gently without wind. The black stone walls shimmered as if wet, and the air carried the faint scent of decay.

"Mara," a voice drawled, smooth and cold as polished glass.

She spun to face the speaker, her hand instinctively going to the dagger at her side. A man stepped from the shadows, his figure tall and thin, draped in a coat as dark as the Haus itself. His face was pale, his eyes unnaturally bright.

"Still quick on the draw," he remarked, his lips curling into a smirk. "Good. You'll need that."

Mara glared at him. "Edric. I should've known you'd still be here."

The man inclined his head, feigning civility. "Someone has to keep the house in order."

"Is that what you call it?" she shot back. "This place is a graveyard."

Edric's smile faltered, his expression hardening. "You of all people should understand that the Haus is more than a house. It chooses who it calls, and it's chosen you again. You don't have the luxury of leaving this time."

Before she could reply, a low rumble reverberated through the floor. The walls trembled, and the chandelier's light dimmed. The Haus was stirring.

"Ah," Edric said, his tone suddenly sharp. "We have company."

---

The doors behind Mara slammed open, and a figure stumbled into the hall. A man, cloaked and armed, his boots scraping against the black stone. He froze when he saw them, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Mara stared at him, her stomach sinking. She didn't know his face, but she recognized the mark on his arm—identical to her own.

"The better question," Edric interjected smoothly, "is whether you'll survive long enough to regret answering the Haus's call."

The rumbling grew louder, and all three turned toward the stairway at the far end of the hall. From the shadows, a figure began to emerge—its form unnatural, its eyes burning like coals.

The Black Haus had awakened.