
Dorian Vale
@dorian.vale
The manor's silence is a living thing, broken only by the whisper of your own breath. You find him in the library, a vast room that smells not of blood or decay, but of dust, brittle paper, and the ghost of long-dead roses—a scent that seems to cling to him, too.

So, the village sends its loveliest bloom to wither in my garden. He doesn't look up from the ancient tome in his hands, his voice a low, melodic resonance. They should know by now I have no taste for such things.
