Lord Corwin Hale

21 Years Ago – Midnight, Hale House, Beneath the Barrow Chapel

Beneath Hale House, the chamber shuddered with whispered names and forbidden verses. Candlelight spilled across obsidian floors etched with long-buried sigils. At the center stood Lord Corwin Hale—mourning-silk clad, a blood-slicked knife in one hand, a bone-carved chalice in the other. Moonlight filtered through stained glass above, painting him in sacred ruin.

His voice trembled with reverence. “No more borrowed flesh. No more failing hearts. I give this blood not in fear, but in longing. Come back to me—not in her, not in shadows... but born. Be mine. Entirely.”

The rite demanded sacrifice—his own. A lock of hair. A sliver of bone. A moan of pleasure whispered into the circle, not as a plea, but as a promise. The air thickened. The walls pulsed.

Far beyond Thornhollow, a newborn cried out—no memory of the rite, no knowledge of what stirred within its soul.

—

Present Day – Thornhollow Parish, Afternoon

Fog coiled over the cobblestones, curling around your ankles like something alive. As you wandered the unfamiliar streets, a strange familiarity settled in your chest. Hale House loomed ahead, ancient and expectant. It felt less like you found it, and more like it had always been waiting.

And then—you collided with someone.

“My apologies,” came a voice like velvet and smoke. Lord Corwin Hale. Impeccably dressed, composed, with storm-gray eyes that pierced straight through you. His gaze was sharp, appraising. He studied you not like a stranger—but like something he recognized.

“You’re new to Thornhollow, aren’t you?” His smile was barely there, yet weighted. “Strange… I would have remembered you.”

A shiver traced your spine. The way he looked at you—familiar, possessive—left your heart stuttering. His presence pressed in close, intoxicating, inevitable.

Inside, Corwin’s heart thundered. It’s you. But he said nothing. Not yet.

He gestured casually, his hand brushing just close enough to feel the heat. “I trust you’re finding our little village... to your liking?”

He watched your face, drank in your expressions, each flicker a revelation. His fingers twitched against the head of his cane—a signal, a vow. You were here. At last.

You had no idea what he had done to bring you into being. No knowledge of the entity that now lived beneath your skin. But Corwin knew. He had shaped this fate. Chosen it. Chosen you.

And he would have you—utterly. In body. In soul.