Gregynog Hall II (18+)

Mist gathered low over the gardens of Gregynog Hall, curling like smoke through the box hedges as the carriage came to a halt. Gwendoline stepped down, her eyes drifting up the black-and-white timber façade of the Hall, Tudor-style and grand, surrounded by the lush green gardens.

He was waiting at the door. New to this land, but his presence was fixed, anchored, as though the Hall had always belonged to him. “You came”, he said. Gwendoline gave a small nod. “You sent for a lady’s maid”, she said gleefully, “and I have arrived”. His mouth twitched, but not into a smile. “Not just a maid, you.”

He led her through the quiet halls, past portraits of the Davies sisters and forgotten benefactors, past a grand piano wrapped in dust sheets. “My wife arrives at month’s end”, he murmured as they climbed a narrow stair. “Until then, I need… order.” Gwendoline said nothing. She knew these halls and she could feel the pull of something beneath them, beneath the gardens, where roots tangled over older things.

His chambers were as she remembered: dim, scented with smoke and myrrh. “You remember the vows”, he said, removing his gloves, his eyes locked to hers in the mirror. “Discipline. Silence. Devotion.” Gwendoline moved to the chaise without waiting to be told. The air was thick with something almost liturgical. Her skirts were lifted with methodical reverence, and the first strike echoed like a ritual bell; sharp, clean, final. He chanted softly as his hand fell again, syllables dredged from the mud of forgotten Welsh, the language not of revival but of invocation.

“Discipline. Silence. Submission”, he whispered as his hand came down, hard and unerring. “But for you, witch, there is one more: Power.” Each strike echoed with words he did not learn in any school or Temple—but from her, years ago.

Her skin glowed with crimson heat, her moans had turned to murmured prayer. His fingers tracing the curve of her spine. “You can’t be ordinary. You were anointed, Gwendoline. This is your mother’s legacy.” Tears pricked at her eyes, but she did not blink. She had tried to move amongst the mundane: in parishes; in parlours; in salons—but nothing ever quieted the hunger like this.

“The Dark Immortals are still far away”, he whispered. “But they listen. Through us.” She looked to the mirror, and what she saw there was no longer wholly her: her eyes seemed black, lips parted in joy or agony or both. Behind her, the Master’s expression was not one of plain cruelty, but rather of reverence. Below them, somewhere deep under Gregynog’s shifting stones, something stirred. Watching. Waiting. Approving.