Mallorie's Pov
The sun didn't wake me. The House did.
At exactly 6:00 AM, the velvet curtains in my bedroom parted with a synchronized, mechanical hiss. The floorboards beneath my feet hummed with the vibration of a thousand hidden gears, and the brass pipes behind the wallpaper gurgled as the water heater prepared for my arrival. It was a rhythmic, artificial heartbeat that I had timed my own breath to since I was a toddler.
I sat up, my dark hair messy against the silk pillows. I didn't reach for a phone—I'd never seen one—or a book. Instead, I looked at the small, typed card resting on my nightstand. It was fresh, the ink still smelling faintly of charcoal.
TASK 01: THE MORNING WARDROBE.
Constraint: The lock has been changed to a five-pin tumbler. You have three minutes.
I sighed, a small, weary smile playing on my lips. "Good morning to you too, Mother," I whispered to the empty room.
I swung my legs out of bed, the cold marble floor sending a shiver up my spine. I knelt before my wardrobe—a heavy mahogany beast with a custom-built brass lock. To anyone else, it was furniture; to me, it was a gatekeeper. I reached under my pillow and pulled out my favorite tools: two slim pieces of metal, a tension wrench and a diamond pick.
My fingers moved with the grace of a pianist, a skill I'd spent years perfecting while other girls my age (wherever they were) probably spent their time learning to dance or drive.
Click. Click. Scrape. Click.
The lock popped open with twenty seconds to spare. Inside, a crisp, pale blue dress hung waiting, perfectly ironed. I ran my thumb over the fabric. This was my life. My "lessons" were woven into the very fabric of my existence. To eat breakfast, I often had to solve a sliding-tile puzzle on the pantry door. To leave a room, I sometimes had to identify the specific birdcall being played through the intercom.
I dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway.
The House of Vance was a monster of stone and ivy, a labyrinthine estate that felt like it breathed. The ceilings were high enough to hold clouds, and the walls were lined with portraits of people I didn't recognize—stiff, unsmiling figures who seemed to watch my ankles as I passed. I always felt like a guest in their home, even though I was the only child who lived here.
"Mallorie?"
The voice came from the Great Hall. It was melodic, calm, and carried the weight of absolute authority.
I followed the sound, my soft-soled shoes making no noise on the marble. Maris Vance was standing by the fireplace, her back to me. She was wearing a gown the color of a storm cloud, her silver-blonde hair pinned back in a perfect, tight coil that looked painful.
"Happy birthday, my dear," she said, turning around. She held a silver stopwatch in one hand and a single white rose in the other.
"Yeah" I said, feeling a strange, heavy flutter in my chest. "Does that mean the lessons are over? No more lockpicking? No more memorizing the chemical composition of poisons?"
Maris walked toward me, the rose held out like a peace offering. She tucked it behind my ear, her touch cool and dry as parchment. "On the contrary, Mallorie. It means you are finally ready for the final exam. Everything I have taught you—the etiquette, the way you can track a heartbeat by watching the pulse in someone's neck—it was all for today."
"I want to go outside, Maris," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to. I looked toward the towering front doors, their iron bolts thicker than my wrist.
"How many times do I have tell you to call me Mother, Mallorie" I didn't respond.. I don't know how..
"I want to see the village. I want to see a person who isn't you or a masked Curator."
Maris's expression didn't change, but her eyes softened in a way that felt more like pity than love.
"The world is chaotic, Mallorie. The House is orderly. Here, you are safe. Here, you are precious. Why would you want to be a stranger in a world that doesn't know your name, when you could be the queen of a world that was built for you?"
She gestured toward the long dining table. Breakfast was a lavish affair: poached eggs, smoked salmon, and fruit cut into perfect geometric shapes. But I couldn't taste a thing.
"Today is a day of transition," Maris continued, pacing the length of the table with the precision of a soldier. "You've spent eighteen years learning how to survive the House. Tonight, you will learn why the House survives you. There is a tradition, Mallorie. A sacred one."
I looked at her, my fork hovering over a perfect cube of melon. "The cards."
"The Testament," Maris corrected. "A deck of cards that determines your place here. Most children we foster draw simple cards. They live quiet lives as staff, or they leave with a small inheritance. But you..." she stopped and leaned down, whispering in my ear. "You are special. I feel it in the way the House reacts to you. The floorboards don't just creak when you walk; they sing."
The rest of the morning was a blur of heightened "celebration" that felt more like a gauntlet. I was put through my paces one last time. I had to identify the vintage of a wine by smell alone. I had to navigate a dark hallway using only my sense of touch to find hidden latches. I even had to stitch a wound on a leather dummy with the precision of a surgeon.
Through it all, the House seemed to be leaning in, watching. The mechanical chimes rang every hour, sounding deeper and more resonant than usual. The shadows in the corners seemed to stretch, reaching for my heels, and the air felt thick—charged with the energy that precedes a massive thunderstorm.
As the sun began to set, painting the estate in shades of bruised purple and gold, Maris led me to the center of the Great Hall.
The obsidian cabinet, which had been locked my entire life, was now standing wide open.
Inside, resting on a cushion of black silk, was a deck of cards. They weren't paper; they looked like they were carved from bone, their edges shimmering with a faint, metallic gilt.
"The rules are simple," Maris said, her voice echoing off the high rafters. "You draw one card. You do not choose the card; the card chooses the hand that is ready for it. Once the card is drawn, the House will seal. The game will begin. If you win, you belong. If you lose..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. I knew what happened to things the House didn't want. They were discarded.
I looked at the deck. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This was the freedom I had wanted—or at least, the only way to get to it. I reached out, my fingers trembling.
The House groaned, a deep, metallic sound that vibrated in my very teeth.
I touched the top card. It felt ice-cold, like a shard of winter. I flipped it over.
The image was of a woman in a tattered white gown, her face obscured by a wolf's skull. Behind her, a forest of thorns twisted into the shape of a crown.
"THE WOLF BRIDE," I read aloud, my voice cracking.
Mother's face went deathly pale. For the first time in eighteen years, I saw her composure shatter. The silver stopwatch in her hand hit the marble floor with a heavy, final thud.
"The Hardest," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Mallorie... you've drawn the Hardest card in the Testament."
Suddenly, a massive, booming chime shook the entire estate.
CLANG.
Then another.
CLANG.
High above, the great iron shutters of the House began to slide into place, blocking out the sunset, blocking out the stars, and plunging my world into a terrifying, artificial night.
The House was no longer my home. It was a cage. And the hunt had just begun.
I felt the blood drain from my face as the shadows of the House lengthened, swallowing the light. The card in my hand felt heavier than it should, the bone-cold surface pulsing against my palm.
"I— I don't want to play your fucking games, Mother," I said, my voice shakingly thin, barely audible over the grinding of the iron shutters.
I looked at her, pleading, hoping to see a flicker of the woman who had tucked me in and taught me to read by candlelight. But Maris didn't move. She stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the "Wolf Bride" card with a mixture of profound terror and a dark, twisted sort of pride.
"It isn't my game anymore, Mallorie," she whispered, her voice sounding like dead leaves skittering across stone. "It's the House's. And the House has been waiting eighteen years... for you."
The last sliver of sunset vanished as the front doors boomed shut, the heavy bolts sliding into place with a definitive, bone-jarring thud.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise. It was the silence of a predator holding its breath.
Then, from the darkness of the East Wing, came a sound that made the hair on my arms stand up—a slow, rhythmic scraping, like a blade being dragged over velvet.
"Run, Mallorie," Maris said, her composure snapping back into a chilling, robotic mask.
"The first chime has ended. You have a head start. Use it."
I didn't wait for her to say it again. I turned and bolted into the dark.