As they stepped through a heavy side door and into the open air, Penelope involuntarily shivered.

The estate’s ground of the courtyard was glistening, every leaf, stone and blade of grass washed clean by the storm. Mist clung heavy to the cobblestones, and the scent of damp earth and pine needles was intoxicatingly thick in the morning air.

"It is just past the old orchard, My Lady" the butler murmured as he guided Penelope, leading the way down to the secluded gravel path.

The gravel crunched loudly beneath their boots, breaking the eerie, post-rain silence of the ground.

The further they walked, the quieter the estate seemed to become.

Eventually, the path opened into a small clearing, and Penelope slowed.

What she saw was unlike any memorial shrine she had ever seen.

Before her stood a towering, imposing structure of dark, rough-hewn gray granite. Rather than graceful arches or elegant marble columns, the buildings resembled a mini-fortress. Massive blocks of stone formed thick walls reinforced with heavy iron bands, and the fortress was sealed tight with a single oak door.

Wild ferns sprouted from cracks between the stone steps leading to the entrance, while patches of moss clung stubbornly to the granite. It was obvious that few people came here, or none at all.

"We are here, My Lady," the butler whispered, stopping at the base of the massive granite steps.

For reasons she could not properly explain, Penelope found herself staring at the sealed door in silence.

The longer she stared, the less it resembled a family shrine to her.

A knot tightened in her stomach.

Why had Vincent built something like this just to abandon it?

"Open it," Penelope said softly. "I need to go inside."

The butler hesitated before reaching for the keys hanging from his waist. Selecting a heavy brass key, he inserted it into the lock, and the massive door creaked open.

A breath of stale, chilling air rushed out to meet them.

Penelope stepped inside, her leather boots echoing softly through the enclosed silence, and she stopped.

The interior was dark and solemn, constructed almost entirely from polished black granite. The stone reflected the faint light filtering through the narrow slits high in the walls, and it cast pale streaks across the floor. Unlike the ornate mausoleums she had seen in noble estates, there was nothing decorative about this place. There were no grand statues, and no extravagant carvings.

The sanctuary looked like it was built with the same uncompromising practicality one might expect from a military fortress. There was nothing sentimental about it. Nothing comforting. That led Penelope to believe Vincent could not have built this place himself. He had been far too young when the Late Marquis family died.

The silence hanging over the chamber was not peaceful.

It was oppressive.

As though the dead resting here had been sealed away rather than laid to rest.

At the center of the far wall sat a raised altar piece, and mounted directly above it were two large memorial tablets carved from pure white marble.

The stark contrast against the dark granite immediately drew Penelope’s attention.

She walked closer, her footsteps slowing as she read the names engraved into the stone.

Arthur Devereux

Marquis of Aelgard.

Matilda Devereux

Marchioness of Aelgard.

Below their names and titles, where a traditional family blessing or a loving epitaph should have been was left completely blank. There were no blessings, no words of remembrance, and no lines honoring their legacy.

"There’s nothing," she murmured to herself.

Vincent had simply carved their names, sealed them in stone, and left.

Penelope exhaled softly, her hands resting on her hips. She wasn’t completely sure what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

On the altar beneath the tablets sat two silver candleholders. The candles themselves had long since burned down, and their wax had hardened into uneven streams along the metal.

Beside them rested a pair of blackened roses and for some unknown reason, those withered roses unsettled her more than anything else in the room.

This wasn’t a memorial lovingly maintained by a grieving son. It looked more like a monument of unresolved guilt and resentment.

"What...happened here?"

Penelope turned to the butler, who was lingering by the entrance. Martha, on the other hand, wouldn’t even step inside.

"Why doesn’t the Marquis visit his parent’s altar? Why is it like this? Was there a rift between them?"

Sir Francis opened his mouth and then closed it shut. It looked like he was weighing what to say, how to say it, before he let out a weary sigh.

"The Marquis’s relationship with his parents was... complicated," he admitted. "But after their deaths, things became far worse for him. He was still very young when he had to inherit the title, the estate, and the responsibility that would have crushed grown men, all the while dealing with his own emotional problems. But for someone who tragically lost the one family that took him in, he had no choice."

The butler’s expression softened with old concern.

"There is so much I cannot risk spilling, My Lady. I’m afraid you’ll have to get your answers from His Lordship directly."

Penelope understood the butler’s reluctance to share, so she did not press further.

Instead, she looked back at the altar, her heart pounding as she studied it.

Perhaps she was right.

Maybe there really was more to the story than what was shared to society.

Everyone believed Vincent had a good relationship with his family, and that the late Devereux treated him well. They romanticized his adoption and turned it into a tale of noble charity.

They looked for reasons to paint him as the bad person with every chance they got, simply because he was not a Devereux by blood, and it seemed the accident with his parents gave them the leverage.

When she crouched down near the base, the hem of her wool coat brushed the floor, and that’s when she noticed something strange on the dark stone beneath the dust.

A dark crimson stain.

The withered black rose resting upon the altar bore similar marks, their brittle petals stained a deep, dried red. Nearby, several tiny droplets had darkened the granite itself, preserved by the stale, dry air of the sealed chamber.

For some reason, as if drawn by an invisible, unsettling force, Penelope ran a gloved finger over the dark mark. She pulled her hand back, her brows furrowed as she stared at the stains. It wasn’t old paint, and it wasn’t wax.

Given the pristine state of the tablets, this blood didn’t belong to the night his parents died. It had been spilled after.

"Sir Francis," Penelope asked, her voice tight as she remained crouched. "How often is this place cleaned?"

The butler blinked.

"Twice a month, My Lady. More if instructed, though His Lordship rarely comes here these days. The staff dust the stonework and sweep the floor, but they have standing orders not to disturb the offerings."

Penelope’s mind raced. If the altar was maintained regularly, these stains should not have survived for decades.

Someone had bled here much more recently.

She looked at the heavy, windowless granite walls, the sheer density of the room hitting her all at once. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

"This fortress existed before being turned into a memorial shrine, didn’t it?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder at the butler. "What was it?"

Sir Francis swallowed hard, his posture stiffening. "It... it was an old solitary confinement cell, My Lady. Built during the early wars to hold high-value prisoners of the crown. The late Marquis later repurposed it and used it—"

"What is going on here?"

A cold, lethal voice sliced through the damp air from the entrance.

Penelope turned toward the entrance, and her eyes settled on Vincent standing in the doorway.