Crass dirt roads spit angry grime at the sides of the wooden carriage. A dense fog blinded their way, its mist flooded between the winding timbers that surrounded them. In a constant vibration, her silver cross necklace bounced against her chest, catching the dimming sun the higher it bobbed.

Luckily or not, soon dirt roads transformed into cobblestone as the tipping carriage made its way through the town of Vakar. The cobblestone streets mirrored hand-built wooden houses and animals that bleated into the misty air. Eyes followed her as the carriage hobbled by, each person donning an expression that ran two lines between their eyebrows.

Continuing on through the ever-darkening corridors of once-again turned dirt roads, the horses’ clobbering hooves echoes with each slap of the leather reigns. The voyage had been long and arduous. No moment lent itself to Helena, to allowing her to rest within the trembling of the carriage. It had barely lent itself to granted her time to write. To prepare.

Soon enough, she would arrive at the daunting home of Mr. Athanasia. And she would arrive unprepared and with the fateful gnaw of fatigue nipping at her eyes. This would be her first article as journalist, and therefore nothing could go wrong. She had prayed for seven long nights before departed for this long trip. From the nation of the Goodlands to the grey country of Taranqar.

Hopefully God could hear her prayers so far from home. Even as they ventured further and further from the town now.

The horse neighed with a clattering rattle before sliding to a stop, lurching Helena forward and sending her notebook tumbling to the ground. “Sorry Ms. Bartley! The horse spooked!” The coachman bellowed, his young voice crackling with the dark of night. Most likely he was no older than an adolescent.

Reaching forward, Helena plucked her notebook from the carriage floor, “All is perfectly well!” She responded cheerfully, sticking her head of of the carriage window. Night had painted its black ink upon the world beyond her small carriage, surrounding them in a suffocating manner.

She heard the echoes the whip clatter against the horse a few more times before it began to move again. They had finally arrived, as Helena spotted the peaks of the castle as they beat up the mountain's uneasy floor.

A wrought iron gate stopped the final stretch of Helena’s pursuit. The carriage dipped as the coachman stepped down from his perch. She watched as he moved forward but the large, black crow sitting atop a nearby ornate stone cross swooped in and stole her attention. It sat unmoving, disinterested with the world circling it. Beady, black eyes swallowing the light like it was the end of the world.

Glancing away, Helena dipped her head back into the safety of the carriage walls.

The gate groaned loudly as he pulled it open, the base dragging lines through the crumbling dirt. Now, they had made their way onto infamous Athanasian grounds.

The castle Athanasia was overpowering. Taller than even the most ancient trees on its same plane. They all paled in comparison. Dark, onyx walls shadowed over the forest as it sat atop the summit of Mount Ravak. Sharp tower peaks pulled the castle into the night-darkened skies. Ornate designs and decorations ran up the columns like it had been carved by hand, more meticulously than she had seen before. Helena marveled at the intricate work.

The coachman quickly disembarked as he stopped the horse with a flick of the whip. The door squeaked open as he stuck his hand out in front of the arch to allow Helena a balance to dismount. Her ivory dress slipped out and over the edge as she took her first step. Helena’s brown leather gloves met his calloused hands, “Thank you, sir.”

She thought he might have smiled, but in the night she could not tell if his mouth was permanently fixed in a meek grin or if he had actually smiled.

In her other leather bound glove, a box hung. Heavy with her clothes and books. Helena had had to ask her best friend, Gillian for help when packing because it was fill to the brim.

Her heels clacked against the stone as the coachman rode away. She stopped before a towering wooden door with a large doorknocker placed squarely in the middle. To her right, a stone sign had been engraved in gothic lettering that read, “Ursula Athanasia. Here she lies.”

A most peculiar sign, but then again, reclusive billionaires were not known for normalcy. Not even in the Goodlands.

Reaching upwards, Helena gripped the circular doorknocker, even beneath the leather, she could feels its cold metal wrapped against her palm. It hung from the fear-wrinkled mouth of a man. His eyes were wide and most peculiarly, his canine teeth were of such length that they reached his plump bottom lip. Helena knocked against the umber entrance four times before waiting a few moments before knocking once more.

Immediately, Helena hopped backwards as the entrance groaned loudly as it opened. Waiting a few seconds, after only peering into the castle from her frozen spot, she began to walk inside.

The large foyer entrance glimmered with candles that lined the stone walls. With a small and methodical thump, Helena placed her bag on the floor.

“Hello? Mr. Athanasia?” She called out with a much meeker voice than intended. “Are you here?”

Helena’s eyes tracked up each step of the two sided grand staircase and platform. There, half shrouded in shadows, a woman stood. As tall as the castle itself, she was clad in an onyx dress. The way in which her beauty was something to marvel at, caused Helena to keep her watching intently. Among the darkness of the night that wrapped around the castle, her godlessness festered like a deadly serpent. She was too refined, too unreal, too inhuman. Hair carved back with an oil slick with a sickening smirk that effervescently clung to her cheeks.

The candles cracked and flickered as her steps echoed with the wooden staircase.

For Helena, this is when it clicked. She was not to be in the company of the reclusive billionaire Mr. Athanasia but of Ms. Athanasia.

Oh, how perfect of a subject she would make. Helena decided then that she had no qualms about Ms. Athanasia's gender for it would better provide her a way into Ms. Athanasia's life. A stronger piece for the newspaper it would make.

When Ms. Athanasia finally reached the floor, she outstretched her alabaster skin. Inviting Helena to introduce herself properly, “Helena Bathurst, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Ms. Athanasia’s hand was frozen to the touch, the cold porcelain skin of the porcelain doll in which she resembled. Helena grasped her hand lightly, placing her soft lips just above her frozen knuckles.

Letting go of the palm, she felt the warmth return to her body.

“Ursula Athanasia, and how the pleasure is all mine.” Helena rose to meet Ursula’s cold gaze fixed upon her by those dark eyes. Often, scholars spoke of how the eyes were the windows to the soil, and yet nothing betrayed in hers. A feeling that raced and reflected itself in the eyes of Helena. A feeling she did not know the description nor definition of.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Ms. Athanasia gestured up and around to the sky-scraping glass ceilings and the dark stone walls that surrounded them on the other sides. The vision of Ursula descending them suddenly replayed in her mind.

“If you will, follow me, I will show you to your room for the time being. I am sure you are most indefinitely fatigued from your trip.” The stairs did not creak as they scaled them, which surprised Helena considering the age of the castle. Some had written that the castle had been built for the House of Athanasia all the way in year 900.

Helena trailed behind Ursula like a small child as they weaved through the long and whispering corridors. Then, she suddenly stopped at a double sided door. “Here you shall lie.”

“Thank you.” Helena bowed again, feeling heat wave over her cheeks with lost words.

“Sleep well, we shall discuss more about this…arrangement in the morning.” Ursula’s tone was firm yet undetermined with a similar note of fatigue. The beauty mark above her lip fell above the arch of her lip and scrunched as fatigue cracked at her cupid’s bow.

Helena smiled, her voice was light like an airy wind, “Sleep well also.”

Cracking open the door, the room was dim with a small slit like windows and a high tower. The dark grey stone walls were frozen to the touch. She dropped her case onto the white covered bed. It was insufferably soft and called on her to lay her head down. But she staved off the desire.

Unpacking her things, she laid out her bible on the wooden side table and disrobed into her grey nightgown. She brushed her out ivory hair with aged cream dispersed throughout its length.

Falling to her knees on the side of the bed her fingers drifted together with the prayers to God itching at her tongue, "Father, I thank thee for the night, and for the pleasant morning light. For rest and food and loving care, all that makes the day so fair. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, watch and guard me through the night and wake me with the morning light. Amen." Her fingers unfurled and as soon as her head felt the warm soothe of the pillow her eyes were closed and slumber began.