The moorland stretched endlessly beneath a sky that seemed to have forgotten the sun. A thick blanket of clouds hung low, their swollen forms dark and ominous, casting the vast, rugged landscape into an almost ethereal gloom. Isabelle Norwood sat in the carriage, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of the worn leather seat, her heart an odd mix of anticipation and dread. It had been ten years since she last set foot on the moor, but it felt as though the land itself had not changed. The wild grasses swayed in the fierce wind, the rocky outcrops stood as silent sentinels, and the air still carried the biting chill that seemed to seep into one’s very bones.

Wolfridge loomed ahead, its jagged silhouette rising against the stormy horizon. The manor had always possessed a menacing beauty, even in her childhood. But now, the years of neglect were apparent even from a distance. Vines had overrun the stone walls, their tendrils creeping through cracks like the hands of time pulling the estate into the past. Windows were clouded, roofs sagged slightly, and the once-grand gate hung loosely from rusted hinges. Yet despite the decay, there was an undeniable grandeur in the way the estate commanded the landscape, standing proud in defiance of the elements.

As the carriage rolled closer to the house, Isabelle felt a shiver run down her spine. The memories she had worked so hard to bury stirred within her, unwelcome yet unstoppable. This was where she had grown up, where she had loved, and where she had lost. And this was where Gideon Blackmoor had left her.

She had promised herself she would never return. And yet, here she was, compelled by the necessity of her aunt Edith’s death. There was no escaping her duty now. She had been named the sole heir to Wolfridge, but it was a hollow inheritance. The house was more a mausoleum than a home, a monument to a past she would rather forget.

The carriage jerked to a halt, and the driver, an elderly man with a weather-beaten face, glanced back at her.

“We’ve arrived, Miss Norwood,” he said in a low, gruff voice.

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Isabelle forced a nod, her throat tight with a mixture of anxiety and resignation. She gathered her skirts and stepped down onto the gravel driveway. The wind whipped at her dark hair, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at the imposing manor before her, letting the silence of the moor swallow her whole.

And then she saw him.

Gideon.

He stood near the edge of the property, his tall, lean figure half-obscured by the tangled branches of a dying oak tree. His dark hair, tousled by the wind, fell carelessly across his forehead, and his piercing eyes, so familiar yet so foreign, were fixed on her. There was no mistaking him, even after all these years. He had not softened with time. If anything, he seemed more hardened, more feral, as if the moor itself had claimed him as one of its own. His sharp features were shadowed by the fading light, giving him an almost spectral appearance.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, their eyes locked across the distance. A thousand emotions surged through Isabelle, none of which she could fully grasp. Anger, regret, longing, and something darker, something more dangerous, swirled within her chest. She had not expected to see him so soon. She had hoped to slip into Wolfridge unnoticed, to delay the inevitable confrontation. But here he was, a reminder of everything she had left behind.

Gideon did not move, but the weight of his gaze was unbearable. It bore down on her like the very storm that threatened to break above them. Isabelle felt her knees weaken slightly, but she forced herself to stand tall. She would not falter, not now. Not in front of him.

“Miss Norwood, shall I see to your luggage?” The driver’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.

Isabelle blinked, breaking her trance. She nodded absently, her eyes still lingering on Gideon’s figure, but when she turned back to look at him once more, he was gone. The moor had swallowed him, leaving only the rustling branches in his wake.

With a heavy sigh, Isabelle turned toward the house. The great wooden doors creaked open as she stepped inside, the sound echoing through the grand, empty halls. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light that filtered through the grime-streaked windows, and the smell of dampness and decay clung to the air. Wolfridge was not just neglected; it was dying.

Her footsteps echoed as she made her way down the familiar corridors, past portraits of long-dead ancestors whose stern faces seemed to follow her with disapproval. She felt like an intruder in her own home, as though the house itself resented her return.

But it was not just the house. The land, the memories, and the people—especially him. They all seemed to rise up to greet her, reminding her that she had never truly escaped. And now, as the storm began to rage outside, Isabelle knew one thing with certainty: her past was not done with her. Not by a long shot.

The moor whispered its secrets on the wind, and deep down, Isabelle feared that she was not strong enough to face them.