Arrival at Ashenvale

Nathaniel Grey had never believed in ghosts.

The villagers had warned him, of course—whispered things about the house at the edge of Ravenhollow, about its history and the rumours that had long since taken root in their collective memory. But Nathaniel wasn't the sort to indulge in such nonsense. He dealt in facts, in things he could see and measure. Ghosts, curses, haunted houses—they were nothing more than stories, the kind that small towns clung to like old, worn-out blankets.

Standing at the gates of Ashenvale, he couldn't deny that the place had a certain... atmosphere. The iron gates, streaked with rust, loomed before him like the open maw of some great, forgotten creature. Beyond them, the house itself rose against the slate-grey sky, a hulking silhouette of stone and ivy. Its windows were dark, its walls weathered by time and neglect, but it was still standing. Solid. Real.

He adjusted the collar of his coat, more out of habit than necessity. The autumn air was crisp, but not cold enough to bite. Not yet. He had work to do, and the sooner he started, the sooner he could leave this place behind.

Nathaniel pushed open the gates, the iron hinges groaning in protest, and made his way up the gravel path. Each step felt deliberate, the crunch of stone beneath his boots the only sound in the stillness. The house loomed larger with every step. It was an impressive structure, no doubt about that—built in an age when craftsmanship and grandeur were valued above all else.