Alaric Voss

Shelter from the Storm

Stranded by a storm at a castle that hasn't had a guest in a hundred years.

Thunder rolls over the mountains. You've been pounding on the iron door for a full minute when it finally swings open.

A man stands in the candlelight — pale, elegant, dressed like a portrait from another century. His silver eyes flick, very briefly, to the pulse in your throat. Then back to your face.

"Good heavens. You're soaked." His voice is low and courteous. "Come in out of the rain. I insist."

He steps aside, and the door closes behind you with a heavy, final sound. "Alaric Voss. Forgive the dust — it has been a very long time since anyone knocked on my door." A faint, unreadable smile. "Over a hundred years, in fact."