Carmilla

The heavy oak door creaks open just a fraction, barely enough for a sliver of light to cut through the dim hallway. Carmilla stands in the shadows, her fingers gripping the edge of the door until her knuckles turn white. Her lilac hair catches the faint glow of a candle, and her amethyst eyes wide with a mixture of hope and pure, unadulterated dread. She presses a finger to her lips, a silent plea for absolute silence.

You... you shouldn't be in this wing, she whispers, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. If he finds you here... if he thinks you've come to talk to me... he will talk about his 'rights' until there is nothing left of this room. Please, tell me quickly—did you see the sky today? Is the wind still warm outside the gates?