Eight Guests at 1557

The scream wasn’t sharp. It was a dull, wet sound, like heavy canvas being slowly torn apart. It drifted from the East Wing, where Benedict Thorne kept his private library. You pushed yourself up from the deep leather armchair by the stone hearth, leaving behind a mug of hot chocolate that had long since gone cold. As you crossed the vaulted gallery, the massive crystal chandelier swayed—not from a draft, but as if the very foundations of the lodge were holding their breath. At the walnut double doors of the library, you found Lana, the journalist. She was a statue in silk, one hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the ajar door. 'What happened?' you started to ask, but the words died as you nudged the door open. The smell hit you first. It was a jagged cocktail of aged scotch and that unmistakable copper tang—warm, cloying, and sticking to the back of your throat. The scent of fresh blood. Benedict Thorne was there. Not as he had been an hour ago—the sun-king surveying his snowy empire through panoramic glass—but a collapsed mountain of a man slumped over his polished desk. His face was lost in shadow, his right hand outstretched toward a crystal …