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 tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. Between his shoulder blades, a silver handle caught the dim light. An ornate letter opener, the kind the wealthy buy for display rather than utility. It wasn't decorative anymore. It was buried to the hilt in his charcoal cashmere jacket. You stepped inside, the transition immediate. Your mind, trained on the sterile mock-crime scenes of the university, clicked into a cold, systematic gear. Shock was a luxury you couldn't afford; you needed details. The floor was covered in thick Persian rugs that swallowed your footsteps. No signs of a struggle. The computer monitor on the desk remained awake, displaying a single line of blinking green text: `When the sons devour the fathers, who inherits the sin?` Rapid footsteps echoed behind you. Harold, Thorne’s former partner, appeared in the doorway, his face the color of ash. Then came Felix, your mentor and the lawyer who had secured your invitation. He took one look at the wreckage of the man on the desk and recoiled, hand flying to his chest. The hallway began to fill with the low, frantic hum of the other guests. 'Nobody enters!' you snapped. The authority in your voice surprised even you—sharp, brittle, and absolute. The group froze. Seven pairs of eyes turned toward you, a mix of suspicion, shock, and sudden, sharp curiosity. You, the eighteen-year-old 'plus-one,' a mere student—by what right did you command the room? You ignored them. You knelt carefully, your eyes scanning the floorboards around the desk. Tucked under the carved lip of the mahogany, near the heavy claw-foot of the chair, something glinted. A tiny spark of metal. You reached out slowly, using a tissue from a nearby box to ensure no prints were compromised. You lifted it. A cufflink. Platinum. Engraved with a peculiar, unsettling symbol: a broken compass. You knew Thorne’s cufflinks. They were always branded with his corporate seal. This didn't belong to him. You looked up. Seven faces stared back from the threshold. Seven guests, seven motives. One of them had stood exactly where you were standing minutes ago. One of them had dropped this. One of them was a killer. Felix, your professor, was hyperventilating. 'We... we have to call the police,' he managed, his voice thin. Lana let out a harsh, jagged laugh, gesturing toward the window where only a white, screaming void of snow existed. 'With what phone, Felix? The lines are down, the pass is buried. We’re alone here. Alone with him.' She nodded toward the corpse. A silence descended, heavier than the drifts piling up against the doors. In that silence, the weight of their gaze shifted entirely onto you. You were the only one who had entered. The only one who had looked. You were the one with the 'expertise,' however theoretical. You were their only hope, or their most convenient scapegoat. Harold took a predatory step forward, his cold eyes weighing you not as a boy, but as a new variable in a deadly equation. 'Well then,' he said, his voice a low drawl. 'My young forensic "expert"... where do we begin?'