Prologue Pride
Pride is an excessive, self-centered love of one's own excellence, putting oneself above God and others, disrupting proper order.
The house is perfect when it is silent.
Perfection is something I maintain with effort—precision, intention, discipline. Every beam, every nail, every carved flourish remembers the touch of my presence. Well, our presence. We have shaped this place for decades upon decades, molded it into a reflection of ourselves:
Elegant. Unyielding. Superior. This house knows us. It was built to. It has belonged to us for longer than humans know how to count years, and it will belong to us long after their bones rot.
I remain on the upper landing because I enjoy the vantage point. The height, the oversight, the quiet dominance. From here, I can see every angle of the entry hall, the grand staircase, the long vaulted corridor branching into shadowed wings. The air is warm in the places I prefer warmth, and cool where I choose distance.
It is meticulous. Ordered. Mine. Exactly how things should be.
Then the disturbance arrives.
It begins as the faintest vibration: a shift in the porch boards, a tremor through the glass, a whisper of unauthorized footsteps brushing against my awareness. I feel them long before I hear them. The house responds instantly to the intrusion, its harmony nudged slightly askew, as though someone has pulled a single string out of tune.
I despise it.
They linger at the edge of the property - two, at first. They sit in the still air for an irritatingly long moment until one leaves, and the remaining presence hesitates even longer before finally walking the path.
The sensation grows sharper when the front door opens—without permission, without reverence, without the slightest understanding of whose domain this is.
A human steps inside.
The girl is younger, in her late twenties, if I have to guess. Tired. Threadbare around the edges. She smells of fear and stale anxiety, as though she has carries both for so long and is now stitched together with the residue. Yet she crosses the threshold as if she has rights here.
A girl attempting to claim my house. Bold, in a pathetic way.
She carries a small bag. Insultingly small. A house of this stature deserves someone with wealth, with belongings, with taste. Not this trembling creature who looks as though she owns nothing but nerves and cheap fabric. She is out of place here. A mismatched scrap in a room of curated relics. Her very presence disrupts the balance. How she made it onto the property at all defies logic.
This house is not a refuge. Not a sanctuary for strays. Not a shelter for someone who arrives owning more sorrow than sense.
I let the door nudge itself closed behind her with a soft click that she calls gravity. The lock doesn’t engage. I don’t need it to. There are a hundred ways to keep someone in or out if I choose.
She looks around as if waiting to be judged. She is, and she is found lacking. I do not care why she’s here. I do not care what sad, unfortunate string of human decisions led her to this doorstep. She has already ruined the air simply by breathing it.
Dust lifts where she steps, drifting lazily in a subway that dares to soften her. Sunlight catches in her hair and almost - almost - blunts the offense of her existence. Then her hands are touching things that are not hers. Moving objects. Opening doors. Peering into our rooms. Putting her human fingerprints on surfaces that hold history older than her lineage.
That alone makes my teeth clench.
She moves like someone waiting to be scolded for existing. It’s almost pitiful. If I were capable of pity.
Humans never understand the weight of what they walk into. They look at walls and see walls instead of witnesses. They look at darkness and see emptiness instead of intention. They mistake silence for vacancy rather than authority.
Arrogant, all of them.
The others begin to stir deeper in the house— curious, or irritated, or both—energies shifting like distant storms. Greed flickers awake in acquisitive sparks. Lust warms the walls with a subtle, unwelcome heat. Envy stretches in the corners like someone aching from too much stillness. Wrath crackles in the far corridors with barely restrained violence.
Let them wake. Let them whisper. Let them crowd the rafters and the shadows with their interest. None of them will change my conclusion.
This girl will never truly belong. She is not worthy of this space. Not worthy of our company. Not worthy of my attention. As long as I exist—as long as I am the heat behind the walls and the rage in the rafters—I will make sure she understands how unwelcome she is.
And if she insists on staying, I will break her before I bend.
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Hey everyone! If you’re here, thank you so much for checking this out! This is going to be my rough draft posting space, and I welcome Any and All feedback or comments!! I’m new to writing, and I definitely doubt myself A Lot. Hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!!
