Made of black marble, the fireside shared the same impression of gloomy immovability everything else in the stronghold seemed to emit, and yet it drew his attention, specifically the towering mirror above the dulled mantle. Of French design, the gold-leafed looking-glass had been fixed so as to angle down and capture only those who would stand directly before the fire-pit. Rainsford saw only himself reflected in it as light from the flames set a reddish blush about him. Peeking up from under hooded brows, he had the eerie sensation of looking, not at himself, but at some lonely and distracted stranger. The more he looked, the more the details that made him recognizable evaporated, like an artistic portraiture belonging to another man. His study of the pitiable creature in the mirror, left him detached -at once disconcerting and mesmerizing.

Zaroff was invisible to him.

Outside, Rainsford fought turning back and looking to where Zaroff’s corrupt construct loomed behind him like a guillotine blade, but he could not resist and peered over his right shoulder catching a heavy slice of it. The rising stone walls, seamlessly fitted, made the place look like a fairytale fortress, and he considered how the sun, high enough to cast directly against the walls, came off as dull upon the towering edifice, leaving a brackish smear to blotch an otherwise perfect cobalt sky. Even the tall windows, sunken and appearing raked by long fingernails from a monster hand, refused to reflect the morning’s glory. Any hint of vitality came in the form of various mosses and lichens holding onto the lowest roofs in melancholy desperation against the ripping winds.

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