Back in Edinburgh, deep within the hauntingly ancient MacLeod estate, Abigail's eyes fluttered open, her consciousness slowly clawing its way back from the abyss of unconsciousness. A deafening throb pulsed in her skull, each beat like the toll of a funeral bell. Blinding pain surged across her body, searing her nerves awake with ruthless clarity.
She shifted slightly, and agony exploded through her torso—a white-hot flash of torment that nearly drove her mad. Her breath hitched. She gasped, blinking through the shadows. The air was heavy, dank, saturated with the musty scent of old decay and fresh rot. Cobwebs hung like curtains across the narrow walls, and dust swirled in ghostly clouds with each feeble breath she drew. It was a crypt—her crypt.
Attempting to move her legs, another lightning strike of pain ripped through her. She screamed.
"Ouchhhhhhhhhhh! Haaaaaaa!"
Her cry was raw and jagged, echoing off the wooden enclosure. Gasping, she looked down. And then she saw them—jagged nails. Dozens of them. Driven deep into her limbs, shoulders, and sides. The grotesque spikes varied in size, but each was wickedly sharp, having burrowed through her flesh and anchored her into the box like a slab of butchered meat nailed to a wall. The pain she thought had dulled returned with a vengeance, cascading all at once like a dam breaking.
A scream tore from her lips—shrill, broken, agonizing—as the nails ground deeper into muscle and bone with every slight motion. Blood had long since crusted, turning her skin a sickening blend of black, purple, and rust-red.
She reached up in terror, wanting to touch her face—to confirm if she was still whole—but what met her fingers made her heart sink.
A warm, pulpy sensation. Soft, raw flesh.
"No...no...no—" she whimpered.
Twisting her face in horror, her fingers trailed along the once-majestic contours of her cheek. Gone. Half of it—gone. Torn away, melted, oozing. Blood had stopped pouring, now replaced by rot. Her skin—what remained—peeled in layers like burnt parchment.
The image struck her with horror.
She remembered. She had attacked the MacLeod family, a foolish move powered by desperation, vengeance, and the support of the dead witches. But she hadn't anticipated the little girl... The child. Barely four years old—was she even that old? The memory haunted her. That overwhelming aura of raw power. Divine and infernal, interwoven.
A demigod daughter. The seed of a hellish prince. And still, Abigail had underestimated her. That was her greatest mistake.
And the witches—those deceitful, backstabbing serpents—had abandoned her the moment things went south. Left her to rot in this cursed box, drowning in her own filth, bleeding from a hundred wounds. A betrayal she should have foreseen. But ambition had blinded her. Now, her thirst for vengeance would only lead her to eternal damnation.
She tried again to move—perhaps even to scream, to call on some shred of power—but the box was too tight. Too cruelly designed. Each twitch sent the nails deeper. She could feel their jagged ends grinding against bone.
Then—creeeeeak.
The sound jolted her.
The lid.
Light.
A blinding stream of sunlight sliced through the darkness like a sword. Abigail's breath caught in her throat. The sudden brightness stung her eyes, now raw and swollen. The stench in the box had grown unbearable—her own waste, urine, blood, and sweat creating an odor that clung to the air like a curse.
And then she saw her.
Catherine Dobrev.
No longer the meek, overlooked wretch she once was. She stood regal and terrifying, beauty molded into a blade. Her brunette hair cascaded like a silk curtain to her waist, flowing around the delicate curves of her figure like a goddess reborn. A majestic silk gown clung to her perfect frame, while her sharp heels clicked across the floor like the sound of final judgment. Her doe-like eyes no longer held innocence—they gleamed with pure, unfiltered rage. Her skin, glowing and flawless, spoke of power, privilege, and divine favor.
"Finally," Catherine said, voice like velvet over a blade. "After all these years, we get to talk."
She stepped closer, ignoring the vile stench pouring from the box.
Every move she made oozed confidence, authority, and control. Even her gown moved with regal elegance. But behind her beauty was something darker. Fire. A demon's fire. Catherine's transformation was complete.
Abigail glared up, hatred coiling in her stomach.
There she was. The girl she had once pitied, once tried to help. Now, a queen. A billionaire. A mother of twins. A woman with two husbands. Everything Abigail had lost.
"Enjoying the view?" Abigail hissed through cracked lips, blood dribbling down her chin. "Because soon, it'll all be gone. Lamia—your precious headache—will be the first to fall. And just imagine what Hadrain will do when she's lost. He'll tear the world in half."
She smirked, eyes bloodshot but burning with venom. "You think you've won?"
Catherine leaned closer, eyes narrowed.
"Is that jealousy I smell?" she whispered. "Even now, you can't accept that Lamia never wanted a decaying sack of waste like you."
She chuckled darkly, lips curling.
"Why don't you smash that rotting brain of yours against a wall—maybe it'll function at one percent. Because right now, your stupidity is reaching divine levels."
Abigail's face twisted in rage.
Catherine was unfazed. She sauntered closer, revealing a steel hammer in her hand—gleaming, heavy, lethal.
"You dared," she said slowly, voice cold. "You dared to break into my home, lay hands on my baby, and almost kill the man who gave me life. You attacked my son, Abigail. My family."
Her eyes darkened—pupils swallowed by a demonic shade of blue-black.
"You made it personal."
Abigail growled, the nails shifting slightly and sending new waves of pain through her.
"You want answers, Cathy? You get nothing. Nothing! I'd rather rot again than give you the satisfaction of knowing how I returned. And if I do get out of here… you're dead. Your precious family—dead. And this time, there won't be any miracle to save you."
She raised her middle finger with effort, her lips curling into a broken sneer.
"Fuck you."
Catherine smiled. Not sweetly. Not kindly.
The kind of smile the devil wears when a soul is about to be dragged to hell.
"You never learn," she said. "But you will now."
And without hesitation, she lifted the hammer.
And swung.
A sickening CRACK exploded through the chamber as the hammer collided with Abigail's joint.
Abigail screamed—a scream so loud and primal it felt as though it came from her very soul.
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—!"
Catherine raised the hammer again.
Then a shift in the atmosphere stopped her. A darker presence rolled into the room like thunderclouds collapsing upon each other. Shadows lengthened. Power thickened in the air.
Catherine turned.
"You're late, Hadrain."
From the darkness stepped a figure cloaked in crimson and shadow. A long sword, dark red and humming with heat, hung from his fingers. His eyes burned like dying stars.
"Sorry, honey," he said. "Now, should we start with her intestines, or would you prefer we roast her nerves one by one?"
His claws unfurled—long, obsidian, and glinting with death. He moved toward the broken figure in the box, his steps like the toll of doom.
Catherine stepped out of the chamber, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
Now that Hadrain had returned, it was time to find Lamia—her husband. Whatever the enemies were plotting, they would all burn.