The book was a prison all its own.
Page after page, name after name, history soaked in blood and betrayal.
The ancient families.
The blood debts sworn and broken.
The wars fought for power, for pride, for survival.
Maryna closed the book with a hard snap and pushed it away.
The silence of the estate pressed down on her, thick and suffocating.
She needed air.
She needed to move.
Careful not to make a sound, Maryna slipped out of her quarters.
The hallways were dark, the torches burned low, casting long, shifting shadows.
No guards.
No footsteps.
It was as if the whole house was holding its breath.
Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone as she moved, keeping close to the walls, trusting instinct more than memory.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that she needed to go somewhere he hadn't ordered her to.
A hidden corridor caught her eye—narrow, almost invisible behind a heavy tapestry.
Maryna pulled the fabric aside and slipped through.
The air changed immediately.
Cooler. Dustier. Forgotten.
The corridor wound downward, deeper into the heart of the estate.
The walls grew rougher, ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of passing hands.
It felt like stepping into another world.
Maryna's hand brushed along the wall for balance—and froze when her fingers found a groove.
Carvings.
She leaned closer, squinting in the dim light.
Symbols.
Names.
Words written in a language she didn't understand.
But one symbol stood out—a butterfly, carved carefully into the stone, its wings spread wide.
Her breath caught.
Mariposa.
A shiver crawled down her spine.
How long had it been there?
Long before her?
Long before him?
Deeper still, she followed the winding path until it opened into a vast, circular chamber.
The walls were lined with paintings.
Portraits.
Faded, cracked, but still powerful.
Men and women with sharp eyes and cruel mouths.
Kings without crowns.
Monsters dressed as gods.
And in the center, larger than life, a portrait that made Maryna's heart stop.
Vasilios.
Younger.
Softer.
Smiling.
Not the cold, deadly creature she knew now.
This Vasilios had light in his eyes—a kind of reckless joy that seemed impossible to imagine.
Maryna's fingers trembled as she reached out, stopping just short of touching the canvas.
What had broken him?
What had twisted the man in the painting into the monster who now held her captive?
Behind her, the air shifted—a whisper of movement, a breath on the back of her neck.
Maryna spun, heart hammering.
But there was no one there.
Only shadows.
Only ghosts.
She backed away slowly, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears, until she found the tunnel again.
The butterfly carving caught her eye one last time, its wings seeming to flutter in the flickering torchlight.
A warning.
Or a promise.
Maryna didn't know.
She only knew one thing:
Whatever she had just seen—
Whatever secrets this house held—
Vasilios wasn't the only one wearing a mask.
And she was running out of time to figure out what lay beneath it.
To be continued…