Third Point of view
The hands yanked her backward—rough, cold, and unrelenting.
Aveline screamed, twisting, her elbow slamming into something solid. A grunt followed, and she staggered free, spinning to face her attacker.
But there was no one there.
Only shadows and the whisper of wind through the open balcony.
The body was gone.
The blood, gone too.
Like it had never been there.
Her breath came in short gasps. She backed into the wall, her heart thundering like a war drum. "No... I saw her. I saw her."
But the room betrayed no evidence. The bed was still made. The stone floor spotless. Only the balcony doors swayed gently in the storm's wind.
Her fingers shook as she touched her chest. It was real. It had to be real.
He killed me. You're next.
Lucien.
Who else in this cursed place could silence a scream and erase a corpse?
Before she could question herself again, the balcony doors slammed shut. Every torch in the chamber flared violently and then extinguished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then—breath. Not hers. Cold and ancient.
A presence pressed against her mind like frost on glass.
She didn't scream this time.
A whisper clawed its way into her ear. "Run, little witch. Before he feeds on your soul like he did the others."
Aveline spun around, fists raised.
Nothing.
Only silence.
Then, the candles flared back to life—warm, bright, ordinary. The room had reset. Again.
But she hadn't imagined it. She knew what she felt.
Something unnatural lived here—and it was trying to warn her.
---
Hours Later – The Duke's Study
Lucien sat behind a massive desk of carved obsidian, swirling a glass of blood-red wine. Flames flickered in the hearth, casting his sharp profile in golden shadow.
He didn't look surprised when Aveline barged through the door.
"You broke the ward," he said calmly.
"You erased a corpse," she snapped.
"Did I?"
"There was a woman in my chamber. Dead. Blood everywhere. Then she vanished. Along with the warning carved into her chest."
Lucien exhaled slowly. "Ah. Seraphina again."
"You know her?"
"I buried her."
Aveline's stomach turned. "Was she yours?"
"She was… many things." His eyes darkened. "Curious. Brave. A little foolish."
"What happened to her?"
Lucien stood and walked to a towering shelf. He pulled a heavy book and tossed it to her. It hit her chest with a thud.
The cover read:
Lady Seraphina Velle – Executed, Year 1129.
"She tried to twist the Blood Oath. Use me to break her own curse. Instead, the ritual consumed her."
"And you just watched?"
"I warned her." Lucien returned to his chair, voice low. "Like I'm warning you now."
Aveline's hands tightened around the book. "You could've stopped it."
"I did stop it," he said coolly. "By surviving."
She stepped forward, fury and confusion swirling inside her. "What is this curse, Lucien?"
His eyes met hers. "It's ancient. Hungry. It binds itself to bloodlines—and to men like me."
"Men like you?"
"Half-breeds. Tainted by demonic blood." He raised his goblet in mock salute. "Cheers to noble lineages and infernal mothers."
She stared. "You're… part demon?"
"Was. The ritual sealed most of it away. Until the next full moon."
"And then?"
Lucien's voice dropped. "Then I need someone like you."
She took a step back. "To break it?"
His smile was sharp. "To feed it. Or be broken by it."
---
The Catacombs Beneath Blackthorn
The stairway into the catacombs wound deep beneath the keep. The walls narrowed. The air thickened. Her lantern's flame flickered.
Lucien waited at the bottom, cloaked in shadow, surrounded by an altar of bone and stone. Candles flickered in concentric rings. In his hand—a dagger of obsidian fused with red crystal.
"You came," he said.
"I want the truth."
"Then shed your innocence, little witch. You'll find no mercy here."
He sliced his palm open.
Blood spilled across the altar.
The ground trembled.
A sound—like a thousand whispers at once—filled the air. The candles dimmed. A black mist began to ooze from the cracks in the floor.
Lucien didn't flinch.
Aveline stepped back.
"What did you summon?"
"The truth."
The mist rose higher, swirling around her ankles like smoke made of ink. Then a voice—female, ancient, ragged with pain—echoed through the catacombs.
"She cannot save you."
The fog parted.
A woman stood before them.
Ghostly pale. Skin torn. Hollow black eyes. The same face Aveline saw on her balcony.
Seraphina.
She pointed at Aveline.
"He is the curse. Not the cure. He feeds on the ritual. It makes him stronger. You are not here to save him—you are here to keep him alive."
Lucien growled. "She lies."
Seraphina's form convulsed, blood running down her ghostly mouth. "He killed me… and now, he'll kill you too."
The ghost exploded into mist. Screams echoed.
Aveline stumbled backward—but the stone beneath her feet cracked.
Hands clawed from the ground. Bones. Skeletons. Ancient and groaning.
They surrounded her, whispering.
"Aveline… Aveline…"
She turned to Lucien—but he stood still, eyes glowing red.
"Don't let them touch you," he said sharply.
Too late.
One hand grazed her calf—
A flash. A vision.
She lay on the altar. Chained. Naked. Lucien stood above her, chanting in an ancient tongue. His hands bloodied. Her magic draining into the ritual circle as she screamed.
"You were never meant to survive this," he whispered.
She gasped and collapsed.
The hands retracted. The catacombs fell into silence.
Aveline lay on the cold floor, trembling, heart thundering.
Lucien stepped toward her. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Her voice cracked. "Was it real?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But if you saw it… it means the castle has chosen you."
"For what?" she asked.
Lucien crouched beside her, his expression unreadable.
"For sacrifice," he whispered.