It was supposed to be a quiet morning.
Zina had promised herself she wouldn't explore anymore. Not after the mirror. Not after the ledger. Not after realizing that the house itself might be keeping score.
But the house had other plans.
She woke to a chime.
Soft. Melodic. Ancient.
Not from her phone. Not from the walls.
From somewhere else.
It tugged at her. A barely-there sound that felt like her name was stitched inside it.
She slipped out of bed and into her robe, the sigil on her palm glowing faintly. She didn't even realize her feet were moving until she was halfway down the staircase.
The east side of the estate had changed again.
There were new hallways—ones she hadn't seen before. Ones that shouldn't have existed.
This one was silent. Floor of white marble, polished so bright it mirrored her movements beneath her. The walls were lined with old portraits, their eyes rubbed out or faded into nothing.
Everything here was too clean.
Too quiet.
Until she saw it.
A broken teacup. Pale blue porcelain, cracked into four perfect pieces. Still warm to the touch, as though someone had just dropped it.
There was no one else around.
Just Zina and the air… and the silence that felt too heavy to trust.
She bent down, slowly, instinctively reaching for a shard.
It nicked her finger before she could stop.
She hissed. "Damn it—"
Blood welled to the surface, bright and real.
One, two, three drops spilled from her hand…
And landed on the marble.
The floor hissed.
Like oil in fire.
Zina stood upright, clutching her hand, panic creeping into her throat.
The blood shimmered on the surface—then sank into the floor like it had been absorbed.
A fine crack etched itself around the drops.
Then another.
And another.
A spiderweb of lines spread across the marble beneath her, pulsing slightly, like the house had inhaled.
Then—the whispers.
Low. Echoing. A chorus of voices with no source.
> "The blood is awake..."
> "She bleeds. She belongs."
Zina staggered back. "No—no, no, no—"
The air grew thick. Cold.
The chandelier above her flickered.
Something moved in the reflection of the floor.
Not her. Something else.
Footsteps. Rapid. Approaching.
Kain appeared like a storm—black shirt unbuttoned, eyes burning with something that wasn't anger… wasn't fear… but urgency.
"What did you do?" he snapped, voice low and sharp.
"I cut myself—just a little—it wasn't—"
He didn't let her finish.
He took her hand carefully, scanning the cut. It wasn't deep, but blood still clung to her skin.
Then he looked down.
The cracks in the marble had stopped growing—but they were still pulsing, like veins just beneath the surface.
"There are no accidents in this house," he said.
Zina swallowed. "What does that mean?"
He met her eyes. "It means the house is listening."
Zina shivered, pulling her robe tighter as she looked down at the marble.
"You talk like the house is… alive."
"It is," Kain said. "In its own way."
"That's not possible."
He tilted his head slightly. "Neither is a contract sealed by blood. Neither is a mirror that sees what you forget. Neither is surviving the thirteenth spot in a cursed bloodline. But here you are."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
There were no arguments left. Just questions she didn't want the answers to.
"Is it just the house?" she asked. "Or… is it you?"
Kain said nothing. But his silence was heavy.
She stepped back. "Tell me something, honestly. Have you ever loved any of them? Any of the others?"
His eyes darkened, but not with anger.
Regret.
"Once," he said.
"And what happened?"
"She bled too soon."
🕯️ The Ritual Room
She had never seen this room before.
It was hidden behind a sliding panel near the eastern drawing room.
The space smelled of salt and dried herbs. Candles floated mid-air—flickering silently without smoke. In the center was a stone basin filled with silver liquid that looked too thick to be water.
Kain dipped a cloth in the basin and pressed it to her cut.
It stung.
But not like antiseptic.
More like it was pulling something from her.
"The blood of the bride is sacred," he said. "If spilled outside the ceremony, it wakes the house."
"It was one drop," she whispered.
"That's all it takes."
He wrapped her hand in a strip of black silk.
Not bandages.
Silk.
"Why silk?" she asked.
"To muffle the scent," he said. "Not everything in this house is loyal to me."
Her eyes widened. "You mean there are others here?"
Kain didn't answer directly. He just stepped back and turned toward the doorway.
"Do not bleed again," he said.
And then, he left.
🕯️ Back in Her Room – That Night
Zina sat on the edge of her bed, heart still racing. The mirror remained veiled—but she could feel its hum, like it knew something had changed.
She turned her palm upward. The silk wrap was dark and smooth, now warm with her body heat.
Beneath it, the sigil pulsed.
Slow.
Steady.
Hungry.
She remembered what the whispers had said.
> She bleeds. She belongs.
And the truth settled in her like ice:
This house didn't just want her to live here.
It wanted to own her.
Body. Blood. Name.
She lay back against the pillows, but sleep didn't come.
Not because of the mirror.
Not because of the curse.
Because for the first time…
She wasn't sure Kain was trying to save her anymore.
Maybe he was just keeping her alive long enough to use her.