The words had dragged sothing primal from him. Sothing raw, festering in places no one could reach. Pain lanced through him like his very bones were cracking under so unseen force, trying to hold back sothing far older, far hungrier than he dared to na.
The blood at his feet sizzled as it touched the etched runes, releasing a stench so bitter it seared his nostrils.
Berith clenched his teeth so tightly he thought his jaw might snap. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The pain was an anchor, the only thing keeping him from splintering.
The thing inside him bucked hard against the binding, shadows coiling at the edges of the circle. And still, it pushed. Whatever lived inside him—bound and buried and starved was stirring.
Let go.
We can break it all.
She will never forgive you anyway.
The whispers were always the sa, curling around his ears. His grip tightened around the dagger until his knuckles bleached white.
"You will not touch her," he growled into the empty room. "If you must break, you break within ."
The darkness roared in his ears. The thing inside him laughed. A low, guttural thing, a sensation. Like the earth itself rumbled beneath his ribs.
But he stayed kneeling. Stayed bleeding. Stayed bound.
Ti blurred. Seconds or centuries might have passed. All he knew was pain and the pressure of sothing straining at the walls he had built around it. The gate within him pulsed, awake now, watching. Waiting.
Finally, his strength gave out. He slumped forward, his forehead pressed to the cold, blood-slicked stone.
The pain receded to a dull roar in his skull. But the gate inside him did not sleep.
It was awake now. And it was watching.
The sound of boots scuffed down the staircase.
Silas.
The old butler hurried into the room, carrying a lantern, its dim glow catching on the jagged lines of blood and burned runes. His face paled when he caught sight of his master sprawled in the middle of the circle, blood pooled around him, runes scorched into the stone.
"Your Grace!" Silas rushed forward, kneeling beside him. The man’s hands hovered, unsure where to begin, as if afraid a wrong touch would shatter the brittle thing Berith had beco.
"You’re not supposed to be here," Berith muttered. His voice scraped like broken glass. He tried to sit up, but his arms trembled too much to support him. He hated weakness. Hated needing anyone.
"And you weren’t supposed to bleed yourself half to death alone in the crypts, Your Grace," Silas snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. It was the voice of soone who had served too long, seen too much, and still cared more than he should.
Berith didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Silas broke off, seeing the spider web of black veins crawling up Berith’s arms. The veins pulsed like sothing alive. "You’re bleeding magic." he expressed and there was sothing like sorrow in his voice. "Bleeding it right out of your skin."
Berith managed the barest flicker of a smile. Grim. Empty. "Better it bleed... than break."
Silas didn’t laugh. Didn’t disagree. Instead, he shook his head and pulled a thick black piece of cloth from his satchel, wrapping it tightly around Berith’s shoulders–the way a father might care for a wounded son.
Silas hesitated. Sothing passed over his face, a flicker of hesitation not common for the man. "I think Lady Marcella did sothing with the fla," he said. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have such reaction on your body, Your Grace."
"You think she’s tampered with it?" He pulled up a dark smirk. Then, he opened his eyes, staring at the dark ceiling.
"I don’t trust her, and we should report it to His Majesty before the wedding." Silas said it gently, as though he knew how dangerous the suggestion was.
Berith didn’t speak imdiately. He just stared at the ceiling, blood now drying around him like ink around a broken pen. "No."
"Your Grace...."
"No," he repeated. "If sothing is wrong... I’ll see it for myself. I don’t need the King’s court sniffing around her."
The old butler exhaled, resigned. "You must rest before the wedding ceremony," Silas was concerned. "You can’t let them see you like this."
He slipped one arm beneath Berith’s and carefully helped him to his feet. Berith staggered, muscles trembling, pride bruised more than his body.
"Easy, Your Grace" Silas murmured, supporting him with a strength that belied his years. "Lean on ."
Berith hated how much he needed the help. But he allowed himself to lean on Silas, cursing himself for it. Together, they left the chamber.
Two days.
The words felt like chains.
Two days until vows. Until the bloodlines joined.
Berith wasn’t sure if the danger was inside him... or standing beside him in the form of the woman.
*******
The morning air inside the Valemont estate felt off-kilter, like the silence after a scream. No laughter from maids in the corridor. No clinking of breakfast trays. The usual bustle of a house preparing for a noble wedding had vanished, swallowed whole by sothing unseen.
Marcella sat in her dressing room, hands folded neatly on the glass, though her fingers had begun to tap absently. She hadn’t touched her wedding gown. It hung across the room, pinned like a ghost in the corner.
There was the creaking sound of approaching footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Then a knock.
She didn’t turn. "Co in."
The door opened with a hush. Verona entered, gliding as she always did. She offered her a slight bow. "My Lady. His Grace sends you a bridal gift."
Marcella finally turned to look at her, brows drawn together. "A gift?"
Verona stepped closer, holding out a velvet box. Deep red — not the color of roses or rubies, but of dried blood.
"Every Montclair bride receives it on the eve of her wedding. The ssenger said it is Montclair tradition." As offered by Verona, Marcella accepted it with both hands.
The box was heavier than it looked. Cold. Sothing about it made her stomach twist. Marcella stared down at it. She didn’t want to open it. Not because she feared so petty disappointnt — an ugly trinket or token charm — but because sothing about the box felt wrong.
"Verona, was it always this... tradition?" she inquired.
"I don’t know, My Lady," Verona replied. "But the Montclairs are old blood, their customs are older."
Verona didn’t wait for dismissal. Just bowed once more and left.
Eventually, Marcella unlatched the clasp and lifted the lid.
Inside, there was a pendant wrapped in black silk. A single teardrop-shaped gem, blood-red and gleaming with a strange oily sheen. It pulsed as though the light wasn’t reflecting off it but coming from within.
Sothing deep in her ribs twisted. She reached for it. The mont her fingers touched the cold tal, everything shifted.
The room disappeared.
Marcella stood or maybe hovered in a vast, cold chamber. Stone columns rose into nothing. The air wept dampness.
And at the center, an altar. A girl standing.
Pale, trembling. She was a bride, wrapped in white wedding gown. Her eyes were wide, feral with terror. Around her, cloaked figures stood in a perfect circle, chanting in a language that scraped against Marcella’s bones.
The pendant — the sa pendant — glowed at the girl’s throat.
Marcella stepped forward or thought she did, but her body didn’t move. She was trapped in her place.
Then, the bride scread.
Marcella traced a man in robes circling the bride like a predator. He raised the dagger, its blade long and cruel.
The bride begged. She reached for help but he drove it toward the girl’s chest.
The vision shattered.
Marcella was back in her room, still recovering from the shock. She stumbled back into her body with a gasp, breath ripped from her lungs. Her hand was clutched tight around the pendant. It pulsed against her skin.
It was glowing.
Her skin prickled. Then, she dropped it onto the velvet box as if it had burned her.
What the hell was that?
She clutched the edge of the vanity, staring at the stone.
A family heirloom, Verona had said.
A bridal gift. A cursed gem. A mory not her own but inherited like blood.
Her skin crawled with the sound of the bride’s scream, that broken, betrayed cry that had sounded too much like her own thoughts these past days.
Marcella rose from her seat, crossing the room as she opened the window. Cool air rushed in, fluttering the curtains. Sowhere down below, servants scurried across the courtyard preparing for the wedding.
But inside her chest, sothing colder than dread settled.
Because now Marcella knew if she walked down that aisle tomorrow, she wouldn’t just be marrying a man; she would be offering herself to a lineage of blood bound darkness.
Marcella looked back at it, where she’d dropped the pendant. Its light had faded for now. She swallowed.
Because she knew whatever that pendant had shown her? It was a warning.
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