The Executioner’s Bloody Vow: The Third Bed

The air inside the Estates Theatre that night felt like molten lead clogging the lungs. The scent of expensive perfume worn by Prague’s nobility mingled with the aroma of old wood and red velvet, which had served as a silent witness to history for hundreds of years. On the upper floor, specifically in one of the private balconies hidden from the reach of the stage lights, Gillian stood frozen. His dark wool cloak blended perfectly with the shadows of the towering Corinthian pillars. His fingers, encased in black leather gloves, slowly felt the silencer barrel of his weapon, a mechanical movement that soothed his frayed nerves. His pale grey eyes stared sharply toward the lower stage, where a middle-aged man with a protruding belly and gold medals on his chest was laughing uproariously. That was his target. A high-ranking gangster who felt safe under the protection of the law and tight security. However, to Gillian, the man was nothing more than a heap of flesh waiting for its time to rot. Gillian began to focus his vision. A small twitch appeared at his left temple as he released his normal sight filter. The world around him gradually lost its colour, turning into a dull shade of grey. Yet, in the midst of that void, a terrifying phenomenon emerged. Pitch-black threads burst forth from the empty air. "Dammit," Gillian hissed under his breath. He usually only saw one or two thin threads wrapped around a victim's neck. But tonight, the sight was far more horrific. The threads of death were no longer thin fibres, but giant tendrils that seemed to pulse and live. They coiled around the target’s legs, spread across the audience seats, then climbed the theatre walls until they reached the magnificent domed roof. The entire Estates Theatre building seemed to be strangled by a shadow monster invisible to ordinary people. "This is not a good sign," Gillian muttered in a low, husky voice. The lights above the stage dimmed, signalling the start of a new act of the opera. Gillian took a deep breath, trying to ignore the painful pulse beginning to attack his optic nerves. He had to finish this quickly before the curse completely overthrew his sanity. The black threads swayed gently, as if reacting to the killing intent he had just unleashed. "You are far too close to your end, Mr. Mayor," Gillian said softly, as if paying his last respects. His finger pulled the trigger with a smooth motion. The muffled gunshot was almost inaudible amidst the boisterous applause of the audience below. The bullet struck right in the centre of the target's forehead. The man jerked for a moment, his eyes widening in shock, then his body slumped forward, falling over the railing of his private balcony. Hysterical screams began to break out from the crowd below as the lifeless body hit the main floor. Gillian did not move immediately. His eyes were still fixed on the giant black threads coiling around the building. Instead of vanishing after the target’s death, the threads grew tighter and pulsed more wildly. Their black colour became deeper, resembling boiling, foul oil. Gillian felt as though the building was screaming in a supernatural silence. "This curse has reached a saturation point," he thought with a creeping sense of anxiety. He stowed his weapon back into a hidden pouch beneath his cloak. As he turned to leave the balcony, his vision wavered slightly. He gripped the edge of the wooden balcony to maintain his balance. The black threads now appeared to be approaching his own feet, crawling over the red carpet as if wanting to pull him into the core of that darkness. "Not now, not here," Gillian growled, clenching his fists tightly. His footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway of the theatre as he headed for the emergency exit at the back of the building. Each step felt like treading on invisible thorns. His paranormal vision began to throb, sending flashes of death shadows that had not yet occurred to the people he passed in the corridor. He saw a thin thread on a waiter's neck, a thread on a noblewoman's wrist, and it all made him sick. "This world is full of dead people who haven't been buried yet," Gillian thought cynically. Once outside, the biting cold of Prague’s air immediately greeted him. A thick fog descended from the direction of the Vltava River, enveloping the dark cobblestone streets. Gillian pulled his cloak collar higher, hiding part of his increasingly pale face. He walked quickly toward the black car waiting for him at the end of the road. Yet, even outside the theatre, he could still see those giant black tendrils piercing through the walls of the building, towering into the bleak night sky. Gillian got into the car and slammed the door shut. The driver, a man with a rigid expression who was also a member of the syndicate, did not dare ask anything. He only looked at Gillian's face through the rearview mirror and immediately started the engine. "Drive," Gillian commanded curtly. The car glided through the silence of Prague's old town. Gillian leaned his head against the headrest, closing his eyes tightly. However, the darkness behind his eyelids only brought back the image of the giant threads at the theatre. He realised that tonight's mission was not just an ordinary execution. It was a warning from his own curse that his vessel was nearly broken. "This energy, it feels different from usual," Gillian whispered to himself. His hands trembled slightly as he removed his gloves. Under the streetlights flickering into the car, he saw the black line tattoo on his wrist pulsing with a reddish glow. A burning sensation spread from there through his entire bloodstream. He knew exactly what this meant. The mystical balance he had struggled so hard to maintain had faltered. The two wives at home were no longer enough to absorb the remnants of death he carried every day. "I need a new antidote," Gillian sighed, staring out the window. Outside, Prague looked like an endless labyrinth full of bloody secrets. He gazed at the church spires reaching toward the sky, imagining how many souls had been trapped in this city over the centuries. His syndicate, The Velvet, would soon know that tonight’s execution was a success, but they would also soon know that their star executioner’s condition was unstable. "We are heading to the residence, correct?" the driver asked, breaking the silence. Gillian only nodded slowly. He had no energy left to answer with words. His mind drifted to the figures of Klara and Elena waiting for him at home. He imagined their faces filled with fear or disappointment when they saw him return with such a heavy burden of the curse. Marriage to other men might be a symbol of love, but for him, it was a mystical chain to keep his soul within his body. "Mourning Manor will bear witness once again," he murmured faintly. The car continued to drive, leaving the urban area toward the quieter outskirts lush with pine trees. Gillian felt every rotation of the wheels bringing him closer to an inevitable ritual. He saw his reflection in the car window, a man surrounded by death yet unable to die because of the occult laws that bound him. "This sin is too heavy to be borne alone," he thought, feeling his chest tighten. He began to imagine the requirements for the third pillar. A woman of a certain lineage, someone capable of withstanding the onslaught of dark energy he had just seen at the theatre. Those giant threads continued to haunt his mind, as if death was no longer coming for individuals, but was preparing to swallow the entire city, and he was the primary gateway. "I must find that woman before all of this destroys me," Gillian promised himself. The night grew deeper, and the fog grew thicker, shrouding the road ahead of them. In the distance, the lights of Mourning Manor began to look like the eyes of a monster peering from behind the dense pine forest. Gillian clenched his hands in his lap, trying to suppress the increasing tremors throughout his body. A new chapter of his life had just begun with the blood at the Estates Theatre, and he knew the next covenant would be far bloodier than this. "Will you be alright, Mr. Vanevsky?" the driver ventured to ask once more as they entered the large gates of the manor. Gillian opened his eyes, staring sharply at the mirror. His pale grey eyes now glinted with the remnants of black energy that had not yet fully faded. "Just focus on the road, and never ask about my condition again," Gillian answered in a cold tone that made the driver instantly swallow hard and fall into a dead silence. The car stopped right in front of the marble steps of Mourning Manor. The doors of the magnificent yet gloomy house opened slowly, revealing a darkness within that seemed ready to swallow Gillian whole. He stepped out of the car, standing tall even though every joint felt as if it were being nailed down. He looked up at the sky, ensuring no giant black threads were coiling around his house. For now, his home was still safe, but he knew time was no longer on his side. "Let's see how much longer I can hold on," he said softly before stepping into his cold residence.