The red thorn

Chapter seven

The heavy iron door clicked shut, locking Elora into the stone cell.

The room was sparse—a wooden cot, a small basin of cold water, and a single candle flickering on a stone ledge. She stood in the center of the space, the silence pressing in around her. The adrenaline that had carried her across the valley finally drained away, leaving a hollow, crushing ache in her chest.

She sank onto the edge of the cot and buried her face in her hands.

Images flashed behind her eyelids: the cold cobblestones of Oakhaven, the terrifyingly swift movement of the velvet-coated vampire, and her mother’s lifeless eyes staring up at the smoke-filled sky. *Sarah.* A woman who had spent nineteen years building a fortress of mundane routines to hide a child that wasn't even hers.

A wave of heat surged through Elora's chest, hot and volatile.

She looked down at her hands. The skin on her palms wasn't just blistered—it was stitching itself back together. Right before her eyes, the red, raw flesh smoothed out, leaving pristine, unblemished skin in seconds.

She gasped, pulling her hands back as if burned by her own flesh.

"It moves fast, doesn't it?"

Elora whipped her head toward the corner of the cell.

Shadows detached from the damp stone wall, coalescing into the form of a young man leaning casually against the iron bars of a high window. He wore the high-collared coat of a nobleman, faded and scuffed at the edges, and his dark eyes gleamed with an unnerving, amber light. He moved without making a single sound—no footsteps, no rustle of fabric.

Elora scrambled backward on the cot, grabbing the small bronze candleholder off the ledge. "How did you get in here? The door is locked."

"Locks are for people who occupy only one plane of reality," the young man said, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. He tilted his head, assessing her like a curiosity. "So, you're the great threat. Dracula’s inner circle is burning villages, the Coven is breaking ancient seals, and all for a girl hiding in a broom closet with a candlestick."

"Who are you?" Elora demanded, holding her ground.

"A friend? An enemy? Depends on how fast you can run," he replied, sliding down from the window ledge and landing lightly on his feet. "My name is Silas. And unlike the old women upstairs, I didn't come to turn you into a martyr."

He took a step forward, his amber eyes narrowing as he looked at her hands.

"They plan to subject you to the Binding Ritual tomorrow morning," Silas said, his tone dropping its casual edge. "Morwen thinks she can chain your vampiric blood to the Coven's magic, turning you into a obedient thrall for their cause. But your blood doesn't like to be chained, Elora. If you let them force the ritual, it won't awaken your power—it will rip your heart in two."