Oath of Shadows: Vance’s Vengeance
Chapter 1: The Bloody Wedding – Seraphina Vance’s Awakening
Bourbon Dynasty, Winter 1788
Darkness clung to Seraphina Vance like a moldy burial shroud, cutting off her breath. She gasped raggedly, the acrid stench of ash flooding her throat—the same scent that haunted her the night fire burned her family to ruin ten years prior.
A stifled cough broke the quiet. Her vision blurred, yet she felt the man beside her breathing heavily, hot breath fanning her neck, carrying the greedy lust of men. The visceral disgust churned her stomach.
Could a devil risen from hell still feel living warmth?
This was not hell. Hell was endless fire. This was humiliating captivity. Sandalwood incense of Pendleton Manor tangled with cold window wind, and a terrifying thought struck her: she was back, back to the night her nightmare began.
A decade of buried hatred exploded instantly. The frail, burnt hands that died with her family in the fire were now young and strong. She clamped an iron grip on the man’s wrist and shoved him away, her voice raw and guttural from years of torment:
“Don’t touch me!”
The shove held the brutality of her past-life suffering. To her shock, the man yielded without struggle, as if relieved to be pushed away. Dim moonlight filtered through eaves, illuminating his face: sharp marble-cut features, deathly pale skin, pitch-black eyes swirling with restraint, hesitation and hidden grief. He showed no anger at her outburst.
He swung off the bed and stood tall, his frame blocking most moonlight. “Your Highness… You’ve woken.” His voice was low, deep as a cello’s lowest note.
Seraphina’s pupils shrank sharply. Your Highness. The hollow title stabbed straight into her heart.
Inner Monologue – Shards of Memory
What a mocking title. Ten years ago, she was the favored eldest daughter of Northern Duke House Vance, a warrior who wielded heavy bows and rode wild stallions, free across the northern wasteland. Ten years later, she was the deposed Bourbon Queen, branded a traitor responsible for the m******e of all 381 Vance clansmen.
Memories crashed over her: elder brother Gideon slitting his throat in snow; father Richard’s open eyes after execution; and Arthur Pendleton, her husband, staring cold and unfeeling on his coronation day.
“Did Arthur send you?” Seraphina glared venomously, nails piercing her palms until blood dripped onto crimson silk bedsheets. “This is our wedding night. Did he send you to take his place in my bridal bed?”
Shame flooded her. She learned the truth too late in her past life: Arthur never touched her on their wedding night. He hid in the shadows, letting a stand-in steal her innocence while he watched coldly.
The shadow guard clenched his fists until knuckles whitened, dropping to one knee. “This subordinate goes by Shadow.” His voice was strained.
“Get out!” Seraphina roared.
Shadow did not move. “Prince Pendleton’s men guard the door. If I leave now, he will grow suspicious. Miss Seraphina,” the address stripped her of royal title, confirming her rebirth, “if the Prince sends any gift or drink later, do not touch it.” His dark eyes held sympathy, pity and a quiet affection she could not decipher. He then slipped silently out of the chamber.
Midnight’s third watch brought a slow, deliberate knock.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open. It was not a maid, but hunched royal alchemist Morin, wearing a monocle and carrying a silver tray with a coffee pot and two porcelain cups, thick Alsatian accent sharp in his tone. “Princess Consort, His Highness brewed soothing coffee for you, to ease your fatigue from wedding rites.”
Seraphina glanced past him. Shadow stood rigid in the corridor shadow, eyes locked on the coffee pot, fingers twitching a clear warning. Beneath the coffee’s roasted aroma, she smelled bitter almond and burnt sulfur—forget-me-not and mandrake poison, activated by hot coffee. The brew would trap her in permanent coma and erase her memories.
“Morin,” Seraphina smirked coldly, “Arthur is ever thoughtful. But Vance blood runs thick with northern spirits, not this bitter bean drink.”
Morin forced a fawning smile, insisting the coffee was premium southern volcanic brew. Seraphina ordered him set it down and leave. After a wary glance at Shadow, who nodded permission, Morin obeyed and withdrew.
Alone with Shadow, Seraphina spoke flatly: “This brew erases memories and traps you in coma. Does Arthur want to erase my shame of tonight, or erase you from me?”
“I only follow orders,” Shadow lowered his head.
“Then drink it for me.”
Shock flashed across Shadow’s face, turning to dread. “Your Highness, I cannot—”
“Drink!” Seraphina tilted the cup, scalding coffee spilling onto Shadow’s hand, burning a permanent mark on his skin. After a long moment of inner struggle, Shadow closed his eyes, took the cup, and drained the poisoned liquid in one gulp.
The toxin took effect instantly. Shadow swayed, slid down the stone wall, and fell into unconsciousness.
Inner Monologue – Lingering Doubt
Trust no one. Not even Shadow? I died never knowing he existed. I thought I spent that wedding night alone, weeping and abandoned. Yet he hid in the dark, shielding me from worse cruelty all along.
Arrogant, triumphant footsteps approached the door. Seraphina dragged unconscious Shadow behind a folding screen, covering him with a thick wool cloak. She poured the remaining poisoned coffee into the fireplace; the toxic liquid hissed against charcoal, burning into white smoke.
From the bedhead hidden compartment, she took her northern mare’s-milk firewater flask—strong, fiery herbal liquor exclusive to her homeland. She mixed firewater with water and burnt cocoa powder, adjusting color and scent to perfectly mimic the poisoned coffee.
She smoothed her rumpled nightgown, sat poised on the bed edge like a cold marble statue, waiting.
The door swung open. Arthur Pendleton walked in, clad in purple velvet nightrobe embroidered with gold filigree, holding a cocoa mug. His smile was falsely gentle, eyes sharp as venomous snakes scanning the room.
“My dearest Seraphina,” Arthur purred, “I heard you raged earlier. That useless shadow guard is dismissed. State affairs kept me from you tonight.”
Seraphina met his gaze, staring at the face that once tangled her naive love and lifelong hatred. 381 Vance clansmen died for his throne. Reborn, she would never be his gullible pawn again.
“State affairs?” Seraphina set aside the cocoa he offered. “Or ordering spies outside my window, and Morin to brew memory-wiping poison?”
Arthur’s smile froze, malice hardening his features. “Ridiculous accusations.”
Seraphina stood, picking up the doctored coffee pot filled with firewater. “You brewed soothing coffee for your bride. I will not slight your kindness.” She poured two full cups.
Arthur sniffed the air suspiciously, but burnt cocoa masked the liquor’s fire. He relaxed, lust flickering in his eyes. “Then let us end this night’s waiting—”
Seraphina dodged his reaching arm, lifting one cup toward him. “Northern wedding custom: three toasts. The first to the past, the second to the future, the third…” An icy glint flashed in her eyes.
“To the dead.”
Arthur frowned at her cold, alien demeanor, far colder than northern frost. But he trusted Morin’s poison had weakened her mind, so he laughed dismissively and took the cup.
“To the dead. To all fools who dare block my path.” He tilted his head back and swallowed the blazing northern liquor whole.
In the silent bridal chamber, Seraphina Vance’s resolve solidified. She had returned from death, reborn on the night of her cursed wedding. Her vengeance had begun.
