Chapter 4: The Betrayer's Blood
1025 Words
Vivienne’s dreams that night were made of fire and screams.
She stood at the edge of a cliff, the sky torn open above her, burning crimson. Below, a sea of shadows churned—warriors twisted by rage, beasts of horn and fang, and ghostly figures whispering in dead languages. In her hands was a dagger soaked in blood. Her own reflection floated in the sky, laughing.
When she awoke, her pillow was soaked with sweat. The Mark on her shoulder glowed faintly beneath the thin nightgown, like embers refusing to die. The air around her pulsed with pressure—like the castle itself was breathing beside her.
And then, she heard her name.
“Vivienne.”
Lucien’s voice. Smooth, cold, quiet. She looked toward the foot of the bed and found him standing there, shrouded in the velvet shadows of dawn. No smile. No warmth. Only the stillness of a man who’d waited centuries.
“We must go,” he said. “The Council demands your presence.”
She rose slowly, muscles aching, mind still swirling with fractured images from her dream. “What council?”
“The Midnight Council. The twelve who once ruled beside me. They remain... in form, if not in flesh.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lucien’s jaw tensed. “Then they will summon you themselves, and the Keep will not be gentle.”
The Hall of Echoes lay deep beneath the foundations of Midnight Keep, carved into black stone older than memory. Vivienne followed Lucien down a spiraling stair that seemed to stretch beyond reason—each step echoing like thunder. Her dress whispered against the walls. Her heartbeat drowned her thoughts.
At the base, a circular door opened with a groan.
Twelve thrones lined the outer rim of a void-lit chamber. Above them floated silver runes. Within the thrones sat cloaked figures—some skeletal, some shifting like smoke. The Midnight Council.
Lucien stepped forward. “She stands before you. The Duchess. The Bearer of the Mark.”
“She is young,” one said, voice like parchment.
“She is mortal,” another hissed.
“Too mortal,” a third added.
Vivienne did not flinch. “I was dragged into this world without consent. But I’m here. And if you want answers, ask me.”
A long pause.
Then, the chamber shifted.
The trials began.
One by one, illusions bloomed around her—scenes torn from memory and nightmare. A child abandoned in snow. A village casting stones. A woman on a throne laughing as flames swallowed the innocent. Her hands shaking. Her heart breaking.
But she stood tall. With each vision, something hardened in her. A spine forged in betrayal. A will sharpened by injustice.
Then came the final trial.
“She must drink from the Chalice of Blood,” the High Seat declared.
Lucien’s voice dropped to ice. “No. That is forbidden.”
“It is the only way,” the Council intoned. “The Vessel must be tested in soul and blood.”
From the shadows, a goblet emerged—black as coal, pulsing like a living heart. Within it, dark liquid swirled with whispers.
Vivienne did not hesitate.
She lifted the Chalice. Drank.
The pain came instantly.
It was not physical. It was existential.
Her mind fractured into timelines. She saw herself burning. Drowning. Kneeling before a tyrant. Killing a king. Loving Lucien. Stabbing him. Bearing a child. Burying a daughter.
Then, silence.
A woman stood before her in the void. Elegant, cruel. Vivienne’s mirror, but older.
Seraphine.
“You wear my face,” Seraphine said.
“I am not you,” Vivienne replied.
“No,” Seraphine whispered. “But our blood sings the same song.”
Suddenly, she saw her. The child. Hiding behind Seraphine’s throne. Eyes green as spring, hands clenched in fear.
Vivienne reached for her.
And awoke.
She was on the floor of the Council chamber. Lucien held her, his face pale.
“You drank too deeply,” he murmured.
Vivienne clutched his sleeve. “The child... Who was she?”
He didn’t answer.
She stood, trembling. “Tell me.”
“She was Seraphine’s daughter,” he said at last. “Hidden away before the war. A prophecy claimed she would be the key to end the curse.”
Vivienne’s heart thundered. “Then that child—”
“Was you.”
The words fell like a guillotine.
Back in her chambers, Vivienne didn’t sleep. The truth gnawed at her ribs.
She wandered the castle in silence, led by instinct more than reason. Down a forgotten hallway. Past mirrors that fogged at her passing. To a door etched in silver flame.
Inside, the Portrait Gallery.
Each painting showed a Duchess. Each face ended in tragedy. But at the end, one portrait stood unfinished: a girl of perhaps seven, with eyes wide in terror and a crimson mark blooming across her wrist.
Vivienne.
Behind her, a voice spoke.
“So, you’ve found it.”
Caius. The Duke’s half-brother. Shadow-eyed, sharp-tongued.
“You knew,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied. “Everyone in this cursed place did—except you.”
Vivienne turned to him. “Why keep it from me?”
“Because truth has weight,” Caius said. “And you weren’t ready to carry it.”
“I am now.”
He smiled, sad. “Then you must choose. Become her. Or destroy what remains of her.”
That night, she stood before her mirror. The Mark glowed. Her reflection shifted.
Seraphine stared back.
“I am not you,” Vivienne whispered.
But the mirror smiled.
“Then why do you bleed the way I did?”
“Why do you dream of fire?”
“Why does he love you still?”
The mirror cracked.
Vivienne screamed.
Lucien burst in, sword drawn, eyes wild. “What happened?”
She turned to him, eyes glowing with a power not hers.
“The curse isn’t just in me,” she said. “It is me.”
He stared at her.
And for the first time, Lucien D’Arven looked afraid.
To be continued...
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