Episode 4
1476 Words
THE VAULT BENEATH THE BONES
The stairs spiraled downward for what felt like hours.
Lira’s fingers trailed along the damp walls, her boots echoing faintly with each step. The air thickened with each descent, carrying the scent of old blood, wet stone, and secrets left too long to rot.
No light guided her, but she didn’t need any.
Since awakening the blood magic, her senses had shifted. She could hear the quiet thrumming of power beneath her skin, feel the temperature of the air changing with each breath, sense the presence of old wards whispering to one another as she passed.
She descended until the air grew cold enough to bite, until the silence became absolute.
And then she saw it.
A door.
No wood, no metal — just bone.
A slab of fused ribs, vertebrae, and skulls, all held together by magic that hummed with malevolent intent. The door pulsed slowly, like something on the other side was breathing.
Lira pressed her palm to it.
It didn’t resist.
Instead, it opened with a low moan, and the temperature dropped ten degrees.
She stepped inside.
The chamber beyond wasn’t large. It was circular, walls lined with alcoves, each holding an urn, a scroll, or something far more sinister — like the jar containing a single, beating heart suspended in black liquid.
But in the center of the room stood a pedestal.
And on the pedestal was a book.
Bound in leather so dark it was nearly blue, the book pulsed with a glow like moonlight behind storm clouds. A single word was etched into the cover in red ink: Sevrin.
The same name she’d used to open the forbidden wing.
Lira didn’t hesitate. She reached out and opened the book.
Pages rustled. The script shimmered. And her magic responded like a flame catching oil.
A scream — not hers — echoed in her ears.
Then silence.
And then, knowledge.
The book was written by the demon bound to House Vale.
Not about it.
By it.
Sevrin. The name wasn’t a title. It was the demon’s true name — a fact of immeasurable power, and one Lira now possessed.
The book chronicled the demon’s first binding, the bloodline pact, the hunger that came every generation. It detailed the conditions of its servitude, the loopholes it had exploited, and most importantly — how it could be undone.
Only one person could sever the bond: the blood-marked heir who had died and returned.
Lira.
But there was a cost.
Freedom was never given.
It was taken.
The ritual required three elements: the Blade of Memory, the Bone Crown, and the Willing Curse.
Lira had only heard of one — the Blade of Memory. Her father once told her it was lost to time, stolen from House Vale during a rebellion generations ago. A blade that could cut not flesh, but fate.
She had to find it.
And quickly. Because once the blood magic stirred, Sevrin would awaken.
And he would not appreciate being trapped for long.
Back in her chambers, Lira traced a map across the desk. The rebellion her father spoke of had taken place in the east — near the ruins of Blackthorn Keep.
The blade had been taken there.
And according to Sevrin’s account, it had never left.
Which meant she needed to go.
But leaving House Vale was no small task. Not with Celestine on edge and the nobles whispering about the “memory stone incident.”
Fortunately, Lira no longer had to play by their rules.
She stole a horse at dusk.
Clad in a cloak of woven silence, with spells laced into her boots to mask her scent and weight, she rode east under the cover of twilight. Her magic coiled beneath her ribs like a storm ready to strike, and the obsidian shard around her neck pulsed with each heartbeat.
By dawn, she had reached the edge of the forest surrounding Blackthorn.
The trees were ancient — gnarled and twisted, their bark gray with decay. Birds did not sing here. No animals stirred. And the shadows seemed to bend inward, like the forest was breathing in.
She dismounted, whispered a charm into the horse’s ear, and sent it back toward Vale.
Then she stepped into the woods.
Blackthorn Keep was not on any map. Time had buried it.
But the earth remembered.
Lira followed the ley lines — invisible to most, but now visible to her sight. Thin strands of power wove through the air like threads of light, guiding her toward the source.
By nightfall, she found it.
A tower — collapsed, overgrown with moss and thorn, half-swallowed by the land. Statues lay broken at the base, their faces worn smooth by time. A single spire still jutted skyward like a broken tooth.
She entered.
Inside, rot met silence.
And something else.
Whispers.
At first, they were faint — a hum in her skull. Then louder, words without voices, sounds without mouths.
“She comes… The heir who died…”
“The blood is awake…”
“Will she free us… or feed us?”
Lira clenched her fists. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The air stilled.
Then — laughter.
Dozens of voices, all fractured, echoing through her bones.
But she walked on.
She found the chamber beneath the spire.
The blade was there.
Resting in the ribs of a dead king, his throne carved from twisted wood and rusted iron. The Blade of Memory shimmered faintly — not silver, but iridescent, like oil on water.
Lira reached for it.
The moment her fingers brushed the hilt, pain ripped through her skull.
Memories — not hers — poured in.
A boy, kneeling as his mother wept. A blade raised in betrayal. A queen screaming as fire consumed her throne. A thousand deaths. A thousand regrets.
She fell to her knees.
But she did not let go.
Instead, she welcomed it.
“I’ve died before,” she whispered. “I’m not afraid to carry more.”
The blade stopped screaming.
And then it hummed.
Lira stood, weapon in hand, her reflection staring back at her from the blade’s shifting surface.
It showed her not as she was — but as she would be.
Crowned in bone.
Draped in fire.
Unbreakable.
The journey back was not silent.
Now that she had the blade, the world had changed.
The dead watched her from the corners of the woods. Spirits murmured in her ears. Her dreams were filled with visions of a woman with silver eyes and a crown of thorns — Elenore Vale.
She was guiding Lira now.
Warning her.
And preparing her.
Because Celestine had made her move.
---
When Lira returned to House Vale, the gates were sealed.
A guard raised a hand to stop her, but she flicked two fingers and his memories unraveled. He stared at her, slack-jawed, and stepped aside.
Inside, the halls were tense.
Paintings had been removed. Tapestries burned. And Celestine sat in the throne room wearing their father’s crown.
He was nowhere to be found.
“Traitor,” Celestine hissed when Lira stepped inside.
“Sister,” Lira replied.
Celestine rose, sword in hand — the Mirrorblade, forged from the same metal as the relic once promised by House Vexor.
Lira smiled.
“I saw your letters. Your lies.”
“Then you know I’m doing what must be done,” Celestine snapped. “You’re a danger to the bloodline. To the realm.”
“You’re wrong,” Lira said. “I’m its only chance.”
Their blades clashed in a flash of magic.
Steel met fate.
Light burst.
The throne room trembled.
And the demon Sevrin stirred in the dark.
---
They fought across marble and shadow, spells igniting with every blow. Celestine was fast — trained in the art of noble war. But Lira had something more. She had memory.
With each strike, she remembered the pain of her death. The betrayal. The lies.
And she used them.
Celestine faltered.
“You think yourself a hero?” she spat.
“No,” Lira said. “I think I’m the reckoning.”
She struck hard — blade to blade — and shattered the Mirrorblade in two.
The feedback sent Celestine crashing to the floor.
But before Lira could land the final blow, the chamber shook.
The ground cracked.
And from beneath the throne, he emerged.
Sevrin.
A shadow wrapped in bone and fire. Eyes like bleeding stars. Mouth filled with teeth shaped like screams.
He grinned.
“Ah,” he purred. “My favorite child returns.”
Lira raised her blade.
“I’m not yours.”
He laughed. “But you are, little heir. You wear my mark.”
“Then I’ll tear it off.”
He lunged.
She met him mid-strike.
Steel clashed with nightmare.
And the war for House Vale began.
- Writer
