Episode 11
794 Words
ASHES BENEATH THE VELVET
The full moon cast a silvery glow over the Vale estate, gilding its towers and sweeping parapets in eerie luminescence. From the high balcony of the east wing, Lira stood cloaked in shadows, her eyes scanning the courtyard below. Carriages arrived one by one, nobles stepping out in their finest silks and polished jewels, laughter floating upward like tainted perfume.
Tonight marked the Festival of Virella, a celebration of fire and renewal. An ironic theme, considering what Lira planned to ignite.
She moved like a ghost back into her chambers, her movements silent and precise. Her once-dull gown had been replaced by a midnight blue ensemble embroidered with raven feathers and moonstone beads. Her hair, usually unkempt and pinned in haste, now flowed in gentle waves down her back, adorned only with a silver circlet that shimmered like ice.
Every piece of her appearance had been calculated. After years of quietly blending in, Lira was ready to be seen—on her terms.
"Do you think they’ll recognize you?" murmured Eland, her shadow-like accomplice and the only soul privy to the full extent of her rebirth. He leaned against her window frame, dressed in dark finery that hid his many blades.
Lira’s lips curled. "I’m counting on it. But they won’t know why."
Eland’s eyes narrowed. "And the distraction?"
She handed him a small vial, filled with shimmering red liquid. "Slip it into Lord Gravon's drink. He’ll make a scene before the second toast. While everyone’s busy gawking, I’ll be in the archive hall."
He took the vial with a grim nod and vanished into the corridor.
The grand ballroom sparkled with the excess of aristocracy. Gold-trimmed curtains framed the windows, and crystal chandeliers bathed the room in warm light. Music danced in the air, a gentle waltz swelling as the first of many dances began.
Lira entered without fanfare, but heads turned nonetheless. Her transformation was subtle yet stark. Gone was the wallflower. In her place stood a woman who belonged.
She met the curious gazes with a serene smile, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her half-sister, Elowen, approached with practiced grace, flanked by their mother.
"You look... different," Elowen said, eyes glittering like poisoned wine.
Lira tilted her head. "The Festival of Virella is about rebirth, isn’t it? I thought I’d embrace the spirit."
Lady Vale frowned slightly, studying her daughter as if seeing her for the first time. But before further questions could form, a cry rang out near the dais.
Lord Gravon stumbled forward, clutching his throat. His face bloomed red, then purple. Guests screamed. Goblets clattered to the marble floor.
Chaos erupted.
Lira slipped away.
The archive hall was hidden beneath layers of stone and spells. Most believed it was nothing more than myth. But Lira had studied every blueprint, interrogated every servant who once whispered about it in their cups. Tonight, the path opened.
She whispered the incantation, her fingers glowing with sigils drawn in moon ink. The door groaned open.
Inside, the air was dry and heavy with ancient secrets. Scrolls lined the walls. Tomes sat sealed behind crystal glass. And in the center, a pedestal cradled a single crimson book: The Blood Accord.
She reached for it.
"Touch it and the contract will brand you."
The voice came from behind. She turned, heart steady.
A man emerged from the shadows, tall and draped in deep red robes, his face obscured by a half-mask of obsidian.
"And if I wish to be branded?" she asked.
He paused. "Then you accept the bloodline curse. It doesn’t end with one generation. Your vengeance will feed it."
"I already carry the mark," Lira said, baring her wrist. A faint scar pulsed beneath her skin—an echo from her first life.
The man studied her. "So the dead do walk again."
She smiled. "And they learn."
He stepped aside. "Then take it. But beware. Knowledge has a hunger of its own."
Lira lifted the book. The air thickened. Magic crackled. And in that moment, she felt the future tighten around her like a noose—or a blade.
Back in her chambers, the moon was dipping low. Eland waited by the hearth, his tunic stained with wine and blood.
"Well?"
She set the book down. "I have it. And the first name I found... isn’t Elowen."
He raised a brow.
"It’s Father’s. He made the pact. He doomed us all."
Eland swore under his breath.
Lira sat, fingers tracing the embossed runes of the cover. Her path had just split.
It was no longer about vengeance alone. It was about unearthing a legacy of rot—and choosing whether to cleanse it, or let it burn.
Either way, the fire had only begun.
- Writer
