BOUND BY BLOOD

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The moment she stepped beyond the threshold, the air changed.

It did not grow colder—it grew aware.

The walls themselves seemed to inhale, as though every stone was remembering how to breathe after centuries of stillness. The air pressed close against her skin, not hostile… recognizing.

Like she was not an intruder—but a guest long expected.

Marcus and Dorian followed cautiously, though they moved with the unease of men who felt the ground might vanish beneath them at any moment.

Inside, the great hall stretched into shadow. Pillars of black marble lined the walls, their surfaces veined with silver that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow—like veins beneath skin.

The pendant beneath her cloak pulsed with it.

In time.

With the same heartbeat.

“I don’t like this,” Dorian muttered. His voice echoed wrong—too loud, as though the hall was whispering it back.

Marcus’s eyes scanned the shadows. “Keep your guard up.”

Seraphina barely heard them.

Her hand moved unconsciously to the pendant. With each step deeper into the stronghold, the warmth grew—spreading up her arm, into her chest. Her heartbeat quickened, not with fear…

With remembrance.

She reached the center of the hall.

And felt it.

Not seen.

Not heard.

Felt.

A presence.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hidden behind layers of stone and centuries.

Her breath caught. “He is here.”

Marcus stiffened. “Who?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know. Not with her mind.

But her soul remembered him.

They moved further in.

The mist that had haunted the forest did not cross the threshold. It clung to the open doorway as if unwilling to step where time no longer ruled.

The hall opened into a long corridor. On either side, portraits lined the walls—but their faces were fading, as though memory itself was erasing them.

Yet one thing remained clear.

All of their eyes were silver.

Just like the eyes from her dream.

Just like the eyes she’d seen in the fog that night.

Dorian exhaled shakily. “This place is cursed.”

Seraphina paused before one portrait more intact than the rest.

The figure’s face had faded to shadow, but the posture—upright, regal, sorrowful—radiated across time.

And then she saw it.

Around his neck.

A pendant.

Two crescent moons, joined by a drop of blood.

Her blood ran cold.

“This,” she whispered, touching her own pendant beneath her cloak, “this belonged to him.”

Marcus stepped close. “To who?”

She looked slowly up at the portrait.

The air stilled.

And for a single heartbeat—

she felt another heartbeat align with hers.

A heartbeat not her own.

Ancient.

Unending.

Silent.

Yet very much alive.

“He isn’t dead,” she said, voice barely a breath.

Marcus frowned. “Seraphina—”

She turned.

Eyes wide. Certain.

“He’s sleeping beneath us.”

“And he’s dreaming of me.”