Chapter 7
1731 Words
After he left, Elaine stood by the window for a long time.
The blood on her hands had already been washed clean.
But his presence had not.
It lingered at her wrist.
Cool. Smooth.
Like a serpent coiling silently around her bones.
She scrubbed at her skin.
Harder. Harder.
Until the flesh turned red. Until it stung. Until faint blue veins surfaced beneath the skin.
Still, it did not go away.
Because it was never just touch.
It was something deeper.
Something that had slipped past skin and settled into her bones.
A soft sigh echoed from the pendant.
“Stop scrubbing,” the voice said, weary in the way only an old soul could be when watching a child make a futile mistake. “You cannot wash him away. Just as he cannot wash you away.”
Elaine stilled.
Her gaze dropped to her wrist.
The faint scar was still there.
A thin line from when she was seven, back in the human king’s palace. The captain of the guard had been teaching her how to fight. The blade had grazed her skin, and blood had surfaced.
“Too slow. Again,” he had said, expressionless.
She had not cried.
She had picked up the wooden sword and tried again.
Now, beside that old scar, a new mark had appeared.
A faint ring of red.
Left by his grip.
It circled her wrist like a bracelet. Not deep, but she knew.
It would stay.
Just like every scar she carried.
Her fingers hovered over it.
And she remembered him.
Those crimson eyes. Burning, yet dimming at the edges, like embers on the verge of dying out.
His trembling hands. Like brittle branches in a winter wind.
When his forehead had rested against her shoulder, his breath had come uneven, fragile, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff for too long.
Like someone who had finally let go.
Like someone drowning.
No.
Not drowning.
Someone who had sunk into darkness for twelve hundred years.
And then, suddenly, saw light.
He did not know what it was.
He did not dare approach.
But he could not stop reaching.
Elaine clenched her jaw.
She should not feel anything.
She could not.
She did not come here to save him.
She came for revenge.
That man was a vampire.
A king.
A prisoner of a curse.
And more importantly, a tool.
A necessary piece in her plan.
“I won’t go soft,” she said quietly.
To the pendant.
To herself.
The pendant did not answer.
It rested against her chest, warm.
Like a silent witness.
Like an elder who disagreed, yet chose to wait for her to understand on her own.
Elaine took a slow breath.
She drew the curtains closed and lay down on the bed.
Darkness enveloped her.
The bed in the side palace was far too large. She could roll three times and still not reach the edge.
The silk sheets slid against her skin like water.
The blanket never stayed in place.
The pillow was too soft, swallowing her head as if trying to pull her into it.
She did not like this room.
Did not like this palace.
Did not like this eternal night where the sky would never brighten.
But she would adapt.
She had endured worse.
As she closed her eyes, she told herself one thing.
Tomorrow, you will open that door.
That night, she dreamed of her mother.
Not the night she died.
That memory was broken. Fragmented. Fire. Screaming. A hand pushing her into darkness.
No.
This dream was older.
It should not have existed.
But witches’ blood did not obey logic.
Memory was not bound to a single life.
It flowed.
Passed down.
Inherited.
Moments from centuries ago, from lives she had never lived, surfaced in dreams like stones beneath water, smoothed by time but never erased.
She was small.
So small she could not even turn over.
She lay in a cradle woven from willow branches. Old. Fragile. It creaked softly with every movement.
Rain leaked through cracks in the ceiling.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Someone was singing.
Soft.
Gentle.
Like wind brushing over fields.
Elaine could not remember the melody.
Only the feeling.
Warm.
Safe.
Protected.
Like a tiny boat drifting across a still lake beneath a sky full of stars.
She tried to see the woman’s face.
But it was blurred.
Like looking through fogged glass.
Only a silhouette remained.
Long hair. A bent figure. Hands rocking the cradle.
“Elaine,” the woman whispered. “My little Elaine.”
Elaine tried to respond.
But she was too young.
Only soft, meaningless sounds escaped her lips.
Her tiny hand reached out.
Grasping blindly.
The woman took it.
Her hand was warm.
Not the surface warmth of the pendant.
But a living warmth.
Deep.
Steady.
Her fingers were long. Calloused at the tips.
“Mother,” Elaine tried to say.
But no sound came.
The world shattered.
The cradle vanished.
The song stopped.
Fire.
Flames surged from every direction.
Orange. Devouring. Endless.
Screams filled the air.
Not one voice.
Many.
Men. Women. Children.
Twisting together into something monstrous.
Elaine lay on cold stone.
Hard. Merciless.
The chill seeped through her swaddling and into her bones.
Someone lifted her.
Hands trembling.
Not from fear.
From reluctance.
From the agony of doing something they did not want to do.
“I’m sorry,” the voice whispered.
Not to her.
To themselves.
To someone absent.
“I can’t save her. But I have to.”
A drop fell onto her face.
Warm.
Salty.
A tear.
Then she was pushed into darkness.
A narrow space.
Just enough for an infant.
Wood sealed above her.
The sound dull.
Final.
In that last moment, she saw a face.
Young.
Hair loose over her shoulders.
Amber eyes.
The same as hers.
Filled with tears.
With fear.
And something burning.
Rage.
“Live,” the woman said.
“You are a descendant of witches. Your blood can kill. And it can save.”
Her lips trembled.
“Live. And kill him.”
Darkness swallowed everything.
Elaine jolted awake.
The sky outside was still gray-purple.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Fast.
Wild.
Like a trapped bird beating against its cage.
Her face was wet.
Fresh tears slid down her cheeks, warm against her skin, dripping onto the pendant.
The pendant burned.
Hot.
Almost scorching.
“You saw it,” the voice said.
Not a question.
A statement.
“That wasn’t my memory,” Elaine whispered hoarsely. “I was an infant.”
“You remember,” the voice replied calmly. “Witch blood does not need eyes to remember. It remembers through blood. Through bone. Through every cell.”
Elaine sat up.
Buried her face in her hands.
Her fingers trembled.
Not from cold.
From those eyes.
Amber.
Burning.
Her mother.
A stranger she had never known.
Yet someone who had chosen her over everything.
“Who is he?” Elaine asked softly.
“You already know.”
“The human king.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he kill them?”
Silence.
Then.
“Because your father knew a secret. About the vampire royal curse. About how to break it.”
Elaine’s breath hitched.
“What secret?”
“You are not ready to know.”
“Why?”
“Because you will go back. You will try to kill him. And you will die.”
Elaine froze.
“I will die?”
“He is prepared for you,” the voice said. “Silver weapons. Blessed. Tainted with your bloodline.”
A pause.
“He is waiting.”
Silence stretched.
Long.
Heavy.
Outside, the wind stirred the curtains.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow cried.
Once.
Then again.
Like a funeral bell.
“Then I will wait,” Elaine said.
Her voice was quiet.
Steady.
“I will wait until I am strong enough. Until I find the weapon that can kill him. Until I have allies.”
She lifted her head.
Staring at the endless gray sky.
“Until he believes I’ve forgotten.”
The pendant did not respond.
But it burned hotter.
Like a vow.
After breakfast, Elaine moved through the side palace as usual.
The maids had grown used to her silence.
They no longer tried to engage her.
To them, she was dull.
A woman who did not laugh.
Did not complain.
Did not charm.
They even pitied the king.
“A lifeless queen,” they whispered.
Elaine did not care.
That was exactly what she needed.
Harmless.
Forgettable.
A discarded human queen.
A tool.
She walked along the corridor.
Her pace slow. Casual.
But her eyes were sharp.
Observing everything.
Every corner. Every window. Every shadow where a guard might be hidden.
A guard leaned against the wall at the turn.
Yawning.
His sword hung loose.
If she struck now, she could take it before he reacted.
At the end of the corridor, two maids chatted.
Distracted.
If she needed to pass unseen, she could slip by in the moment they leaned closer to whisper.
Outside, the garden walls were not high.
Climbable.
The crooked tree nearby could serve as leverage.
Her mind calculated.
Constantly.
Quietly.
Paths. Obstacles. Exits.
This was survival.
Learned in sleepless nights.
Listening to footsteps outside her door.
Measuring the distance from bed to window.
Planning escape routes in case the king decided to kill her.
She stopped at the end of the corridor.
In front of the door.
Dark wood.
Carved with vines, thorns, and strange plants twisting together like an ancient code.
The handle was copper.
Worn smooth from use.
She placed her hand on it.
Cold.
Dead cold.
Not like him.
His cold had been alive.
Dangerous.
Tempting.
She pushed the door open.
A narrow staircase stretched downward.
Stone steps vanished into darkness.
Torches flickered along the walls.
Her shadow stretched long.
Warped.
Unfamiliar.
She hesitated.
Not from fear.
She did not fear darkness.
She had lived in it.
But she did not know what waited below.
And hesitation was dangerous.
Because hesitation brought memory.
His weight against her shoulder.
His trembling hands.
His voice.
“You’re not even human anymore.”
Those thoughts would weaken her.
And weakness would make her forget who she was.
Elaine inhaled slowly.
Then stepped forward.
And descended into the dark.
- Writer
