Chapter 8
1332 Words
The stairca
Elaine counted each step beneath her feet.
Every stair was narrow. Too narrow for a full step. She had to turn sideways, one hand pressed against the damp wall, inching down carefully. The stone was wet, slick beneath her palm, carrying a stale smell, like vegetables left
Seve
The torchlight grew dimmer.
Not because the flames were dying, but because she was descending deeper, farther away from the world above. The door she had entered through had already shrunk into a tiny point of light, like the faintest star in a distant sky.
Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.
The air grew colder.
Not the kind of cold winter could bring. Not the kind one could fight with thicker clothes. This cold seeped out of the stone itself. It crept into her bones, as if this place had been abandoned for centuries. As if it had been waiting.
Waiting for someone.
Eighty-nine. Ninety. Ninety-one.
Drops of water clung to the walls, glistening under the flickering firelight like tiny tears.
Elaine reached out and touched one.
It broke at her fingertip. Cold, but tasteless. Not salty, not sweet. Just empty.
One hundred twelve. One hundred thirteen. One hundred fourteen.
Finally, she saw the end of the staircase.
A door.
An iron door.
It was black, not painted, but naturally aged. Time itself had stained it. There were no carvings, no decorations. Only a round handle, and at its center, a keyhole.
The shape made her breath hitch.
It was not a cross.
It was an eye.
A vertical eye.
Exactly the same as the symbol on her pendant.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She pulled the pendant from beneath her collar and held it against the keyhole. The dull golden surface caught the firelight, and the engraved eye aligned perfectly.
Not similar.
Identical.
The pendant burned against her fingers.
“This is your family’s mark,” the voice inside it said softly. “Your ancestors’ symbol.”
“Why is it here?” she whispered.
“Because this place was built by them.”
Her fingers tightened.
Her ancestors.
Witches.
The one who cast the curse.
The woman who stood on a cliff a thousand years ago, her hair whipped by the wind, carving a blood curse into the veins of the vampire royal bloodline.
Morgana.
“This underground chamber,” the voice continued, “was built in her final year. She recorded the full curse here. And the way to break it. She left it behind for the one who could end it.”
Elene swallowed.
“Me?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only time will tell.”
She stared at the door.
At the eye-shaped keyhole.
At the pendant in her hand.
She should leave.
She knew that.
Go back. Return to her chamber. Pretend she had found nothing.
She was not strong enough yet. Not informed enough. Not ready.
But her body did not listen.
Her hand moved.
The pendant slid into the keyhole.
Click.
The door opened.
Beyond it was a vast chamber.
No.
Not a chamber.
A library.
Elaine froze at the entrance.
The space was enormous, larger than any hall she had ever seen. The ceiling disappeared into darkness. Bookshelves lined every wall, stretching endlessly upward and outward, vanishing into shadow.
Black walnut wood.
Carved with the same twisting vines as the door. Intricate. Alive.
Books filled every shelf.
Scrolls. Manuscripts. Thick volumes like bricks. Strange metal-bound tomes etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly, like breathing.
At the center stood a long table.
A map was carved into its surface. Not of her world. Another world entirely. The continents were unfamiliar. The oceans tinted in strange hues. The names meant nothing to her.
Several books lay open.
A lamp still burned.
A cup of tea sat beside it. Cold.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
Her heartbeat climbed into her throat.
She stepped inside slowly, fingers brushing against the spines of books. Old, worn, yet carefully maintained.
Someone took care of them.
Every day.
The air smelled of ink. Wax. Aged paper.
And something else.
She inhaled again.
Blood.
Faint. Almost undetectable.
But she knew that scent too well.
She followed it.
At the far end of the table stood a chair.
High-backed. Facing away from her.
The scent came from there.
Her hand slid toward her waist.
The dagger was still hidden there. A relic from her past life. Silent. Reliable.
Her fingers closed around the hilt.
“What are you doing?”
The voice came from behind.
Elaine spun around.
Kane stood at the doorway.
White shirt. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Pale forearms exposed.
His collar was open, revealing faint markings beneath his collarbone. Not scars. Something else. Symbols carved into skin.
The cloth she had wrapped around his hand the night before was soaked through again. Dark red seeped into white, dripping slowly to the stone floor.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
His expression was strange.
Not anger.
Not surprise.
Just… stillness.
A terrifying kind of calm.
“This is forbidden,” he said as he walked toward her. “Only the king may enter.”
“I didn’t know,” she replied.
It was the truth.
He let out a faint, humorless breath.
“You didn’t know. Yet you opened a hidden door, walked down one hundred twenty-eight steps, and came here.”
She said nothing.
He was testing her.
He knew.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
She could smell him now. Cold. Like winter wind. And beneath it, something metallic.
Blood.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Their eyes met.
Silence stretched between them.
Then he turned, walking to the shelves, pulling down a heavy book.
Black cover.
Carved with an eye.
The same eye.
He placed it on the table and opened it.
Elaine leaned closer.
And saw the painting.
A woman on a cliff.
Hair wild in the wind. A sword of golden flame in her hand.
Her face
Elaine’s breath stopped.
It was her.
Not similar.
The same.
“Who is she?” she whispered.
“The witch,” Kane said. “The one who cast the curse.”
His fingers brushed over the image.
Gently.
Almost reverently.
“What is her name?”
He hesitated.
Then said it.
“Morgana.”
Pain exploded in her mind.
Images shattered across her vision.
Fire.
Blood.
A woman crying, screaming, chanting—
“Anyone I love will turn to ash. Anyone I hate will drown in blood. My bloodline will bear this curse…”
The world fractured.
“Elaine.”
His voice pulled her back.
She was shaking.
Crying.
“I’m fine,” she said.
She wasn’t.
But he didn’t push.
Instead, he poured her tea.
Dark red.
She drank.
Sweet.
Too sweet.
She looked at him.
He said nothing.
“You’re preparing something,” he said quietly.
Her heart skipped.
He knew.
“Who do you want to kill?”
Silence.
Wind brushed the pages.
She should lie.
But she didn’t.
“You don’t need to know.”
He smiled.
Soft.
Tired.
Real.
“You’re right,” he said.
Then he stepped closer.
His hand rose.
Cold fingers brushed her cheek.
She didn’t move.
“Remember this,” he whispered.
“You are not alone anymore.”
Her heart slammed.
“You are my queen.”
His thumb traced her cheekbone.
“Your life belongs to me.”
Then he left.
That night, she stayed.
In the library.
Reading.
Learning.
The truth.
“The curse is born from love…”
“There is only one who can break it…”
“The breaker must be both a witch and a hunter…”
She closed the book.
Her hands trembled.
“Will you save him?” the voice asked.
She thought of her parents.
Her past.
Her revenge.
Then she thought of him.
His eyes.
His loneliness.
His touch.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
The pendant burned.
Softly.
Like a promise.
Or a warning.
- Writer
