October 14th, in the year of Our Lord—
I once believed myself immune to love.
A man of indulgence, of passing pleasures. I have known women, whispered sweet nothings, and left before morning stole the warmth from their sheets. I have never been bound to any heart, nor felt the foolish ache of longing.
Love was a game for lesser men.
And yet, as I sit in the ruins of my own making, I know that love—true love—is not soft. It is a sickness, a hunger, a noose around the throat.
And I have loved.
And because of that love, I am lost.
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A WARNING UNHEEDED
The village lay under a cursed sky, its roads swallowed in mist. The people watched me with thinly veiled terror, their whispers crawling up my spine like insects.
"You should not have come," the innkeeper muttered over my drink.
"Superstition does not frighten me," I replied.
The old woman at the hearth did not meet my eyes. "She is waiting."
That night, I went to the Lazarin Estate, ruins of stone and silence.
And I saw her.
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THE WOMAN IN WHITE
She stood where the fountain had long since dried, her gown a whisper of white silk, her hair a river of silver.
The moon bathed her in unnatural light, as if she belonged to it more than to the earth beneath her feet.
"You should not have come," she murmured.
"And yet, here I am."
She did not smile. She studied me.
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I raised my camera.
The shutter clicked.
And something inside me shifted.
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A TEST OF FAITH
Each night, I returned to her. Each night, she questioned me.
"Would you swear yourself to me?" she asked, her gaze searching.
"Do you not already know the answer?"
She laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Men have sworn before."
I understood then.
She was waiting for me to betray her, as the baron had before me.
I reached for her, my fingers grazing nothing but cold air.
She was untouchable.
And still, I longed.
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THE DESCENT
Then came the whispers.
At first, they were soft—a voice curling at the edge of my dreams, murmuring my name.
Then, they followed me in waking hours. I heard her in the rustling leaves, in the silence between my own thoughts.
I saw shadows move in my photographs.
Selene’s eyes—watching me.
Her lips—parting in words I could not hear.
And one night, I found myself outside her ruins without remembering how I got there.
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THE GHOST OF THE BARON
I was not alone.
A man stood where the fountain had long dried.
His coat was torn, his face pale as a corpse, his eyes hollow with ruin.
"I was once you," he said.
His voice was brittle as dead leaves.
"Leave while you still can."
"You were weak," I spat. "You betrayed her."
"And you think you will not?"
I turned to Selene—beautiful, sorrowful Selene.
She watched without emotion.
This was my test.
Would I be the same as the baron?
Or would I prove myself worthy?
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THE PRIESTS AND THE FIRE
Dawn brought hunters draped in black, priests carrying torches and relics.
They sought to end the curse, to burn her from existence.
"You must leave," the innkeeper pleaded. "They will burn her. And they will burn you too."
But I did not run.
I stood before them, a man no longer uncertain of his place.
"She is not a monster," I said.
A young priest hesitated, his fingers trembling on his cross.
"We should listen," he murmured.
But the elder priests were unmoved.
"She has taken too many souls. She will take his too."
They set the fire.
And Selene—for the first time—looked afraid.
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THE IMMORTAL BOND
I ran to her.
The flames licked at our feet, at our skin, at our bones.
"Let her go!" I roared, but the priests only chanted louder.
Selene’s hands gripped mine, and she whispered something I did not understand.
And then—
The world fell away.
The fire consumed us.
But we did not burn.
We became something else.