> I just needed to find one key, one key for one book - the correct book. - Ursula

Onxyburg was a place of speculation and feverous ambition, an odd marriage of history and innovation—where cobblestone streets met the growl of steam engines. Merchants sang the virtues of their wares and goods beneath the looming shadows of grand architectural masterpieces.

A city suspended between eras, grappling with the secrets it held close to its chest. Sex, tokens and bloodlust.

And no secret was more haunting than the disappearance of Princess Isabeau, a question mark that dangled over the House of Neddingstein like a guillotine blade. While the rest of the Nyu had long moved on, accepting her absence as a dark mystery never to be solved, I clung to the hidden narrative I'd woven in my mind.

Isabeau and Restelo, bound by a love that defied mortality, reigning over the clandestine corridors of Onxyburg's power as the true royals.

It was all a beautiful illusion until the night of that particular soiree. Almost a century had passed, and there I was in a decadent affair drenched with lust and token, masked by the perfume of lilac and the tang of expensive wine. Each laughter, each whispered secret, was a trade in this marketplace of human desire. As for me, I was expensive and escorted by only those who knew how to play the game better than anyone. I was there for business—a necessity in a competitive trade that brooked no naivety.

But something shifted when I saw Restelo amid the swirl of satin and jewels. He still looked like royalty, but his eyes were missing the compassion that had once defined him. Now, there was only wrath.

They were devoid of joy, and that absence broke something within me. I tried to play my role. As always, I was the finest of the merchandise, not a silly child, greeting him with rehearsed ease. Which meant a slight bow with my head and nothing more. Not a smile even. Smiles cost tokens.

"Ursula," he called, his voice as unreadable as his eyes, "you look more radiant than ever."

The banter that followed was sharp, cutting through the thick air like a knife, yet laden with years of unsaid words and unresolved histories. How did it end? I couldn't keep wondering. The atmosphere around us tightened as if it, too, was holding its breath, waiting for a resolution to our complex web of half-truths.

Finally, I mustered the courage to break the ice that had long encased the question burning in my mind. "How is she?"

Restelo hesitated, the silence heavy with the weight of what was left unsaid. At last, he broke it. "Meet me at the old Cathedral; I would love to present you to some friends."

It was an invitation and a revelation, all wrapped into one. I couldn't help but wonder who these 'friends' were, but more importantly, I wondered if the lost chapter of Isabeau and Restelo's love story was finally about to be written or if it was merely another verse in a tragic epic with no end. I was excited. After long, long years, I felt like a reader who yearned for the gazette novel that was on hiatus for too long. Finally, I would have my happy ending.

I accepted Restelo's invitation and went to the old Cathedral that loomed like a decaying relic abandoned by both Atua and man. Its once-grand spires now jutted into the sky like skeletal fingers, a stark irony to the vibrancy advancement of Onxyburg. It was as if the city had intentionally forgotten this place, allowing it to slip into the realm of myth, folklore and mid-wife gossip.

I knocked on the heavy wooden door. A moment later, it creaked open on its own accord, revealing a dark interior with the smell of murk and dust. I hesitated but stepped inside. My heels made so much noise it echoed through the vast place.

I felt crimson eyes upon me, though I saw no one, just the heavy air filled with an ineffable sense of being watched. My ears caught snippets of whispers—words that eluded comprehension as if they were spoken in the language of shadows.

"Ursula," he called out, the syllables piercing the obscurity. Restelo materialized from the gloom like a phantom. "You came."

"Well, you did invite me."

He led me through a labyrinth of stone and arches to a room that appeared to be his office. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient texts and oddities that hinted at arcane rituals. He gestured for me to sit and poured wine into delicate glasses. But I suspected the liquid was not just wine.

"Something tells me you don't often entertain guests here," I said, taking a sip of the rich iron liquid.

"You'd be correct," he replied, sitting opposite me.

We were interrupted by a beam of sunlight that flooded the room from a window above. The contrast was startling; the lower levels of the Cathedral were a domain of shadows, but up here, the sun claimed sovereignty.

"Doesn't the sunlight bother you?" I asked, finally voicing the question that had been lurking in my mind since I entered his domain.

"I've grown accustomed to it," he said. "There are many things one can get used to."

His gaze became piercing, fixing me with an intensity that was both unsettling and alluring. "How's Isabeau?" I dared to ask again, unwilling to let the subject drift away. I wanted my happy ending.

Restelo stood up, taking slow steps around the desk until he stood before me. His fingers reached for my neck, hovering just above the skin as if asking silent permission. I felt a shiver down my spine until it loomed as he finally touched me. At that instant, my form wavered, my features moulding like soft clay until I became her—Isabeau.

His eyes widened briefly but quickly settled into a look of profound sadness. Then he leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss that seemed to cross the boundaries of... anything. It was both a betrayal and a homage, a contradiction that only deepened the enigma of Restelo.

When the kiss ended, my form returned to its original state. I was Ursula once more. This is now the story, no longer about an innocent love story. This is me. How I became a pawn for a much more macabre game.

Restelo led me to another room. My lips were still burning cold with his kiss. The door opened, revealing an unexpectedly serene chamber illuminated by an ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from its central focus: a canopied bed hidden behind veils; it looked just as fairy tales should be told.

On it lay Isabeau as if she were merely sleeping. Her skin retained its youthful glow, her red lips slightly parted. Her body had been preserved in the full bloom of her beauty, yet the swell of her abdomen was unmistakable. She was pregnant. She was still pregnant.

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"She looks as if she's just sleeping," I said.

"In a way, she is," Restelo replied, walking over to sit gently on the edge of the bed. "A very specific quantity of vampire venom has kept her in this state—alive but not awake, unaging but ever pregnant—for nearly a century."

"A century? I haven't noticed like time flies by." The words escaped my lips before I could catch them. "But why? Why keep her in this condition for so long?"

Restelo looked at Isabeau, his fingers lightly tracing the air just above her cheek as if afraid to touch her. "That is the price of our love, a love that defies nature's laws. I'm not supposed to be able to generate new life. But it's also why I've called you here."

I listened, my curiosity building like an unsolved puzzle demanding to be completed.

"I've been searching for something—the Book of Forbidden Wishes. It's said to grant any wish possibly to be imagined. It could hold the power to change a vampire back into a human."

"A fairy tale," I scoffed, but I could see in his eyes that he believed it to be true.

"Is it? I've spent years accumulating knowledge, sifting through ancient manuscripts and deciphering cryptic messages. I killed anyone in my way, mothers and children included. I do believe the book is real."

"And if it is? What then?"

"I wish to become human, to share a mortal life with Isabeau and our unborn child," Restelo said. "To grow old, to die, to be buried in the same earth. I want to experience it with her."

It was a fantasy, perhaps, but the longing in his voice made it sound like a prayer.

"Where is this book? And what do you need from me?"

Restelo hesitated. "The book is well protected, hidden in places. No one knows about it. From what I could gather is an Allatori book, and I mean, the book was made of an Allatori. But the more immediate concern is that it requires a key to be unlocked, a key that is said to be in the possession of the Morningstars."

"The Morningstars? The family of witches?" I asked, incredulous. "You can't possibly think to meddle with them. I heard rumours that those women travel the stars!"

"The very same," Restelo confirmed. "They have been guarding the key for generations. The irony of it all—it seems they place the key to children with no magic and send them right here, well, more exactly, Ravendrift."

"What's the plan, then?" I found myself more entangled in his story, swept up by the pull of a love so profound it sought to defy the very fabric of existence.

Restelo finally looked away from Isabeau and into my eyes, a solemn gravity settling over his face. "I need you to infiltrate the Morningstars and retrieve the key. You have the skills and the magical prowess to do this. More importantly, they do not know you. You can move in circles; I cannot. And you can be as many little mouses you need to be."

The room seemed to close in around me as the gravity of his request sunk in. I was to be a thief, a spy, and potentially a destroyer of a lineage that had lasted centuries. Yet, looking at Isabeau's still form on the bed and then back at Restelo—worn by the weight of years, burdened by a love so intense it had defied death—I knew my answer.

"Alright, I'll help you," I said. "For love's sake and for the hope that love could, for once, grant me wishes as well."

Restelo's eyes glinted, "What do you desire?"

"What every foul human wants, immortality and pockets full of tokens that never end."

There are many ways to manipulate a woman, but the easiest is crumbles of promises.

Indeed, promises are the breadcrumbs that lead many astray in the labyrinth of desire. The same labyrinth I found myself wandering deeper into with every step I took to help Restelo, pulled by the intoxicating gravity of his half-truths and full lies.

The man was an enigma, a paradox in the shape of a vampire. His words were full of principles and ideals that seemed impossible for a creature of the night. Yet his actions? They betrayed a voracious hunger, not just for blood but for something less definable. For love? For validation? No, don't be mistaken. Restelo was evil.

But at that time, it didn't stop me.

Restelo's lips met mine. We were right beside Isabeau, frozen in time, her pregnant form untouched by the passing decades—sleeping peacefully, and here we were, two sinners bound and torn by pure sinful lust.

I felt his fangs graze my neck without hesitating or seeking permission. I tilted my head, willingly baring my throat to him. With a restrained hunger, he sunk his fangs into me. I never, until that day, knew the possibility of blending pleasure and pain.

I clutched onto him as he drank. I wanted more, and I wanted it all. Restelo's sinful hands traced their way down my skirts, deftly undoing the intricate laces and clasps of my gown. He drank from me, but I, too, drank from him—drank in the feel of his touch, the cold of his body next to mine, and the intoxicating scent that was unmistakably him.

As layers of fabric slid down, pooling around my feet, I felt both vulnerable and invincible.

Finally, when he released his bite, his eyes met mine. What I saw there was a mirror of the contradictions swirling within me—passion, guilt, a yearning for something more. He gently pressed his lips to the twin punctures on my neck, almost as if sealing a pact.

As we stood there, half-dressed and fully exposed, amidst the haunting beauty of our own imperfections and immoralities, I couldn't help but wonder—what were we doing? What could justify this stolen intimacy, this betrayal of a love I had never quite belonged to but always revered?

Yet, I knew deep down questions of morality were luxuries ill-afforded in our world. Misfits.

So, we didn't hold back. No, we couldn't. Not when the alternative was a lifetime—or an eternity—of what-ifs. And as I wrapped my arms around Restelo, feeling his heart beat against mine—or maybe that was my heart beating for both of us—I realized that some questions are best left unanswered.

"Is this really all just for love?" I mused to myself as I lounged in my apartment, the decadent aftertaste of our last passionate encounter still lingering on my lips, on my skin.

Restelo had an uncanny talent for muddying the waters between moral high ground and base desires. He spoke of love eternal, of redefining the nature of his very being to be with Isabeau, but he kissed with a ravenous urgency as if trying to consume me whole.

And I, willingly or foolishly, was happy to be consumed. He spoke of the morning and the possibility of a new life, but his hands, always those hungry hands, revelled in the pleasures of the night. They knew every curve, every hidden secret of my make-believe sculpted body.

Promises, as ethereal as they were, had a weight. They built up in the corners of your mind, like dust collecting on forgotten shelves. And like dust, they could either be swept away as inconsequential or trigger an allergic reaction so strong it could blind you to reality.

"Am I blinded?" I pondered many times more than I can count, looking at my reflection in the mirror. The woman who looked back was a construct of wishes and spells, her beauty finely crafted like a priceless sculpture, yet not wholly hers.

It was this beauty that Restelo admired, even as he saw through it. It was this façade that he promised could be permanent, even eternal, as he showered me with affection and passionate kisses in stolen moments. But for what? To use me in a quest that had another woman—another love—at its very core?

But I loved her too. I did want her to be happy.

It's laughable how willing we can be to make do with crumbs when we’re starved for the whole loaf—love, affection, the sheer acknowledgement of our existence. But a woman surviving on crumbs is a woman on the edge, and it's a dangerous place to be. Either you step back, or you fall.

As I continued down this precarious path, assisting Restelo in a scheme as grand as it was risky, I couldn’t help but question where these breadcrumbs were leading me. To salvation or damnation? And more importantly, would the destination make all of this—every broken promise, every whispered lie—worthwhile?

Also, a vampire as old as Restelo might be tired of his Bloodlust, but being a human? At this time, I started to know him too well to be able to smell bullshit from his words.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I was as much a part of this twisted narrative as Restelo and Isabeau were. We were all trying to rewrite the rules in our favour, and promises—those dangerous, tantalizing promises—were the ink with which we wrote.

So, would I continue to follow this trail of crumbs? Yes, but with eyes wide open because the best way to play a game of deceit is to understand that you're a player, not just a pawn. And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, those crumbs would lead to a feast. But for now, all I could do was savour each crumb and anticipate the next, as any fool—happy.

I just needed to find one key, one key for one book - the correct book.