CHAPTER 1: THE CURSE

Evening in Vinci. The city slept beneath the ticking of the great clock towers. Gears turned a steady rhythm under the rattling carriages and clattering streetcars. Gas lamps flickered in the misty air. Their yellow glow pools on rain-slick cobblestones.

In a cramped little workshop wedged between towering iron buildings, Elizabeth Rofford spun—then tripped, crashing into her worktable. Papers flew and ink smeared across half-finished sketches. She pushed her wild curls out of her face with a frustrated sigh.  

The automaton stood still, waiting. Its porcelain face gleamed in the dim light as glassy eyes stared past her. Slender limbs, wrapped in silver filigree, caught the flicker of the oil lamp. Then it rose onto the tips of its metal toes with a quiet whir and twirled—perfect, effortless, graceful.

Elizabeth bit her lip, adjusting the straps of her leather harness. If a machine could dance with such precision, why couldn’t she?

She planted her feet, inhaled, and tried again.

A soft creak of the door hinge broke the rhythm of Elizabeth’s movements. She halted mid-turn, her boots skidding slightly on the wooden floor. The automaton, unbothered, continued its perfect rotation before coming to a smooth stop.

“You’ll wear yourself out,” came a gentle voice.

Elizabeth turned to see Aunt Annabelle standing in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of her. She was dressed as impeccably as ever. Her dark skirts brush the floor. Her auburn hair was pinned in an elegant coil. The dim glow of the gaslight behind her softened the lines of concern on her face.

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said as she breathed a little harder than she meant to.

“You always say that.” Annabelle’s gaze flicked to the automaton, then back to Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth bent down and gathered the scattered sketches from the floor. Ink smudged her fingertips; the paper wrinkled where oil had bled into the edges.

“I just need to get the balance right.”

“You need to eat.” Annabelle stepped forward, reaching out as if to smooth Elizabeth’s windswept curls but stopping short. “Dinner is ready. Come downstairs.”

Elizabeth hesitated. Her eyes drifted back to the automaton. The machine’s lifeless gaze was fixed somewhere beyond her. Then she sighed and straightened.

“Alright,” she said, setting the papers aside. “I’m coming.”

Dark wooden beams adorn the high ceilings of the dining room. A brass chandelier threw a soft and flickering glow over the long oak table. Heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows. Their panes blurred with condensation from the evening chill. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked in a steady rhythm while its polished face reflected the candlelight.

A silver serving pot steamed gently at the center of the table. The scent of warm cream and cinnamon drifted through the air. Elizabeth’s little brothers, Theo and James, sat on either side of her, eagerly dipping their spoons into their bowls of porridge. Theo, the elder of the two, ate carefully while James slurped loudly, earning a pointed look from Annabelle.

Elizabeth stirred her porridge absentmindedly. 

“I’m presenting the automaton at the Science Faire tomorrow,” she said, watching Annabelle’s reaction over the rim of her spoon.

Annabelle merely sipped her tea. 

“Good. The city takes note of bright minds.”

Elizabeth sat a little straighter, her excitement creeping into her voice. 

“If it performs the full sequence correctly, I might secure a patron. Maybe even funding for—”

“You should take the boys with you,” Annabelle interrupted.

Elizabeth blinked. “What? No. That’s—no.”

“They’ve been looking forward to the fair all month.” Annabelle set down her cup, leveling her with a knowing gaze. “It would do them good to see their sister accomplish something great.”

“They’ll be a distraction,” Elizabeth argued. “James won’t sit still for five minutes, and Theo—”

Annabelle didn’t say a word. She simply lifted her brow, and the room fell into silence save for the soft clink of silverware.

Elizabeth groaned, pushing her bowl away. 

“Fine,” she muttered, slumping back in her chair. “But if they break something, it’s on your conscience.”

Theo smiled while James, completely unaware of the arrangement being made, continued eating with the enthusiasm of a child who knew nothing of responsibility.

The sun climbed over Vinci in a molten glow. Its rays glinted off brass domes and glass skylights. Steam curled from rooftop chimneys, tendrils of gold-threaded silk in the morning light. The city seethed with anticipation. Its streets vibrate with the constant beat of hooves, the hiss of hydraulics, and the thrum of airship engines hovering above.

The aerodrome widened out at the center of the city. The steel structure rose above the people who had thronged down below. Sleek and magnificent airships drifted down from the heavens. Sails billowed as they were moored at the suspended stages. Passengers poured out in whirls of enthusiasm. Their voices blended with the steady calls of merchants and inventors setting up their displays.

Elizabeth walked through the entrance, Theo gripping one hand and James the other, their fingers small and eager in her grasp. The automaton walked with precise and delicate steps behind them, its polished joints reflecting the morning light.

James turned his head up to her, eyes bright. 

“Lizzie, she’s amazing!” He grinned at the automaton, his small boots nearly bouncing off the cobblestones. “Is she gonna dance in front of everyone?”

“She will if everything works,” Elizabeth murmured, scanning the fairgrounds.

The Science Faire sprawled in a grand spectacle… stalls and exhibition booths lined the walkways, displaying whirring machines, clockwork creatures, and glass tubes bubbling with alchemical wonders. The scent of oil and parchment mixed with the sweetness of roasted chestnuts from a passing vendor.

Men in tailored three-piece suits, their vests glinting with gold pocket watches, strolled through the crowd, debating mechanics and theory. Women in flowing, high-collared gowns moved like vibrant swaths of color, their skirts trailing behind them in shades of deep sapphire, emerald, and crimson.

But among them, one figure stood out.

She was draped in black from head to toe, her gown as dark as polished onyx. Her sleek black hair framed a face too pale, too smooth… like sculpted porcelain left untouched by time. She did not move with the eager excitement of the crowd, nor did she engage in conversation. She simply stood, watching.

Elizabeth felt the weight of that gaze before she saw its owner. And when their eyes met, a cold whisper of unease curled in her stomach.

A voice cut through the din of the fair.

“Miss Rofford!”

Elizabeth startled, tearing her gaze from the woman in black. The unease still lingered in her chest, like the fading trace of a dream, but she turned toward the source of the call. A fair attendant in a navy waistcoat beckoned her toward the staging area, flipping through the pages of a ledger.

“This way, please. We need all presenters backstage.”

Elizabeth hesitated, scanning the crowd once more. The woman in black was gone… as if she had never been there at all.

Theo tugged her sleeve. “Lizzie?”

Elizabeth exhaled, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be back soon. Stay with Annabelle, and don’t wander off.”

James pouted. “But I wanna see the automaton dance!”

“You will,” she promised, then nudged the automaton forward. It obeyed without hesitation, stepping in perfect rhythm beside her as she followed the attendant.

Backstage, low voices murmur, tense and charged. 

Elizabeth steps into a narrow corridor. Rows of men hunch over their creations, hands steady, eyes sharp. Tools click against metal. Gears turn with quiet whirs. Someone mutters a curse. Another polishes a brass plate until it gleams. The scent of oil and hot metal lingers, thick and heavy.

Waistcoats stretch over stiff shoulders. Neatly pressed trousers brush against scuffed boots. A man wipes grease from his fingers, smearing it onto an already-stained vest. Another adjusts his monocle, squinting at a flickering control panel.

Elizabeth exhales, heart pounding. No one looks up. No one speaks to her. They are too focused, too deep in their own battles.

She was the only woman in the lineup.

A few men glanced at her, some with mild curiosity, others with quiet skepticism. One scoffed under his breath before turning back to his blueprint.

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, refusing to let the weight of their judgment settle. She had worked too hard to let a few sideways glances rattle her now.

Instead, she turned to the automaton, brushing a speck of dust from its silver filigree. 

“We’ll show them,” she whispered, more to herself than to the machine.

The grand stage of the Aerodrome glows under a thousand gaslights. The show has begun.

One by one, inventors step forward as their names echo through the hall. Their machines come to life… polished, intricate, built with ambition. Each creation hums with purpose, each inventor hungry to prove themselves.

A man in a plum-colored suit presented a carriage without horses, its wheels spinning without the aid of steam or coal. It hovered a mere inch above the ground, a trick of magnetism that left the crowd murmuring in delight.

Another brought forth a towering brass machine… an automated mathematician, its gears whirring as it solved complex equations faster than any human mind could process. The scholars in attendance leaned forward in rapt attention, murmuring calculations under their breath to test its accuracy.

Then came the man with the lightning gun. He stepped onto the stage with the confidence of a showman, raising a sleek, steel-barreled weapon high above his head.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, “behold the power of bottled storms!”

With a crack of thunder, a bolt of electricity shot from the gun’s tip, arcing across the stage before slamming into a copper rod planted on the floor. The air smelled of ozone, and the audience gasped… some in terror, others in sheer amazement. A few broke into applause, their eyes gleaming with the reflection of the weapon’s deadly light.

Elizabeth swallowed hard.

Every new marvel pushed the bar higher, turning the audience’s wonder into expectation.

She pressed her palm flat against her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her heart. Every name called was another step closer to her own.

The air around her seemed to tighten, anticipation wrapping around her ribs like a vice.

Then—

“Miss Elizabeth Rofford.”

Her breath caught.

This was it.

Elizabeth stepped onto the grand stage, her breath steady but her pulse racing beneath the lace of her high collar. The gaslights above bathed her in gold, casting a glow upon the deep sapphire fabric of her gown. It clung to her frame with tailored precision, the corset cinched just enough to enhance her poise without restricting movement. The bodice was adorned with intricate silver embroidery, delicate as frost on the glass, trailing down her fitted sleeves and pooling at the hem in an elegant cascade of metallic thread.

Her hair, a rich chestnut, was swept into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, stray wisps curling at her temples where the heat of the moment had loosened them. Beneath arched brows, her eyes gleamed… intelligent and sharp, the color of aged honey with flecks of green catching the light. They did not waver as they met the expectant stares of the audience.

Beside her, the automaton stood in perfect stillness, its polished brass form sculpted with an artisan’s touch. Slender limbs, finely jointed, bore the sleek curvature of a dancer’s grace. Its porcelain-like face was expressionless, yet something in the delicate carving of its features hinted at a quiet, artificial elegance.

A hush settled over the crowd. Then, the band began to play.

A waltz, soft at first, rising like the swell of a distant tide. The first notes shivered through the air, and Elizabeth lifted her arms.

She moved.

And the automaton followed.

They move as one. Every step was smooth, every turn precise. Flesh and machine, perfectly in sync. Elizabeth spun, the silver filigree of her gown catching the light in a shimmer of stardust, and the automaton mirrored her, its joints bending in eerie, flawless precision. They glided across the stage, her hand brushing just near enough to its metallic fingers that, for a breath, the illusion of two dancers became complete.

A turn. A step. A flourish of fabric and brass.

The crowd leans in, silent, breathless.

Woman and machine move as one. Every step, every turn, a perfect reflection. Not just a display of skill. Not just invention.

This is art. This is a statement.

And as the final note rang through the grand hall, Elizabeth and her automaton stilled as one, poised in perfect harmony.

Silence.

Then, a thunder of applause.

Theo and James shot to their feet, clapping with all the excitement their small hands could muster.

"She did it!" Theo cheered, bouncing on his toes.

"That was amazing!" James shouted, his eyes bright with admiration.

Their voices barely rose above the thunderous applause. The entire Aerodrome roared with appreciation, the sound rolling through the hall like crashing waves. Elizabeth stood center stage, her chest rising and falling, the rush of triumph still fresh in her veins.

Then—

Pain.

A sharp, blinding agony split through her skull.

Elizabeth gasped, her vision lurching as the world around her twisted. The crowd blurred into dark shapes, their applause warping into a distant, distorted echo. And then… visions.

Blood. Thick and glistening. Spilling across marble floors. A body, torn open, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Fangs sinking into flesh. The sound of a heartbeat—loud, deafening—then silence.

She clutched her head, staggering backward as the images overwhelmed her. The pain surged, unbearable, burning through her mind like fire.

A choked sob escaped her lips.

Then… her body convulsed.

She hit the stage hard, her limbs jerking, her breath ragged and broken.

The applause faltered. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

And then—

A scream.

Not from Elizabeth… but from the audience.

One by one, people collapsed, their bodies seizing violently. Heads snapped back, eyes rolling into their skulls as they convulsed, their final moments wrenched away in sheer agony. The sound of bones cracking, bodies hitting the floor—it all mixed into a nightmarish symphony of death.

The crowd fell like marionettes with their strings severed. Blood dripped from noses, from ears, from gaping mouths frozen in silent horror.

Every single one… dead.

Except one.

The woman in black stood at the edge of the destruction, untouched, watching with quiet fascination. Her sleek, ink-dark hair framed a face of cold, porcelain beauty. As bodies lay still around her, she took a slow step forward, her voice no louder than a whisper—

"It’s time…"

Elizabeth’s eyes flicker open. Light blurs at the edges. It smells of antiseptic. Her body feels heavy, pinned by something she can’t see.

She lay in a long, sterile room lined with beds… row after row, stretching into the dimly lit distance. Pale gaslights flickered from their sconces, wavering shadows against peeling green walls. The metallic tang of blood and something else… something foul hangs, like sickness and death clinging to the sheets.

Most of the beds beside her were occupied.

But none of them moved.

Blankets had been pulled up over motionless shapes, concealing the bodies beneath. The silence was suffocating. Not a moan, not a breath… just the occasional drip of water from a rusted pipe in the corner.

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Elizabeth swallowed hard, her throat dry and raw. She parted her lips, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Theo… James… Annabelle…”

A shadow moved near the doorway.

Soft footsteps echoed against the cold tile floor. A figure emerged from the dim light, her silhouette stark against the gloom.

The woman in black.

She glided forward, the sheer grace of her movement unnatural, effortless. Her dress, deep and unrelenting as midnight, trailed behind her like a liquid shadow. Her porcelain-pale skin stood in sharp contrast, smooth and flawless, untouched by time or suffering. Dark eyes, bottomless as a well, studied Elizabeth with a knowing calm.

“They’re alive,” she said, her voice silk over steel. “But they barely made it.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched. Relief, sharp and painful, swelled in her chest. But beneath it, a gnawing dread curled in her gut.

The woman’s gaze did not waver. Her presence carried a weight, an inevitability.

She was not here by chance.

Elizabeth forced herself upright, her limbs trembling as she leaned against the stiff hospital cot. The sheets beneath her were coarse, the scent of dried blood still lingering in the air. She swallowed, her throat raw, her mind struggling to grasp the weight of the woman’s words.

Theo. James. Annabelle. Alive.

Barely.

Her fingers tightened around the thin blanket draped over her lap. She lifted her gaze, meeting the woman’s dark, unwavering eyes.

“Who… who are you?” Elizabeth’s voice cracked, her throat sore as if she had been screaming for hours.

The woman stood poised, untouched by the squalor of the room. She folded her gloved hands before her, the faintest trace of a smirk curling at the edge of her lips.

“My name is Gothetta Ravenholm,” she said, her voice smooth as polished glass. “And you, Miss Rofford… are a psychic.”

The word sent a chill through Elizabeth’s bones. Psychic.

She shook her head, her breath quickening. 

“No… no, I’m not. I’m an inventor.”

Gothetta’s expression did not change.

“Are you?” she asked. “Then tell me, did you invent the deaths of hundreds?”

Elizabeth flinched as the weight of the question crushed into her. Images of the fairground surged back… bodies writhing, blood dripping from open mouths, the screams of the dying.

The memories struck like a hammer.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Gothetta interrupted, stepping closer. Her presence was suffocating, inescapable. “And it will happen again, whether you mean it or not.”

Elizabeth’s heart pounded against her ribs.

She wanted to deny it, to push away the truth. But deep inside, she knew. The visions, the pain, the sudden, violent outburst… it hadn’t been the first time she felt something stirring inside her.

But it was the first time it had killed.

Elizabeth’s breath came fast and shallow. The weight of Gothetta’s words pressed down on her like iron chains.

“I don’t want this,” she whispered. Her hands trembled as she clenched the thin fabric of her hospital gown. “I never wanted this. What am I supposed to do?”

Gothetta tilted her head, watching her like a predator considering its prey.

“Come with me,” she said simply.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. She had barely survived whatever happened at the fair… whatever she had done. But leaving with this woman, this stranger wrapped in black, felt like stepping off a ledge with no ground beneath her.

“I… I need to see them first,” Elizabeth said, voice unsteady. “My aunt. My brothers. I need to know they’re really—”

Gothetta sighed as if the request bored her. Then she glanced up at the dim gaslight flickering in the corner.

“Is there electricity in this hospital?” she asked.

Elizabeth blinked, thrown off by the sudden question. “Yes… barely, but—why?”

Gothetta didn’t answer.

Before Elizabeth could press further, the world lurched.

For a split second, her entire body felt like it had been turned inside out… like she was being pulled through space without moving at all. The stale scent of blood and antiseptic vanished, replaced by something softer, the faint lingering traces of lavender and burnt candles.

Elizabeth stumbled, disoriented, as she realized she was no longer in the long, deathly silent ward.

She was standing outside a different room entirely.

A small, dimly lit space.

Through the slightly open door, she saw them… Annabelle, her graying curls loose around her tired face, sitting at the bedside of two boys. Theo and James, are pale and weak, but breathing. Alive.

Elizabeth’s heart clenched.

She turned to Gothetta, voice barely above a whisper. 

“How… how did you—”

“See them first,” Gothetta interrupted, her expression unreadable. 

“Then we talk.”

Elizabeth hesitated at the doorway, her heart pounding as she took in the sight of her family. Annabelle sat beside Theo and James, her hands gently stroking James’s hair as he slept. The dim candlelight flickered over her face, deepening the exhaustion in her eyes, the fine lines of worry carved into her features.

“Aunt Annabelle…” Elizabeth stepped forward, her voice small.

Annabelle looked up. For a moment, relief fills her eyes.

Then it’s gone, replaced by something heavier. Something like sadness.

“Oh, my dear girl.” Annabelle stood and wrapped Elizabeth in her arms, holding her so tightly it nearly stole her breath. “I thought I lost you.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the embrace. For a moment, she felt like a child again, comforted by Annabelle’s presence, the steady warmth of her. But reality clawed back at her too soon.

She pulled away, her hands gripping Annabelle’s. 

“How are you?” she asked softly. “How are they?”

Annabelle’s gaze flickered back to the boys. 

“Alive,” she said. “By some miracle.”

“Not a miracle.” Elizabeth swallowed hard. “It was me.”

Annabelle didn’t look surprised.

Elizabeth’s fingers curled into fists. 

“Auntie, I don’t understand what’s happening to me.” Her voice shook. “That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Annabelle sighed and guided Elizabeth to a chair beside the bed. She sat across from her, searching her face for a long moment before speaking.

“No, my love,” she said at last. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.

Annabelle reached out, placing a hand over hers. 

“You are a psychic, Elizabeth.”

The word made her stomach drop.

Annabelle squeezed her hand gently. “You’re not the only one.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“Theo, James, and I—we have it too,” Annabelle admitted. 

“Not like you, not anywhere close. What we have is… a whisper, a thread, barely noticeable.”

 She smiled sadly. 

“But it was enough. When you lost control, when that wave of power surged through the crowd… we were connected to you. That connection shielded us, even as it tore through everyone else.”

Elizabeth felt like she couldn’t breathe.

“So many people…” Her voice cracked.

Annabelle held her hands tighter. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But—”

“You didn’t know.” Annabelle’s voice was firm. “You didn’t choose this. But now that you do know, you have to understand what it means.” 

She exhaled slowly, her gaze flickering toward the door, where Gothetta stood in the shadows, waiting.

“She can help you.”

Elizabeth turned her head slightly.

Gothetta hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t moved since they arrived, yet her presence filled the room like a storm waiting to break.

Annabelle cupped Elizabeth’s face, drawing her attention back. 

“Go with her, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth’s eyes stung. “But—”

“She will make everything clear,” Annabelle interrupted. “And she will keep you from ever hurting the people you love again.”

Elizabeth’s heart twisted.

There was no choice.

There never had been.

Gothetta lifts her gloved hand, fingers pale and poised, waiting. Candlelight flickers, stretching shadows across her face. Her features stay sharp, unmoving. Her black eyes, too still. Too inhuman.

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment. Then, she took Gothetta’s hand.

The world twisted.

A cold rush of air engulfed her, and the scent of damp earth and metal replaced the lingering antiseptic of the hospital. The warm glow of candlelit halls disappeared, swallowed by thick fog. Elizabeth stumbled slightly, feet sinking into fresh snow, her breath curling into the freezing night air.

Before her, a grand carriage stood parked near an electric generator, its polished brass and dark wood gleaming under the dim light of flickering electric lamps. Steam hissed from the generator’s coils, the final dying bursts of energy crackling through its framework. The scent of ozone clung to the air, heavy and metallic.

Elizabeth turned sharply, her gaze darting back toward where the hospital should have been… but there was nothing. Only darkness, the distant hum of the city swallowed by the encroaching mist.

She shivered. “How did we—”

Gothetta released her hand and stepped toward the carriage. 

“Electricity is convenient,” she said, adjusting her high-collared coat. “But, unfortunately, it is not an option for the journey ahead.” She glanced toward the generator as it sputtered, its power nearly spent. “We must rely on more… traditional methods.”

Elizabeth followed her gaze down the road. The path ahead was veiled in thick fog, stretching endlessly into the unknown. The snow-covered ground swallowed the sound of their footsteps, and a hollow stillness filled the air.

High above, the sun dipped beneath the horizon, bleeding shades of orange and violet across the sky. As darkness settled, the first stars blinked into existence. A sharp caw broke the silence… then another.

Elizabeth tilted her head upward.

Ravens.

Dozens of them, their black silhouettes cutting through the dim light as they took flight from frost-covered branches. Their wings beat against the sky, their cries echoing through the cold.

A strange unease curled in her stomach.

She glanced back once more, her heart pulling toward the city she could no longer see. The home she might never return to.

Then, slowly, she turned forward.

The carriage door stood open, waiting. Beyond it, only fog, only shadow, only the unknown.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply, steadying herself.

And she stepped inside.

The carriage swayed gently as it rolled through the snow-covered road, its iron wheels crunching softly against the frozen earth. Inside, the air was warmer than Elizabeth expected, though it carried the scent of aged wood and faint traces of candle wax. The lantern fixed to the wall cast a golden glow, flickering with the movement, illuminating the polished mahogany interior.

Elizabeth sat across from Gothetta, her fingers gripping the velvet seat as she tried to steady herself—not just from the motion of the carriage but from the weight of everything that had happened. The dead. The blood. The visions. The sheer force of something she didn’t understand, something that had erupted from inside her without warning.

She swallowed hard and met Gothetta’s gaze. 

"What’s happening to me?" Her voice was quieter than she intended, almost afraid of the answer. "What am I?"

Gothetta sat poised, hands folded neatly over her lap, her black gloves stark against the deep green of her gown. 

"Like I said before, you are a psychic," she said, her voice smooth, measured. "A person with a powerful connection to the Warp—a dimensional rift in reality that is beyond mortal comprehension."

Elizabeth felt her body tense. 

"A rift in reality?" The words tasted foreign on her tongue.

Gothetta nodded. 

"It is an endless, chaotic force, a place where thoughts, emotions, and nightmares become reality. Most psychics only touch upon it in dreams, fleeting and untrained, but you... your connection is strong and uncontrolled. That is why your powers manifested so violently. That is why you—"

Her words trailed off, and for the first time, something like hesitation flickered in her dark eyes.

"Why I killed them," Elizabeth finished… her throat tight. The image of the crowd collapsing, writhing, seizing—dying—flashed through her mind.

Gothetta exhaled softly, tilting her head. 

"It was not your intention. Your power surged beyond what I expected. I did not foresee such destruction." Her gaze sharpened. "I barely managed to shield myself."

Elizabeth frowned. "Shield yourself? From me?"

"From your wave," Gothetta corrected. "Your power erupted outward, killing all who could not resist it. But I have my own connection to the Warp… a different one. One that vampires cannot have."

Elizabeth blinked, her mind latching onto the unfamiliar word. 

"Vampires?" she repeated.

Gothetta’s lips curved ever so slightly as if amused by the question. 

"That is something you will understand when we reach the castle," said Gothetta.

Elizabeth’s fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt. 

"Then what are you?"

The carriage hit a bump, rocking slightly. Gothetta barely moved, her presence unnervingly composed.

"I," she said, watching Elizabeth carefully, "am half-vampire."

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

Elizabeth wanted to press for more, to demand answers, to understand what kind of world she had been thrust into… but something in Gothetta’s expression told her that, for now, there would be no more explanations.

Only the quiet hum of the carriage wheels.

Only the road ahead, waiting in the dark.

The carriage lurched to a stop, nearly throwing Elizabeth forward. Outside, hooves slammed against wet stone, the snorts of restless horses cutting through the night. Heavy boots marched in unison, the rhythmic clang of metal echoing off the trees. Fog coiled through the lamplit road, twisting around the dark figures closing in. Gaslight glowed against their polished rifles, drawing sharp reflections along their barrels, each one trained on the carriage door.

A gloved hand wrenched it open. The hinges groaned. A rush of cold air poured in, carrying the scent of damp earth and burning oil.

"Out," a voice commanded. Low. Unyielding.

Elizabeth moved first, her fingers trembling against the fabric of her skirts. Her boots touched the ground, the cold seeping through the soles. Gothetta followed, slower, deliberate. Her heels struck the stone with a sharp, measured rhythm.

The soldiers stood in formation, their steel masks smooth, expressionless. Their breath fogged against the cold night. The captain stepped forward, his armor heavier, ornate engravings curling along the metal plates. The gaslamp in his hand cast jagged shadows across his faceplate.

“By decree of the Ironshield Kaiserreich,” he announced, his voice cutting through the stillness, “hand over the psychic, you heretic.”

Gothetta didn’t flinch. Her head tilted, dark eyes catching the glint of lamplight.

“Have you forgotten the armistice, gentlemen?” Her voice was soft, almost amused.

“We are not Imperium Jannisaries. We are Witch Hunters.” The captain chuckled, a low, humorless sound beneath his mask. 

Gothetta exhaled, slow and deliberate, brushing specks of dust from her sleeve. The tension coiled tighter, the space between them shrinking.

“Ah,” she murmured, her voice smooth as silk, “so you’re here to do the Kaiser’s dirty work.”

A soldier gripped his rifle tighter. Another shifted his stance. The gas lamps flickered as a cold wind snaked through the road.

The fog thickened. Shadows stretched. Something in the night stirred.

Tension coiled in the air, waiting for a spark to set it ablaze.

The gas lamps flickered as the cold wind howled through the road. Gothetta sighed and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, “we are short on time. Let’s not drag this out.”

The captain scoffed and stepped forward, his metal boots grinding against the stone. Without warning, he grabbed Elizabeth by the arm and yanked her toward him.

Pain shot through Elizabeth’s shoulder, but before she could react, a surge of electricity erupted from Gothetta’s body. Blue-white arcs of lightning crackled through the air, punching straight through the captain’s armor. His body convulsed, limbs locking up as the charge overwhelmed him. With a violent jolt, he collapsed onto the ground, smoke curling from his metal plate.

Gothetta smirked. “I did warn you, didn’t I?”

Elizabeth’s breath came in sharp gasps. Her eyes darted to Gothetta, and for the first time, she noticed the small electric generator strapped to her back, its coils humming faintly with power.

The remaining soldiers recoiled in shock, and then quickly raised their rifles.

"Fire!" one of them shouted.

But before they could pull their triggers, Gothetta moved. Sparks danced around her fingers as she unleashed bolts of raw electricity into their ranks. White-hot arcs ripped through the air, striking the soldiers square in their chests. They screamed, their armor crackling with energy as their bodies convulsed violently. The acrid scent of burning metal filled the night.

Elizabeth barely had time to react before something slammed into Gothetta, sending her crashing to the ground.

The captain had woken.

Despite the burns seared into his armor, he tackled Gothetta with brutal force, pinning her beneath his weight. A serrated knife glinted in the gaslamp’s glow as he raised it high.

Elizabeth’s vision blurred.

Blood. Pain. Screams.

The world around her twisted into something unnatural. Faces warped into hollow-eyed husks. Limbs writhed and melted into shapeless forms. She clutched her head, her skull splitting with agony as the visions tore through her mind.

The captain’s blade came down.

Elizabeth screamed.

A wave of psychic energy erupted from her body, hitting the captain like a cannon blast. The force shattered his helmet, exposing his wide, horrified eyes before the energy tore through his skull.

His head exploded in a violent burst of gore.

The psychic wave didn’t stop. His arms twisted unnaturally, bones snapping as his flesh was pulled apart. His entire body was shredded into bloody ribbons, his remains scattered across the stone road in wet chunks.

Silence fell.

The remaining soldiers stood frozen, eyes wide with horror. Then, as one, they turned and fled into the fog, their rifles clattering to the ground as they ran.

Elizabeth gasped for air, her body trembling violently. The night seemed too quiet now, the only sound the distant cawing of ravens.

Gothetta groaned and sat up, wiping blood—none of it hers—off her face. She cast Elizabeth a long, unreadable look before chuckling softly.

“Well,” she muttered, “that was something.”

Gothetta dusted herself off, her expression unreadable as she turned toward the waiting carriage. The horses pawed at the ground, their breath misting in the cold air. The coachman sat stiffly, gripping the reins with white-knuckled hands, his face pale beneath the gaslamp’s glow.

“Well?” Gothetta called to him. “Unless you want more trouble, I suggest we get moving.”

The coachman nodded stiffly and snapped the reins. The horses lurched forward, the wheels creaking as the carriage rolled down the fog-laden road.

Gothetta climbed in first, settling into the seat with a sigh. Elizabeth hesitated before stepping inside, her body still shaking, her hands cold and damp. The moment the door shut behind her, the world outside seemed to fade into a blur of dark trees and distant, flickering lamplight.

She exhaled sharply and hugged her arms, her pulse still hammering in her ears. 

“I did it again…” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”

Gothetta studied her, then leaned back, one leg crossed over the other. “Most impressive,” she said with an approving nod. “You saved my life.”

Elizabeth flinched, gripping the fabric of her skirt. “That’s not… I didn’t want to—”

“Kill him?” Gothetta finished for her. “No. But he would’ve killed me. And you.”

Elizabeth stared down at her trembling hands. The memory of the captain’s body tearing itself apart flashed behind her eyes, the wet sound of bones snapping still fresh in her mind. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to swallow the nausea creeping up her throat.

A moment passed before she spoke again. 

“How did you do it?” Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward. “The lightning. You conjured it from your fingers.”

Gothetta smirked. 

“Oh, I can’t create electricity, if that’s what you’re asking. But I can manipulate it. Bend it to my will.” She tapped her temple. “Psychic control. It flows through me like a current, and I direct it where it needs to go.”

Elizabeth glanced at the small generator strapped to Gothetta’s back, its coils still humming faintly with residual energy. “And you need that?”

“It helps,” Gothetta admitted, tilting her head. “But I’m no ordinary psychic, and neither are you. My ability is something I like to call Behind the Sun… I take the hidden power in the air, the unseen force behind the light, and bring it to my fingertips.” 

She flexed her gloved fingers, letting the last sparks dance between them before fading into the dim light of the carriage.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. “And me?”

Gothetta’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. 

“You?” She chuckled. “You’re something else entirely.”