CHAPTER 2: VAMPIRES

The carriage rumbled to a halt, its wheels grinding against the frostbitten stone of the courtyard. Elizabeth’s breath hitched as she lifted her gaze. Before her is a monolith of shadow and grandeur, an edifice whose very bones seemed steeped in the weight of ages. Towers clawed at the heavens, their spires vanishing into the storm-thickened sky, while walls stretched in endless defiance, their facades kissed by the somber light of the moon. The air carried the scent of damp stone and old iron, mingling with the slow decay of fallen leaves that had long since lost their color.

High above, windows loomed like vacant eyes, dark and unknowable, save for the few that flickered with the ghostly glow of candlelight. Ivy, heavy with the burden of years, curled along buttresses and arches, its tendrils creeping into every crevice as if seeking to reclaim the fortress for the earth. Statues of forgotten figures… knights with solemn visages, women draped in sorrow… stood in alcoves, their faces worn smooth by rain and time.

The great doors, tall as the judgment itself, bore intricate carvings, reliefs of battles long past, and scenes of celestial horror: figures entwined in struggle, wings torn asunder, flames licking at the feet of the condemned. Their heavy wood, darkened with age, bore the scars of centuries as if the very weight of history had pressed its fingers upon them.

Gothetta stepped out, the crunch of gravel beneath her heels lost to the wind that howled through the parapets. She tilted her head back, exhaling a breath that misted in the cold air.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice carrying a strange, knowing reverence, “to Ravenholm.”

Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers tightening around the folds of her skirt. The castle did not beckon… it loomed. It did not invite… it endured. This was not a place built to house men but to defy them. Every stone, every arch, every whispering draft in the corridors beyond seemed to murmur the same unshaken truth: this place remembers.

Ravens, black as the void between stars, circled the highest towers, their cries sharp against the wind. The iron gate groaned as it swung shut behind them, sealing the world away. Elizabeth swallowed, lifting her chin as she stepped forward, past the statues, past the stories etched in stone, past the doors that would close behind her like the turning of a page.

Elizabeth stepped forward, her footsteps echoing against the vast hall’s polished floor. The flickering candlelight cast long, restless shadows, illuminating the figures lined along the walls—rows of servants, unmoving, heads bowed in reverence. Their stillness sent a chill up her spine. Something was wrong.

She forced herself to look closer. The skin of the nearest footman, draped in fine but outdated livery, sagged against his bones, pallid and thin, like old wax melting from a candle. His fingers twitched in slow, unnatural motions, the nails cracked, and the veins beneath his skin blackened and unmoving. Beside him, a maid’s eyes, dull and cloudy, stared at nothing. Her lips, chapped and dark, parted slightly as if murmuring a prayer that would never be heard.

Elizabeth’s breath quickened. Their chests did not rise, did not fall. Their presence was neither warm nor cold, but something in between, something wrong. She turned her head, but the further she looked down the line, the more grotesque the details became. Some bore wounds that had never healed, gaping and raw beneath their uniforms. Others were barely more than skeletons; sinew stretched too thin across brittle bones. Yet they stood, obedient, silent. Watching without seeing.

"Do not be alarmed," Gothetta murmured beside her, walking with the poise of someone unfazed by the grotesque. "They are loyal, far more than the living ever could be."

Elizabeth swallowed, forcing her gaze forward. At the end of the hall, seated upon a throne of black wood, was the master of this place. The Patriarch.

Eriel Ravenholm lounged against the seat as if carved into it, his long fingers tapping idly against the armrest. His skin, smooth and porcelain, held no trace of time’s cruelty, yet his presence exuded an age older than the walls themselves. His hair, silver as frost, cascaded past his shoulders, its gleam catching the candlelight like strands of moonlight woven into silk. His eyes, dark as the abyss between stars, settled upon her with unreadable amusement.

Draped around him, half-hidden in the folds of velvet cushions and furs, were women—many women. Their gowns shimmered in the dim glow; their arms curled around him as if he were both their master and their god. Some rested their heads against his lap, their long nails tracing idle patterns against his sleeves. Others lay sprawled across the dais; their faces turned toward him with expressions of longing, devotion—or perhaps something deeper, something that made Elizabeth’s stomach twist.

No wife. No queen. And yet, he was never alone.

A slow smile curled the edges of his lips.

"Elizabeth Rofford," he said, his voice smooth as untouched snow. "Come closer."

Elizabeth took a step forward. The floor beneath her feet, dark and polished, reflected her hesitant approach. The air in the chamber felt heavy, thick with the scent of old stone, candle smoke, and something metallic… something wrong. The closer she drew, the more she felt it, a quiet pressure gnawing at the edges of her mind, a presence that curled around her senses like an unseen hand.

Gothetta moved ahead, her every step confident and deliberate. Without a word, she ascended the dais and stood before the throne. Eriel did not move, only tilted his head slightly as she leaned in. Their lips met, slow and lingering. A shiver rippled through the gathered concubines, their watching eyes flickering with something between admiration and hunger.

Then, the gleam of white fangs. A drop of blood, dark against pale skin.

Elizabeth’s spine curled.

When they parted, thin rivulets of crimson traced their mouths. Gothetta wiped the corner of her lips with the back of her hand, her tongue flicking out to catch the remnants. Eriel still reclined on his throne, turned his gaze to Elizabeth. The amusement in his expression deepened, yet something colder lurked beneath.

"So," he murmured, his voice a slow drawl, velvet wrapped around steel, "they say you have power."

Elizabeth parted her lips, but the words stuck in her throat.

Eriel's eyes gleamed, and his fingers curled lazily against the armrest.

"Show me."

A sharp breath left Elizabeth’s lips as the world around her twisted. The edges of her vision rippled, distorting like a reflection in shattered glass. Shapes bled into one another—flashes of burning fields, skies choked with smoke, figures with twisted faces shrieking into the void. Eyes, countless eyes, watching, waiting, whispering things too vast for her mind to hold.

A pressure built inside her skull, coiling tight, hungry.

The throne room trembled. A deep groan echoed through the chamber as suits of armor rattled on their pedestals. Swords wrenched themselves free from the walls, hovering like silent sentinels. Heavy chandeliers creaked as they strained against their chains, the candle flames flickering violently. Portraits of long-dead lords tore from their hooks, spinning in slow circles. The air pulsed with unseen force, charged and crackling.

The concubines hissed, stepping back, their eyes glinting with something between reverence and unease. Their sharp nails flexed, their postures poised between fascination and caution. One of them whispered a name—a prayer or a curse, lost beneath the hum of rising energy.

Eriel remained still, watching.

Then Elizabeth’s body jerked.

A strangled gasp tore from her throat as she convulsed. Her limbs twitched violently, her heels scraping against the floor. Her spine arched, her fingers clawing at the air as if fighting something unseen. A raw, guttural sound escaped her lips, something neither human nor beast.

The floating objects trembled. Then, all at once, they crashed down. Armor caved in with a deafening clang. Blades embedded themselves into porcelain. The glass shattered, paintings ripped, and wood splintered. The palace groaned beneath the weight of the chaos.

A flicker of amusement touched Eriel’s lips. But he did not move.

Elizabeth did not stop.

Her body spasmed, her breath ragged. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, darted from side to side as if following shapes only she could perceive. The concubines exchanged wary glances. A few took another step back. One of them knelt beside her, reaching out cautiously—then hesitated, her fingers curling just shy of Elizabeth’s trembling form.

The room, once filled with awe, now buzzed with unease.

Elizabeth's mind feels foggy as her eyes open. The ceiling looms high, carved with patterns that blur at the edges. A velvet canopy hangs above, deep red, its folds shifting in the candlelight. The air smells of old wood, melted wax, and something sharp, almost metallic.

Shapes moved at the edge of her sight… figures wrapped in dark coats, their pale faces slack, empty eyes watching without truly seeing. Their stiff movements, the faint groans escaping their throats, sent ice crawling down her spine.

She pushed herself up, her breath hitching as the room spun. A warm hand pressed against her shoulder, guiding her back down.

“Easy,” Gothetta murmured, perched at the bedside. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her gaze… curiosity, concern, amusement? It was impossible to tell.

Elizabeth swallowed, forcing her throat to work. “What… happened?”

Gothetta exhaled, fingers trailing idly along the hem of her glove.

“Your powers happened.”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted.

“You seized. You tore the throne room apart,” Gothetta continued, tilting her head. “It was… quite the spectacle.”

A memory flickered—floating weapons, whispers, fire. Her own body turned against her. She shuddered, fingers curling into the silk sheets.

Gothetta leaned closer. “Your powers are killing you, Elizabeth.”

The words dropped like a stone in her chest. A sharp, cold weight pressed against her ribs.

A pause. Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “What do I do?”

Gothetta’s lips curled into something resembling sympathy.

“You must marry Eriel.”

The words sank deep, slow, suffocating.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the fabric beneath her. Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

“No.”

Gothetta’s smile didn’t waver, but something in her eyes sharpened.

“Then you will die.”

The room seemed to shrink around her, the flickering candlelight casting long, clawed shadows against the walls. The undead doctors stood motionless, their dull eyes reflecting nothing.

Elizabeth turned her head away, but the weight of the words followed, clinging like a ghost.

Elizabeth shook her head, her breath quickening. “No. There has to be another way.”

Gothetta sighed, fingers pressing to her temple as if nursing a headache. “Elizabeth, don’t be foolish. The longer you resist, the worse it will get.”

Elizabeth swung her legs over the bed. The cold floor bit at her feet, but she barely noticed. “I don’t care. I won’t marry him.”

Gothetta’s eyes darkened. “You’re running out of time.”

Elizabeth bolted before Gothetta could move, her nightgown whipping around her ankles. The heavy doors groaned as she shoved them open. She sprinted into the corridors, candlelight flickering against the towering walls. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the stone.

Her breath hitched as she turned a corner… and nearly crashed into a hulking mass of rotting flesh. The creature loomed before her, grotesque and towering, its broad shoulders nearly scraping the arched ceiling. A zombie ogre, its sunken eyes vacant yet fixed on her. Chains hung from its arms, dragging against the ground with a hollow scrape.

It raised one massive hand.

Elizabeth stumbled back, heart hammering. “Get away!”

A blast of invisible force tore through the air. The ogre’s body lurched backward as if struck by an unseen giant. It hurtled down the hallway, stone cracking beneath its weight as it slammed into the far wall. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Silence.

Then, a chorus of groans.

Zombies turned from their posts, their dull eyes locking onto her. Feet shuffled. Limbs twitched. The quiet murmur of the undead became a roar as they rushed toward her.

Elizabeth ran.

The halls twisted around her, endless and suffocating. The castle groaned as if it, too, sought to trap her. Behind her, Gothetta’s voice rang out. “Elizabeth, stop!”

She didn’t.

Her feet struck the cold stone of the grand staircase. The towering doors stood ahead, an escape carved from blackened wood.

She shoved them open, the night air slapping against her skin.

And then—

A figure.

Eriel stood at the threshold, his presence swallowing the moonlight. His dark eyes gleamed.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Gothetta skidded to a halt. The zombies hesitated at the doorway.

Eriel lifted a hand, a single motion that froze them all.

“She will return soon enough,” he murmured, his voice smooth, assured.

A chill wrapped around Elizabeth’s spine.

The night swallowed her whole.

Elizabeth ran, branches clawing at her arms, roots grasping at her ankles. The forest stretched endlessly, gnarled trees twisting like skeletal fingers against the starless sky. The air smelled of damp earth and decay. Her breath came ragged; each exhale swallowed by the hush of the woods.

Somewhere in the darkness, wolves howled. A distant cry—haunting, hungry. Above, wings flapped, a flurry of movement as bats scattered through the canopy. Shadows shifted. The rustling leaves carried whispers not her own.

Her feet ached, bare against the cold soil, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Then, through the trees—light.

Flickering and warm, the glow of fire.

She stumbled forward, drawn like a moth to the embers licking at the sky. The trees parted, revealing a clearing dotted with cabins, smoke curling from their chimneys. A ring of people sat around the fire, cloaked in wool and leather, their faces etched by both warmth and weariness. The scent of burning wood and simmering broth curled through the crisp night air.

Elizabeth stepped closer, shivering. Her breath hitched, unsure.

A child, no older than six, tilted their head, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “Are you lost?”

The murmurs around the fire quieted. Heads turned. Shadows shifted. A woman rose first, her apron dusted with flour, her hands calloused from years of work. A man followed, his thick arms crossed, studying Elizabeth with quiet concern.

Elizabeth swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I need to get back to the city.”

The man glanced toward the dark woods.

“Not safe to travel at night,” he said. His voice was steady, firm, but not unkind.

The woman placed a gentle hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, guiding her toward the fire. “Come. Rest with us. You’re freezing.”

A wooden bowl passed from one hand to another. Steam curled from the thick broth within.

Elizabeth’s hands trembled as she accepted it. The warmth seeped through her fingers, through her bones.

For the first time that night, she exhaled.

The mother ladled a fresh serving from the pot, her movements slow, deliberate. The broth gleamed amber in the firelight, steam curling in lazy spirals. She reached out, offering the bowl to Elizabeth with a small, knowing smile.

“This one’s for you,” the woman said, her voice soft, almost soothing.

Elizabeth took it without hesitation. The heat kissed her palms, chasing away the lingering chill. She lifted the bowl to her lips and drank.

It was rich, hearty—earthy vegetables, tender meat, a hint of spice warming her throat as it slid down. The warmth spread through her, settling deep in her belly.

She sighed.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The mother only nodded.

The fire crackled. The voices around her blurred, melting into the night’s hush.

A strange heaviness settled behind her eyes.

Elizabeth blinked. Her vision swayed, tilting like a ship caught in restless waters. The fire’s glow wavered, stretching into long, flickering streaks. The figures around her drifted in and out of focus, their faces indistinct, shifting.

Her fingers slackened, the bowl slipping from her grip. It hit the dirt with a dull thud.

The woman caught her before she could fall, lowering her gently to the ground. Elizabeth tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick, her thoughts sluggish.

The last thing she saw was the firelight reflecting in the mother’s dark eyes.

Then—darkness.

A biting cold gnawed at Elizabeth’s skin. The damp air reeked of blood and old iron. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, her breath coming in shaky puffs. Chains bit into her wrists, holding her against a wall of frozen stone. The dim lanterns cast long, flickering shadows, barely pushing back the darkness.

A wet, rhythmic sound filled the space. A dull thunk, followed by the slow, deliberate scrape of a knife against the wood.

Elizabeth turned her head.

A hulking figure stood at a butcher’s block, its broad back hunched over a fresh carcass. The heavy cleaver rose and fell, splitting flesh from bone with practiced ease. The butcher worked in silence, save for the occasional murmur, voice rough and gravel-thick.

“So much meat,” he muttered. “Enough for the whole winter.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched. The meat on the table was not from an animal. Strips of raw flesh, thick and glistening, were stacked beside piles of severed limbs.

The butcher turned.

Not a man.

His snout twitched, nostrils flaring, his breath steaming in the cold. Eyes yellow and sunken, pupils stretched into slits. Clawed hands, stained crimson, flexed over the wooden handle of the cleaver.

A werewolf.

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. Her thoughts raced, trying to make sense of the horror unfolding before her. The mother. The child. The kind faces by the fire.

All of them.

She clenched her teeth, trying to summon the power inside her, the force that had torn apart men, and sent ogres flying. Her heart pounded as she prayed—let it come, let me feel it.

Nothing.

No hum beneath her skin. No electric pulse in her veins. The air did not stir.

She felt hollow.

Powerless.

The cold bit into Elizabeth’s fingers as she strained against the ropes. Her breaths came fast, shallow, her pulse drumming in her ears. Then—something. A hard sliver of metal pressed against her thigh.

Her back pocket.

She shifted, the coarse ropes burning against her wrists as she twisted her fingers toward the object. The position was agonizing, every movement slow, trembling. The werewolf hadn’t noticed. He was too focused on his work, his cleaver sinking into flesh with wet, meaty thunks.

Elizabeth’s fingertips brushed against the object. She pressed harder, gritting her teeth, forcing her numb fingers to close around it. It slipped. She swallowed a gasp. She tried again, gripping tight.

The scalpel.

A blade small enough to carve precise cuts into the delicate wiring of her automaton. Now it would carve something else.

Elizabeth adjusted her grip, turning the scalpel’s edge toward the rope. She moved carefully, dragging the blade back and forth, sawing through the coarse fibers. Each stroke was painfully slow, the pressure on her wrists unbearable.

Behind her, the butcher hummed a deep, guttural sound.

The screams had stopped.

Elizabeth clenched her jaw and kept cutting.

The last fibers of the rope snapped.

Elizabeth crashed to the cold, blood-slicked floor, her shoulder slamming into the tiles with a sickening crack. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.

The butcher’s humming stopped.

Heavy footsteps turned toward her, claws scraping against the wooden floor. Elizabeth pushed herself up, her fingers sliding in something warm, something thick. She ignored it. Her pulse pounded against her skull, her breath ragged.

The butcher loomed over her, his snout curled in a snarl. His breath stank of raw meat.

She moved before he could react.

The scalpel was useless now, but the boning knife on his belt was not. Her hand shot forward, yanking it free. The blade flashed as she drove it upward… straight into his eye socket.

The werewolf let out a garbled, wet howl. His massive hands clawed at his face, his body jerking, spasming.

Elizabeth tore the blade free. A dark, viscous flood burst from the ruined eye, spilling down his snout. He reeled, his claws flailing blindly.

She struck again.

This time, she buried the knife in his throat, just below his thick, matted jaw. The blade punched through muscle and sinew, cutting off his breath before he could call for help. Blood gushed over her hands, hot and sticky, soaking her sleeves as the werewolf staggered, choking, gurgling.

His body hit the floor with a heavy, twitching thud.

Elizabeth staggered back, panting, her heart hammering like a war drum. The butcher convulsed once, twice—then stilled.

Blood pooled around him, soaking into the cracks between the tiles.

She wiped her hands on the apron hanging by the wall and grabbed another knife. This wasn’t over.

Elizabeth crept through the dimly lit corridor, her breath shallow, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The cabin was far larger than it had seemed from the outside, its wooden walls lined with dried herbs, animal skulls, and old weapons dulled by time and rust. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, wet fur, and something rancid—meat left out for too long, rotting between the cracks of the floorboards.

She found a window and peered through the warped glass.

Beyond the cabin, the werewolves gathered around the bonfire, their hulking forms twisting shadows against the trees. Some still wore their monstrous shapes… lumbering beasts with jagged teeth gleaming in the firelight… while others had shed their fur, returning to human skin. Their human forms were lean and sharp, faces gaunt from hunger, eyes hollow but alert.

They worked in silence, hands moving in ritual precision. A group harvested strange mushrooms from a gnarled wooden crate, their caps are bulbous and slick with a faint, unnatural sheen. The foragers plucked them with care, fingers nimble as they dropped them into a large, steaming pot of soup. The broth churned thick and dark, bubbling over the fire.

Elizabeth's stomach turned. The soup.

She remembered the warmth of the bowl in her hands, the way the mother had smiled as she offered it to her. She had thanked them. She had trusted them.

Her fingers clenched around the stolen knife.

Outside, the werewolves laughed, their voices low and guttural. They spoke of the coming hunt, of the meat they had stored away for the winter. One of them, a man with streaks of gray in his long, tangled hair, ran a whetstone along the edge of his blade, the sound hissing through the cold night air.

Elizabeth waited. She steadied her breath, listening to the crackling fire, the murmured conversations, the rhythmic sharpening of knives.

Then, as the first of them sat down to eat, she slipped toward the back of the cabin.

The wooden planks groaned beneath her feet.

She froze.

No one stirred.

Carefully, she eased the backdoor open, its hinges whispering against the wood. The cold night air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth.

Elizabeth stepped outside, silent as a ghost.

The cold night air burned in Elizabeth’s lungs as she ran, branches slashing at her arms, roots clawing at her feet. The forest loomed around her, endless and unrelenting, its towering trees swallowing the moonlight whole. She forced herself forward, deeper… until the distant glow of the werewolves’ bonfire was nothing but a dying ember behind her.

Then she heard it.

A howl.

Not one of hunger, not one of warning. This was rage. They had found the body.

Another howl followed, then another… voices overlapping, a chorus of fury tearing through the night.

Elizabeth swallowed her fear and scanned her surroundings. Running wouldn't be enough. They would sniff her out. They would run faster. She needed an advantage.

She dropped to her knees and yanked at the underbrush. Her fingers found jagged rocks, thick branches, anything sharp or sturdy. A fallen tree nearby had splintered into long wooden shards—perfect. She worked fast, driven by the knowledge that she had minutes, maybe less, before they reached her.

The wind shifted.

Snarling. Leaves rustling. Feet—no, claws—tearing through the forest floor. Some were coming on two legs, others galloping on all fours, their guttural breaths carrying through the trees.

Elizabeth wedged sharpened stakes into the ground, half-buried under leaves. A tripwire—vines wrapped between trunks—set at ankle height. A pit of jagged sticks where the earth had softened with moisture. It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t stop them all.

A snarl, closer. The snap of a branch.

Elizabeth barely had time to roll behind a fallen log before she saw them.

Dark figures darted between the trees, eyes burning like embers. Some ran upright, their bodies stretched into something grotesquely human, their claws twitching with anticipation. Others prowled on all fours, their fur bristling, their breath misting in the cold. Their muscles tensed and coiled like springs, ready to pounce.

The air grew thick with the scent of wet fur and blood.

Elizabeth gripped her knife and pressed herself deeper into the shadows.

The traps were set.

The hunt begins.

The first werewolf snarled as it charged ahead, only to suddenly vanish with a yelp. A sickening crunch echoed through the trees… one of the pit traps. A second later, a wet gurgle followed as the sharpened stakes at the bottom did their work.

Another beast, larger and bipedal, sprinted past its fallen comrade, only for its foot to snag on an unseen vine. It stumbled forward just as the makeshift tripwire yanked a precariously perched boulder loose. The rock hurtled downward, crashing against its skull with a deep, bone-shattering CRACK. The werewolf’s legs buckled, and it collapsed in a twitching heap.

More howls filled the night. More confusion.

Elizabeth steadied herself, clutching the makeshift spears she had prepared. She didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp exhale, she hurled the first one. It cut through the air and impaled a lunging werewolf clean through the throat, pinning it against a tree. Its body convulsed, claws scraping against the bark before it stilled.

Another turned its glowing eyes toward her. Elizabeth didn’t wait. She launched another spear, this one sinking deep into the beast’s chest. It staggered back, hacking up thick gouts of blood before crumpling into the underbrush.

Snarls and growls came from every direction. Some of the wolves had evaded her traps and were closing in fast.

One lunged at her. Elizabeth pivoted, and before its claws could reach her, she drove her knife into its gut, twisted, and then yanked upward. The werewolf let out a strangled, gurgling howl before she shoved it aside.

More of them. Too many.

Thinking fast, Elizabeth scrambled up the slope, using the terrain to her advantage. The werewolves pursued, but they were too focused on her. They didn't see what was waiting for them above.

Elizabeth sent a massive log tumbling downhill with a final, desperate shove. It crashed through the brush like a battering ram, flattening two of the creatures before they could leap away.

Another rock followed. Then another.

The ones too slow to escape were crushed beneath the weight, their bodies snapping like twigs.

Chaos reigned. The survivors snarled, turning on each other in confusion. Elizabeth didn’t waste the opportunity.

Heart hammering, she turned and ran.

The forest swallowed her, shadows stretching long as she put as much distance as possible between herself and the slaughter.

The first light of dawn painted the sky in shades of gold and ember as Elizabeth crested the final ridge. Below her, the city stretched like a sleeping giant, its rooftops glistening with morning dew. Stone spires jutted upward, their peaks piercing through the thinning mist, while narrow streets wound like veins through the heart of the metropolis. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mixing with the faint scent of fresh bread and damp cobblestone. The great clock tower stood solemn in the distance, its silent face watching over the waking world.

Elizabeth's legs ached as she descended the winding path. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, the morning chill biting through her tattered clothes. She moved faster, urged on by something deeper than exhaustion.

By the time she reached the city gates, the streets had begun to stir. Merchants set up their stalls, calling out their morning wares. Horses clattered past, their hooves kicking up dust. She wove through the familiar alleys, past the baker with the crooked sign, past the lantern post where Theo once waited for her in the rain.

Her heart pounded as she turned the final corner.

The house stood as she left it… small, unassuming, tucked between taller buildings that loomed over it like sentinels. The wooden shutters hung open, swaying slightly in the breeze.

Elizabeth stepped inside.

Silence.

Dust hung in the air. No smell of breakfast. No voices. The fireplace sat cold and untouched.

She moved through the rooms, her breath shallow.

The chairs were tucked neatly under the table, untouched. The beds were made, but the sheets held no warmth. Theo’s coat was missing from the peg by the door. Annabelle’s book, the one she never parted with, was nowhere to be seen.

Even James’ old boots… always left haphazardly by the hearth… were gone.

They were gone.

Elizabeth stood in the empty house, the weight of it pressing down on her chest. The morning light streamed through the window, cutting through the dust.

But the house remained silent.

Elizabeth gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. The silence of the house pressed against her ears, louder than any scream. She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat.

The Ravenholms.

A chill coiled around her spine. Their shadows stretched long over the city, their whispers carried on the wind. This was their doing… it had to be. She could see them now, gloved hands plucking Annabelle, Theo, and James from their lives, vanishing into the night like wraiths. Eriel had promised she would return. This was his answer.

Her breath came fast, uneven.

Then her fingers twitched. The faintest tremor.

She focused, searching for it, that spark deep within her. She needed it. She commanded it.

Nothing.

Her jaw tightened.

Without her power, she was nothing but a girl, just flesh and bone against monsters who had ruled for centuries. But she would not kneel. There had to be another way… a way to stop the curse, to reclaim what was hers.

The walls seemed to close in, suffocating. She turned sharply, stepping out the door before the house swallowed her whole.

The sun had risen now, the city alive with voices and movement, but none of it reached her.

She had a choice.

She could go back to the Ravenholms. Or she could find another way.

Her fists clenched.

She chose the latter.