Several hours passed before Ronette stirred.
He groaned softly, eyelids fluttering as the late sun stretched shadows across the walls like blackened fingers. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, rubbing his temple as a sharp throb pulsed behind his eyes. His voice emerged hoarse, confused.
"Where am I…? What happened?"
I answered lazily from nearby, voice wrapped in amused calm. "You're in the inn room. You fainted—right after our dear old storyteller mentioned your blood type of choice."
"Oh… right." Ronette's memory returned in ragged scraps, each piece landing heavier than the last. He winced, rubbing harder at the ache behind his eyes.
"How are you feeling, Ronette?" I asked, my tone laced with genuine concern, hidden beneath the teasing cadence of a minstrel's melody.
But Ronette didn't answer.
Instead, he turned—and froze.
There I sat by the window: back slumped against the wall, limbs limp and folded at crooked angles, my hat slipped low to cast a shadow that might've belonged to the dead. My fiddle lay beside me, silent as a sealed confession.
Lifeless.
"Ack!" Ronette's voice cracked like a crow caught off guard. "What happened to you while I was knocked out?"
With theatrical agony, I crawled toward the bed, every movement a pantomime of pain. "I think I broke a few bones carrying you up the stairs."
"You could've asked someone to help you!"
I shook my head, grimacing. "Heavens, no. They'd start wondering why a young lady with such a dainty figure weighs as much as a war elephant."
Color flooded Ronette's cheeks; he scratched at his hair, embarrassed. "It's all… muscles," he muttered.
"So," he blurted, voice quick and desperate to change the subject, "what do we do now?"
I straightened, weariness evaporating like mist, and let a grin split my face—wide and wicked, bright as a dagger's glint. "Ah, while you were unconscious, I had a most delightful revelation—a plan so brilliant, so daring—"
Ronette tensed, every muscle stiffening. "I don't like that look."
I leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "We're going to visit the ruins."
"Why do I feel like I'm in danger just by breathing near you?" Ronette muttered.
I chuckled, winking. "Because, my dear Ronette, you are."
With that, I sprang to my feet, spinning around the cramped room like a stage reclaimed by its star. Coat flaring, boots thudding on worn floorboards, hat brim catching the late sun just so.
Then I froze mid-spin, struck a pose, and pointed both hands squarely at Ronette.
"You!" My voice thundered, echoing off faded plaster. "My dearest Ronette! The radiant star of this tale, the beating heart of our grand campaign! You, my darling sister-in-disguise, shall be the heroine who frees this cursed town from the wicked grip of those dreadful fiends who dare call themselves the Crimson Choir!"
A sweeping bow followed—cloak trailing behind, hand pressed to heart. "And I—your ever-faithful, undeniably charming brother—shall stand at your side as guide, guard, and glorious comic relief."
Ronette blinked. "If I say no, what's your next plan?"
I straightened, grin fading into solemnity. "What do you mean next plan? There is no next. It's this plan or we're all dead."
Ronette blinked again. "So it's like… a 'my way or the highway' sort of thing?"
"Exactly."
He hesitated, voice softening. "Can't you be the female protagonist instead? I don't think I can pull it off…"
I stepped forward, hands settling on his shoulders, gaze locked with his wide, uneasy eyes. "Ronette. You've been magnificent. You've played the part with tragic grace no ballad could ever capture. No one—no one—is more suited for the role than you."
His lower lip trembled. "Really?" he whispered.
"Absolutely." My nod was solemn as a prayer. "You're so naïve, any villainess who lays eyes on you would try to murder you on the spot."
His face drained two shades paler. "There's… no villainess in this story, though. Right?"
I tapped my chin, thoughtful. "Hmm. Not really. There was the witch, but I kind of… killed her. So rest easy. You're safe. Probably."
"Probably?" His voice wavered.
I puffed out my chest, thumb flicking up. "No worry, no worry! You have me—your dependable brother!"
"But… you're the one throwing me into the lava pit…" he muttered.
My eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
"Nothing." His hand flew to his mouth, gaze darting toward the window like a rabbit scanning for foxes.
I squinted, then let out a short huff. Technically, it was a metaphorical pit—and I'd be throwing him in with style. That counted for something.
We descended the stairs with purpose in each step, cloaked in half-light and determination. The inn's warmth pressed around us: clinking mugs, midday laughter, and drifting steam from bread still fresh from the oven. But our focus stayed ahead, toward the front desk where a weary staff member wiped at stubborn stains.
I leaned in, grin sharp. "Kind soul, might you tell us the way to the old ruin that whispers on the edge of town?"
The staff member blinked, clearly startled. "Y-you mean the sealed ruin?"
Ronette crossed his arms behind me, the silent portrait of regret.
"Indeed!" I declared, planting a boot dramatically on the low hearth. "We intend to brave its shadows and secrets—for the sake of music!"
My hand drifted toward my fiddle, ready to let fly a note that could split the hush. A few patrons stiffened, glancing over with barely hidden fear, but Ronette lunged, grabbing my arm before string could meet bow.
"No," he hissed, teeth clenched in a strained smile. "Please don't mind him."
The staff, pale and swallowing hard, ducked beneath the counter and returned with a weathered map. "T-take this. It'll guide you there. But please… be careful. No one who goes there ever comes back alive."
I took it with a flourish, tucking it into my coat. "A thousand thanks! And when we return, I shall compose a haunting ballad in your honor—balm for the soul, and terror for the wicked!"
One last sweeping bow, cloak brushing the dusty floor, and I turned on my heel. Ronette trailed behind, half-buried in embarrassment, half-chained by fate.
Cobblestones yielded to wild grass, then to a dirt path that sliced toward the horizon. Fields rolled out like an old tapestry, stitched by sun and shadow. At the path's end, ruin waited.
I drew in a breath sharp as fresh steel. "Ronette, can you smell it?"
Ronette sniffed, confused. "Smell what?"
"The scent of destiny. The aroma of fate. The unmistakable musk of—" I leaned closer, voice bright with glee, "—quest!"
He groaned, unimpressed. "Ah… you mean the scent of death."
I flicked his forehead, sharp as a snapped string. "Not death, Ronette. Don't be so grim. Why would you die, when you have me?"
He rubbed the spot, wincing. "If we make it out alive, I swear I'll start seeing you in a completely new light."
'Could it be…?' I wondered, narrowing my gaze. 'The foul stench of heresy, clouding his mind with doubt?' I clenched my fist. "Looks like it's time we scrubbed those red-robed fiends from this world once and for all. Come, Ronette!"
But Ronette dug in his heels.
"What now?"
"I'll lead this time."
My brows shot up. "Truly?"
"Yup. I don't want us arriving after dark."
"But that's when the story gets interesting! Danger under moonlight, thrills in the shadows—"
His glare cut sharper than a scythe. 'Don't you dare.'
I sighed, hands raised in surrender. "All right, brave saintess. Lead the way. I shall humbly follow."
Hours passed; the road grew lonelier, the sky bruising toward dusk.
At last, ruin emerged: a chapel, half-devoured by time. Jagged spires hunched low; stained glass shattered into colored scars; stone walls swallowed by moss and root. Inside, air clung heavy with dampness and memory, as though abandoned prayers still circled like dying moths.
"I've never been in a chapel before," Ronette murmured, voice low, gaze caught on ruined arches.
"Me neither," I replied, my grin faintly crooked. "Now, let's go in."
I tugged him forward, eager, but he jerked back, voice cracking. "Are you crazy? Did you forget those blood-sucking creatures like young, delicate females like me?"
I stifled a laugh, letting mischief glint behind my eyes. "Sorry to break it to you, Ronette, but you're delicate and young, sure… just not a female."
Relief flickered across his face, breath easing. "Oh…"
"But then again," I drawled, voice soft as silk and sharp as a smile, "you never know whether the rumors are true. Maybe they prefer males after all. You know, males have more energy."
Ronette paled, hands balling at his sides. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you, Louis?"
I raised my hands, expression of mock innocence. "Nope. Just being honest. In most stories, it's always young women. But this… might not be your typical vampire story."
His grip tightened on my sleeve, voice trembling. "Really?"
I gave him a smile that was half comfort, half warning. "We've got to prepare ourselves in case such a thing happens."
Ronette nodded, color never quite returning to his face—but resolve, however thin, sparked behind fear.
And so, shoulder to shoulder, we stepped across the chapel's threshold: into crumbling stone, hidden shadows, and truths long buried—where even song dared tread lightly, and the silence itself waited to be broken.