Queen Dalia's sharp gaze never left the mirror.
She tilted her chin, inspecting the deepening shadow beneath her eyes, the fine wrinkle etching its way along her brow. Her fingers hovered over a pale patch near her neck. Skin that once glowed like ivory now dulled like old parchment. She exhaled slowly, rage simmering beneath every careful breath.
Just then, a quiet knock.
The chamber doors creaked open.
A guard stepped in, eyes low.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice cautious, "the maiden, as requested."
Behind him, a trembling girl of no more than thirteen stepped forward. Her feet were bare, her hair disheveled, and her nightdress clung loosely to her frame. Innocence clung to her like the scent of rain — delicate, untouched.
Queen Dalia finally turned, her expression unreadable.
She rose from her seat in a slow, deliberate motion as she approached the girl, her gloved hand lifting to brush the child's cheek.
"So young," Dalia murmured, eyes cold and gleaming. "So full of life."
The girl flinched.
Queen Dalia's voice was soft, almost hypnotic, as she leaned closer to the trembling maiden.
"Don't be scared, child. You are making a change… a sacrifice for the kingdom's future."
Her gloved fingers curled gently around the girl's delicate neck, applying just enough pressure to send a shiver through her body.
The girl's eyes widened, a mix of fear and confusion flashing within them.
Queen Dalia's lips curved into a cruel smile.
"Tonight, your essence will renew me. Your life will grant me the strength I desperately crave."
The room seemed to darken as the ritual began.
The girl's body grew limp in Queen Dalia's grasp, her small frame trembling one last time before going still. A faint, glowing mist, soft and silver—rose from the child's skin, curling like smoke as it flowed into the Queen's waiting mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut as she inhaled deeply, the lines on her face slowly receding, the black patches dissolving as vitality returned to her bones and youth lit up her skin like dawn.
The silence was thick.
Then—
A slow clap echoed in the mirror chamber.
The guard, still kneeling by the door, lifted his head and said reverently,
"Glory to Her Grace, the Blessed Vessel. The gods smile upon you once again."
Queen Dalia opened her eyes, now clear and radiant. Her lips curled into a pleased smile as she turned from the mirror.
"The price for immortality," she said softly, wiping a speck of blood from her fingertip, "is never too high."
She glanced at the still form of the maiden, her tone flat and final.
"Have the body burned before first light. The gods require no remembrance."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The guard bowed, already dragging the lifeless girl away.
Queen Dalia turned back to the mirror.
Youth had returned—for now.
***
Breakfast was over, but unfortunately, the bratty child showed no signs of leaving her side.
"Can we—" he started, bouncing beside her.
"No." Sapphire didn't even spare him a glance.
Fletcher huffed, undeterred. "What about I give you a tour? I know some paintings. Secret doors. One even leads to a balcony with a cursed gargoyle."
"I'm not interested in gargoyles or paintings, Fletcher."
"But you might be interested in the old library," he said, raising a brow knowingly. "Lord Typhon doesn't even know I found it."
She stopped walking.
He grinned.
"I knew that would get your attention."
Sapphire narrowed her eyes.
"I swear if you drag me into a rat hole—"
"Please," he scoffed. "I have standards."
Reluctantly, she followed. The brat had won again.
Fletcher led the way with the confidence of a prince and the mischief of a fox. His boots tapped against the marble floors as he threw open a side door near the east wing, motioning for her to hurry.
Sapphire hesitated. "This is the servants hall."
"Exactly," he whispered like it was a great secret. "Less eyes. Come on."
He tugged on an old torch holder. To her surprise, the stone beside it groaned, shifting slightly until a slim passage revealed itself. Cool air brushed past her face.
He turned with a smirk. "After you, my lady."
"You first, brat."
He grinned wider and slipped in, and Sapphire, against all reason, followed.
Inside, it was narrow and dim, the only light coming from cracks in the old stone. Fletcher kept talking.
"This corridor runs behind most of the manor. There's a peephole behind Lord Typhon's study."
Sapphire raised a brow. "And you've been spying?"
"I prefer observing.'"
She scoffed. "You're going to get yourself beheaded one day."
"Maybe," he said with a wink, "but at least I'll die entertained."
They reached a crooked stairway. He paused dramatically.
"What lies ahead," he said theatrically, "is the library vault—sealed to all but those who know the trick."
Sapphire folded her arms. "Which is?"
He pulled out a small, polished fang-shaped key from his pocket.
"Let's just say I borrowed it."
He slid the key into a nearly invisible notch in the stone wall. with a soft click, Fletcher pushed open the heavy, creaking door, and a wave of stale, thick air met them instantly. The old library was steeped in dust, cobwebs lacing the corners like delicate lace, and a strong, musty scent of old parchment and ink clung to everything.
Sapphire coughed lightly, waving her hand in front of her nose.
"You bring girls to dusty places often?"
Fletcher grinned. "Only the special ones."
Her eyes widened as she stepped further in. Scrolls, dozens of them, were stacked in ancient cubbyholes carved into the stone walls. Some were tied with golden thread, others cracked and half-unraveling. Tomes lay open on stone pedestals, some written in languages long dead.
"You read these?" she asked, stunned.
He shrugged, walking to a low table and picking up an aged scroll with practiced ease.
"Lord Typhon thinks I sneak out to chase trouble. But sometimes... I like this better." He unfurled the scroll, eyes scanning the symbols with interest. "History. Rituals. Secrets they don't tell us in lessons."
Sapphire looked around slowly, awe creeping over her expression. "This place feels… forbidden."
Fletcher smirked. "That's because it is."
She moved slowly through the old library, her fingers brushing against the thick spines of forgotten scrolls and books. The scent of parchment and dust filled the air, heavy and still, like the room hadn't been touched in decades.
Sapphire paused in front of a grotesque stone carving — a gargoyle with a man's head mounted on a stake. Her brows furrowed as she stepped closer, studying the twisted features and eerie craftsmanship.
Then something else caught her eye — a tall canvas standing in the far corner, nearly swallowed by shadows and layers of dust.
Drawn to it, she crossed the room and crouched down, wiping the surface gently with the sleeve of her cloak. The dust clung stubbornly, but as she cleared more of it away, the image beneath emerged.
A man.
Dark, shoulder-length hair.
Sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw.
But it was the eyes — those unmistakable, storm-grey eyes — that made her heart skip.
"Fletcher…" she murmured, almost afraid to voice what her mind was piecing together, "Is this…"
"Yes," the boy answered simply, standing a few paces behind her,
"He's Lord Ashvale. Lord Typhon's father."
Sapphire didn't turn to look at him. She couldn't.
The eyes in the painting held her in place.
Cold. Watching. Familiar.