The manor's crypt sprawled beneath the undercroft's shattered floor, a cavern of slick stone and shadow that devoured the torchlight's trembling glow. Lady Seraphine Veyle stood on the broken stair, her raven-black hair matted with sweat, clinging to her pale cheeks like ink spilled on parchment. Her velvet gown hung in tatters, its hem frayed, trailing like the remnants of a forgotten vow. The Wraith's requiem keened through the crypt, a low, guttural moan that clawed at her soul, its red eyes blazing from the darkness where Joren lay bound, his faint, ragged gasps slicing the air. Seraphine's hands trembled, dark energy sputtering at her fingertips, her shield from the undercroft's collapse a mere flicker, like a candle drowning in wax. Elara Wren stood behind, clutching the Mira ring, its worn silver glinting in the dim light, her silver crescent pendant dim, its warmth fading. Elara's hazel eyes burned with a volatile mix of fear, fury, and resolve, her presence a weight Seraphine felt in her bones—Elara, the vessel, was her oath to Mira, her chain, her doom.
Torin Hale loomed at Elara's side, his blacksmith's frame rigid, his hammer gripped tight, its iron head catching the torch's faint shimmer like a blade poised to strike. His scar—a jagged burn across his cheek—stood stark against his ashen skin, his gray eyes sharp with suspicion, boring into Seraphine. "You brought that thing here," he growled, his voice rough, frayed by the Wraith's assault in the undercroft. "What's it doing to Joren?" Lira clung to his arm, her blonde curls limp with damp, her blue eyes shadowed with guilt and desperation. "She's trying to save him," she whispered, her voice fragile, her faith in Seraphine's charity splintering under the crypt's oppressive chill. Seraphine's throat burned—Lira's trust was a shard of glass, Elara's gaze a mirror reflecting Mira's defiance, her failure, her grief. Her paranoia coiled tighter, whispering that the order's shadows lurked in the crypt's corners, their unseen eyes watching, waiting.
The crypt's air was heavy with the reek of mold, rust, and something sharper—iron, or old blood. Its walls, slick with condensation, were scarred with runes that pulsed red, like veins throbbing beneath the stone. A stone sarcophagus dominated the chamber's heart, its lid carved with a crescent moon, its edges marred by claw marks—frantic, ancient scratches that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. Seraphine's chest ached, her self-deception cracking like the undercroft's slab. She'd told herself she could bind the Wraith, protect Elara, and avenge Mira's death at the order's hands. But the crypt's runes, the Wraith's relentless moan, mocked her hubris, whispering truths she'd buried deep.
Flashback: Years ago, under a storm-lashed sky, Seraphine stood in a fog-choked grove, Mira at her side, their cloaks snapping in the wind like tattered banners. The order's priests, shrouded in black, circled a rune-carved altar, their crosses glinting like cruel stars, their chants weaving a curse that thrummed with power. "We'll bind it," Mira urged, her silver eyes alight with fierce conviction, trusting Seraphine's magic to cage the Wraith. Seraphine's overconfidence blinded her—she believed their combined power could outwit the order's rite. But the priests' voices shifted, their intent twisting, and the Wraith surged, a void with red eyes that tore through the grove. Mira's scream rent the air, her blood spilling across the altar as the runes bound her soul, not the Wraith's. Seraphine's magic faltered, her cry drowned by thunder, her hands slick with Mira's blood. Her vow was born in that moment—to shield the next vessel, to burn the order to ash. Her self-deception took root: she could defeat the Wraith alone, without facing her own limits.
Back in the crypt, Seraphine's eyes stung with unshed tears, her hands shaking as she faced Elara. The torchlight cast jagged shadows across her face, deepening the hollows under her silver eyes, which flickered with a storm of grief and fear. "Stay away from the sarcophagus," she said, her voice brittle, fraying like old thread under the weight of Mira's memory. Elara stepped forward, her boots scraping the stone, her voice raw, trembling with rage. "You knew my mother was cursed. You knew I was the vessel. Why hide it from me?" Her hand gripped the Mira ring, its silver glinting like an accusation, its weight a silent demand for truth. Seraphine's heart twisted—Elara's fire was Mira's, her pain a blade that cut through years of buried guilt. "I swore to protect you," she whispered, her voice cracking, her emotional volatility spilling over like a dam breaking. "The order… they'll hunt you, tear you apart if they know you're the vessel."
Torin's hammer rose, its iron gleaming, his voice a bellow that echoed off the crypt's walls. "Where's Joren? No more lies!" The requiem's moan sharpened, a piercing wail that set the runes ablaze, their red glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Joren's gasp echoed from the sarcophagus, faint but desperate, a sound that clawed at Elara's resolve. Lira gasped, her hands trembling, her voice barely audible. "He's alive," she said, her guilt surging, her faith in Seraphine a fading spark in the crypt's darkness. The Wraith's shadow coiled around the sarcophagus, its red eyes fixed on Elara, its hunger a tangible weight that pressed against the air, suffocating. Seraphine's magic flared, a shield of dark energy sputtering into existence, but her impulsiveness trembled, her hands unsteady as she fought to hold it. "I can stop it," she said, her voice sharp, her paranoia spiking—were the order's priests lurking, their crosses hidden in the shadows?
Elara's pendant flickered, its silver light dimming, casting faint, wavering shadows that danced like specters across the crypt. She moved toward the sarcophagus, her heart pounding, her breath shallow. "Joren!" she called, her voice raw, her fear for him a blaze that drowned her doubt. The journal, tucked in her cloak, held a sketch—a crypt sarcophagus, labeled The Vessel's Oath, its crescent moon matching the one before her. Her mother's name was scratched beside it, a jagged scrawl that tied her to the order's curse. Seraphine lunged, her grip bruising Elara's arm, her silver eyes wild with panic. "Don't touch it!" she hissed, her voice fracturing, her shield wavering like a flame in a gale. The Wraith's void swelled, its moan rising to a scream that reverberated through the crypt, shaking the walls, loosening dust that fell like ash.
Torin swung his hammer at the sarcophagus's base, the stone splintering with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. Joren's cry grew clearer, his form visible through the shadows—bound in rusted chains, his face gaunt, his eyes clouded with terror. "Help me!" he choked, his voice a thread, barely clinging to life. Elara rushed forward, her impulsiveness mirroring Seraphine's, her hands scrabbling at the chains, her breath hitching with desperation. The Wraith's shadow surged, its red eyes blazing like twin fires, its hunger clawing at her chest, a pressure that threatened to crush her. Seraphine's shield flickered, her knees buckling, her voice a broken plea. "I won't fail you too," she whispered, her eyes locked on Elara, raw with grief, her face a mask of anguish. The sarcophagus's runes flared, a pulse that shook the crypt, and a hidden panel groaned open, revealing a blood-stained carving—a crescent moon, etched with the words Mira's Oath: Shield the Vessel.
Elara's breath caught, her hands trembling as she reached for the carving, its surface cold as a grave, its edges sharp enough to draw blood. The words burned into her mind—Seraphine's vow, her mother's curse, the Wraith's hunger—it was all true, a tangled web of betrayal and sacrifice. She turned to Seraphine, her voice shaking but fierce. "Mira was your sister. Why didn't you tell me?" Seraphine's face crumpled, her silver eyes glistening, her hands clenching as if to hold back the tide of grief. "I thought I could save you without the truth," she said, her voice a ghost, her emotional volatility bared. "I was wrong."
Torin worked frantically, his hammer shattering the chains, each blow ringing like a death knell. Joren slumped free, his body frail, his breaths shallow, but alive. Lira sobbed, her hands covering her mouth, her guilt a weight she could no longer bear. "I trusted you," she whispered to Seraphine, her voice breaking, her faith shattered. The Wraith's void swelled, its scream deafening, its red eyes locked on Elara, its hunger a roar that pulsed through the crypt. Seraphine's magic sparked once, a desperate flicker of dark energy, then died, her face ashen, her eyes dim with exhaustion. The crypt's walls groaned, cracks splintering upward, and stones began to tumble, dust choking the air.
Elara clutched the Mira ring, her pendant cold against her chest, its light extinguished. The carving's words echoed—Shield the Vessel—but the Wraith's shadow lunged, its form a writhing void, its red eyes boring into her soul. Seraphine staggered, her hands clawing at the air, her voice a raw cry. "Run!" she screamed, her impulsiveness breaking through, her body trembling as she tried to summon one last shield. The crypt's ceiling buckled, stones crashing around them, and Joren's weak cry mixed with the Wraith's requiem, a cacophony of despair. Elara's heart pounded, her feet rooted, her mind torn—Seraphine's vow had held the Wraith at bay, but had her failure unleashed its hunger to consume them all?