The manor's chamber was coming apart, stones cracking like old bones, dust choking the air like a grave's breath. Elara Wren stumbled back, her boots scraping the shuddering floor, her silver crescent pendant flickering like a candle about to die. The Wraith's requiem screamed through the walls, a sound that tore at her heart, its red eyes locked on Lady Seraphine Veyle, not her. Seraphine stood over Joren, her obsidian dagger trembling, the grimoire in her hands glowing with a sickly green light, its pages open to a rune Elara didn't recognize. The sorceress's silver eyes were wild, her raven-black hair spilling over her shoulders, her voice hoarse from chanting a spell that was failing. The Wraith's tendrils lashed toward her, not Elara, and the realization hit like a punch: was Seraphine trying to save her?
Torin Hale dragged his sister Lira back from the cracked slab, his hammer shaking in his grip, his scarred face twisted with fury and fear. "Get away from him!" he yelled, his voice raw, eyes burning at Seraphine. Lira sobbed, her hands bloody from trying to free Joren, her blonde curls plastered to her tear-streaked face. "She's not the monster!" she cried, her voice breaking. Father Alaric stood frozen, his cross raised, his gaunt face pale as he muttered prayers that sounded more like pleas. The chamber's runes pulsed red, angry, like the order's curse was alive and laughing at them all.
Elara's chest tightened, her pendant's light dimming as the Wraith's wail grew louder. The journal, now on the floor, its pages open to the vessel's sketch her face, her pendant—felt like a brand on her soul. Father Alaric's words from moments ago echoed: Your bloodline's cursed, the pendant marks you as the vessel. Her mother had known, had died to keep her from the order's grasp, but what was Seraphine's part in this? The sorceress's desperate chant, her trembling hands, her shield against the Wraith—it didn't add up. Was she the villain the journal named, or something else?
"Stop it, Elara!" Seraphine's voice cracked, her eyes darting to her, a mix of fury and fear. "Your chanting's waking it!" Her magic surged, a dark wave trying to hold the Wraith back, but the tendrils twisted closer, grazing her arm, leaving frost on her sleeve. Elara's throat closed her half-remembered chant from the journal had stopped when the slab cracked, but the Wraith was stronger now, its form swelling, a void of hunger. She clutched her pendant, its heat fading, and took a step back, her boots crunching on fallen stone. "What do you mean, waking it?" she asked, her voice shaky but sharp. "You're the one tied to it!"
Seraphine's laugh was bitter, like she was choking on it. "You think I want this?" she snapped, her hands shaking so bad the grimoire nearly slipped. "You're calling it to you, girl, with that damn pendant!" Her silver eyes flickered, something raw guilt?—breaking through her mask. Elara's stomach knotted. The journal called Seraphine a sorceress, draining the living, but her desperation, her faltering magic, felt like someone fighting a losing battle. The chamber shook harder, a stone slamming down near Torin, who cursed and pulled Lira tighter against him.
Alaric stepped forward, his cross trembling, his voice barely holding together. "Elara, listen to me," he said, his eyes darting between her and Seraphine. "The order cursed your bloodline centuries ago, made you a vessel to trap the Wraith. Your mother ran to save you, but the pendant—it binds it and draws it." He swallowed hard, his face gray. "Seraphine's been fighting it, in her own way. Her rituals… they're to keep it from you."
Elara's heart stopped. "Fighting it?" she whispered, her eyes snapping to Seraphine, who flinched like she'd been slapped. The sorceress's face twisted, her paranoia flaring. "Don't you dare speak for me, priest," she hissed, her voice raw, but her eyes stayed on Elara, a plea buried in their silver depths. The Wraith's tendrils surged, wrapping around Seraphine's wrist, and she gasped, her magic flickering like a dying fire. Elara's mind raced—Alaric's words, the journal, the pendant's pulse it all pointed to her as the vessel, but Seraphine's struggle didn't fit the monster she'd imagined.
A relic caught her eye, half-buried in the rubble a broken cross, etched with Mira, its edges worn like someone had touched it in grief a thousand times. It matched the tapestry upstairs, the order's symbols woven with a crescent moon. Elara's breath hitched—Mira, the name her mother whispered, tied to the order's betrayal. Was she Seraphine's sister, her reason for all this? "Who's Mira?" Elara asked, her voice cutting through the Wraith's wail. Seraphine froze, her face crumpling, a raw wound exposed. "Don't," she whispered, her voice breaking, her hands shaking so hard the grimoire fell, its pages flapping like a wounded bird.
Torin didn't wait. "Enough lies!" he roared, lunging for the slab, his hammer aimed at the ropes binding Joren. Lira screamed, "No, Torin!" and threw herself in his path, her hands clawing at his arm. Joren stirred, his moan weak, his eyes fluttering open, confused and scared. The Wraith's shadow swelled, its red eyes fixed on Elara again, not Seraphine, and her pendant flickered, its light barely holding. Seraphine's magic flared, a desperate shield around Joren, but her knees buckled, her breath ragged. "You don't see the cost," she said, her voice barely audible, her eyes locked on Elara, not Joren.
Elara's heart pounded, Alaric's words crashing against Seraphine's. If she was the vessel, why was Seraphine protecting Joren? Why risk herself? The chamber's floor split, a fissure snaking toward a lower altar, its runes glowing red, matching her pendant. The Wraith's wail sharpened, a scream that clawed at her soul, and its form shifted, a face flickering in its void—Mira's, twisted, mocking, with amber eyes that weren't hers. Seraphine staggered, a sob tearing from her throat, her magic collapsing. "Not her," she whispered, her voice raw, her hands clawing at the air like she could pull Mira back.
"Elara, don't move!" Alaric shouted, his cross raised, but the altar's glow was pulling her, her boots sliding on the stone like it had a will of its own. The pendant burned, its light pulsing with the runes, and the Wraith's tendrils surged, inches from her. Torin grabbed Lira and Joren, dragging them back, his hammer useless against the shadow. "We're getting out!" he yelled, but Elara couldn't move, the altar's call like a hook in her chest. Seraphine's eyes met hers, a storm of anguish and fury. "Stay back!" she screamed, her magic flaring one last time, a weak shield that cracked under the Wraith's weight. The chamber's ceiling groaned, stones raining down, and the Wraith's face—Mira's face—laughed, a sound that broke something in Elara. Was this the order's curse, or had Seraphine's desperation summoned the requiem that would claim them all?