The first morning in the Black Citadel did not arrive with the gentle touch of sunlight, but with the heavy, rhythmic tolling of a distant bell that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the floor. Evangeline awoke with a start, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. For a moment, she was disoriented, expecting to see the modest wooden rafters of her bedroom in Lindbrook and hear the crackle of the morning fire. Instead, she was met with a ceiling of vaulted stone and shadows that refused to dissipate even as the grey light of dawn filtered through the narrow, lancet windows.
The room she had been assigned was vast and cold, draped in heavy tapestries of deep crimson and midnight blue. Everything felt ancient, from the towering four-poster bed with its velvet curtains to the silver basin that sat on a marble stand, filled with water that looked as still as a frozen pond. As she sat up, the events of the previous night rushed back—the carriage, the cliff, the chilling gaze of Lord Valerian, and that mysterious black glove. She was no longer a healer; she was a prisoner of a truce, a living sacrifice to a lineage she did not understand.
When she approached the basin to wash her face, she noticed a set of clothes laid out on a chaise longue. It was a gown of heavy, dark silk, the color of a bruised plum, intricately embroidered with silver thread. Beside it lay a small, ivory-handled brush and a note written in elegant, sharp calligraphy.
"You are expected in the library when the bell strikes the second hour. Do not wander. The shadows of this house have long memories."
There was no signature, but the authority in the script was unmistakable. Evangeline dressed with trembling fingers. The silk felt heavy, almost like armor, and the high collar pressed against her throat, a constant reminder of the leash she now wore. As she stepped out into the corridor, she was struck by the oppressive silence of the castle. There were no footsteps, no distant chatter of kitchen staff, no clatter of horses in the courtyard. It was as if the citadel itself was holding its breath.
As she navigated the labyrinthine hallways, she encountered the first of the servants. They moved with a spectral grace, their heads bowed so low she could never catch a glimpse of their eyes. They did not acknowledge her presence, stepping aside into the shadows to let her pass, their movements as synchronized and silent as clockwork. When she tried to ask one for directions, the woman merely pointed a gloved finger toward a set of double doors and vanished into a side passage before Evangeline could utter a word of thanks.
The library was a cathedral of knowledge, its shelves rising so high they disappeared into the gloom of the rafters. Thousands of leather-bound volumes lined the walls, smelling of old parchment and woodsmoke. At the far end, by a fireplace where a low fire burned with that same eerie blue tint she had seen at dinner, sat Valerian.
He was reading a large, yellowed manuscript, his silhouette framed by the flickering light. He had traded his evening formal wear for a simpler black tunic, but the right hand remained encased in that thick, dark leather. He did not look up when she entered, yet he spoke as if he had been watching her every step.
"The architecture of the Hastings' ancestors was designed to confuse the unwelcome," he said, his voice echoing softly against the rows of books. "It is a mercy you found your way at all, Evangeline."
"I am used to finding my way through tangled woods, My Lord," she replied, stepping closer, her boots clicking sharply on the stone floor. "A few stone corridors are hardly a challenge compared to the thorns of the North."
Valerian finally looked up, his grey eyes piercing the distance between them. There was a flicker of something—was it amusement? Or perhaps a warning? "Thorns can be cut away. These walls... they are part of a living history. They do not take kindly to being mastered."
He closed the book with a heavy thud and stood, his height even more imposing in the narrow aisles of the library. He walked toward her, and instinctively, Evangeline stood her ground, though every nerve in her body urged her to retreat. He stopped just inches away, the scent of sandalwood and cold iron surrounding him.
"You are here for a reason beyond the truce," he said, his gaze dropping to her hands. "I am told you have a talent for the restorative arts. That you can make things grow where life has been forsaken."
"I am a healer, if that is what you mean," she said, her voice steady. "I know the properties of roots and resins. I know how to mend what is broken, provided the heart is willing to heal."
Valerian's expression darkened, a shadow passing over his features that made him look older than his years. "Some things are not broken, Evangeline. They are tainted. There is a fundamental difference."
He turned his back to her, pacing toward the window that overlooked the churning grey sea. "You will be given access to the solarium. It has been neglected for decades. If you can revive the plants there, perhaps there is a use for you beyond being a mere figurehead of this marriage. But mark my words: there are areas of this castle that are forbidden. The East Wing is off-limits. The lower vaults are sealed. Do not let your curiosity become your undoing."
Evangeline felt a surge of defiance. "Is that a request or a threat, My Lord?"
He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the dull light of the window. "In this house, they are often the same thing."
As the day progressed, Evangeline realized that her movements were being monitored by more than just the silent servants. Every time she turned a corner, she felt eyes upon her. She saw the flash of a dark uniform behind a pillar or the rustle of a curtain in an empty room. It was an exhaustive, suffocating surveillance. Every breath she drew seemed to be recorded, every pause she made to examine a painting or a tapestry was noted.
She eventually found the solarium, a glass-domed structure that felt like a skeletal ribcage of iron. Inside, the air was stagnant. Rows of once-exotic plants hung limp and grey, their leaves turned to dust. The soil was parched, cracked into geometric patterns. It was a graveyard of greenery.
As she knelt to touch the soil, she felt a strange vibration—a low hum beneath the earth. It wasn't the sea. It felt like a pulse. She dug her fingers into the dirt, and for a fleeting second, she saw a flash of red in her mind's eye—a vision of a garden drenched in blood, of a hand reaching out from the thorns.
She pulled her hand back, gasping. Her fingers were stained not with brown earth, but with a dark, oily residue that smelled of sulfur.
"The soil does not forget the blood it has tasted," a voice whispered from the shadows.
Evangeline spun around, but the solarium was empty. Only the wind whistled through the cracks in the glass. Her heart raced as she looked at her stained hand. She realized then that the "curse" was not just a story told by fearful peasants. It was in the very foundation of the place. It was in the air she breathed and the dirt beneath her fingernails.
She was in the heart of the enemy's territory, and the enemy was not just the man with the black glove—it was the very house that claimed her as its own.