The world ended, a vicious, sickening bloom of red. Not the gentle blush of dawn, but the wet, hard red of her own blood. It smeared her hands, a loathsome, warm sensation, as the baroque dagger, its obsidian hilt a cold, unforgiving weight, penetrated deeper into her breast. A choked cry, a sound lost in the din within her mind, the deafening silence of betrayal.
And then, a vacuum. A chilling, complete nothingness.
Except… a cry. A wild, childlike sound, a screaming echo in the darkness. Her eyes snapped open, not to her accustomed, lavish ceiling of her apartment, but to a canopy of faded silk, a child's bed. Panic, a cold, constricting hand, gripped her throat. Her small, delicate hands trembled, powerless. She scrambled to sit up, her heart a frenzied drumbeat against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate for flight.
"Elara? Child, are you well?" The voice of a woman, soft and edged with worry, cut through the silence. A face, lined and achingly familiar, peered down at her—Anya, her childhood nursemaid. But Anya was… impossibly young. Fifteen years shaved off her face.
"What…" Elara's voice was a harsh croak, foreign. She looked down, her face a distorted image in a silver tray's polished surface. A girl looked back, her eyes full of terror. Her girl. Her fifteen-year-old face, a ghost of what she once was.
A wave of dizziness, a rush of memories, washed over her—the poisoned wine, Isolde's triumphant, cruel smile, the crushing weight of betrayal. She wasn't dreaming. She had died. And yet, here she was.
"Elara, you're on fire. You've been having nightmares all night." Anya's cool, gentle hand brushed her forehead. "You keep whispering… vows."
Vows? The word rang out, a dark, resonant note. What vows? And why did they resound like a brand, a mark seared into her very soul?
A shiver ran through her, a strange, tingling sensation. The air shimmered, a slight, almost imperceptible glow, like heat haze on a summer's day. Mana. She could feel it, the raw, wild energy coursing through her, a power she had not felt in years, a power intensified.
"I need a mirror," Elara demanded, her voice slashing, regal, an imperative she barely recognized. She needed to see the ruin to confirm the impossible. To grasp this twisted second chance.
Anya, confused but obedient, fetched a large, baroque mirror. Elara's reflection was… breathtaking. The shy, neglected girl was no more. In her place was a young woman of wild, almost predatory beauty. Her eyes, once shy, now burnt with an intensity that made Anya step back, a dangerous spark.
But it was what was behind her image that took her breath, a muffled gasp. A pale, red stain, a ghost of blood, pulsed on her back, directly above her heart. A stain that had not been there before, a mark that throbbed with a dark, foreboding beat. A cold dread settled in the depths of her belly, a warning of something terrible.
The door burst open, striking the wall with a resounding crash. Lord Caius, dark eyes blazing, stood framed in the doorway, his face set in a look of concern, a dangerous intensity. "Elara, what is it? I felt a surge of mana, a disturbance…" His gaze fell to her reflection and the red stain. A flicker of something indescribable, a shadow of fear, crossed his face.
"What is it?" He snarled, low and dangerous, a growl in his throat.
Elara's head reeled, a whirlwind of suspicion and bewilderment. "I don't know. But I will." She spat, her voice icy, a promise forged in steel. "And I will know who put it there." A burning, fierce wave of heat coursed through her, a flush that travelled across her skin. Her breath hitched, a low moan escaping her lips. Her gaze collided with Caius's, and the air between them pulsed with unspoken tension, an almost tangible yearning, a dangerous allure.
Caius stepped closer, his dark eyes searching hers. "Elara, are you certain you're all right? You feel… altered." He reached out, his hand brushing against her arm, a touch that sent a shiver down her spine. "Your mana… it's radiating a dark, foreboding energy."
"Different?" Elara echoed, her tone strained. "I died, Caius. I was murdered. And now… I'm back. Younger. Changed. And this mark… " She indicated the red discolouration in the mirror. "It wasn't there before."
Anya exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Killed? Elara, what are you saying?"
"The poisoned wine," Elara said, her voice flat, devoid of feeling. "Isolde. She planned it. And now… I've come back. To finish what she started."
Caius's jaw tightened, his face hardening in a determined look. "Isolde? That viper. She wouldn't dare…"
"She did," Elara interrupted, her voice slashing. "And she'll pay." A dizziness washed over her, the room tilting on its axis. The red stain on her back pulsed, a dark, throbbing rhythm, like a second heartbeat.
"Elara, you're fading." Anya shrieked, her voice rimmed with hysteria.
"The vows," Elara whispered, her mind reeling. "They're bound. To this… to me."
The room dissolved into a swirling vortex of red and shadow. The mirror shattered, its shards reflecting a distorted image of her face, a mask of terror. The world spun, and the sounds of her room, the worried voices, fell away, to be replaced by a low, atavistic chant that echoed in her ears.
When Elara awoke again, she was not in her room. She lay on a cold, stone floor, the air thick with the scent of incense and decay. A vaulted ceiling, covered in painted grotesques, loomed above her like the maw of some great beast. The low, rasping chant, louder now, echoed through the room, a sound that made her skin shudder.
And in front of her, illuminated by the gruesome glow of a single, flickering torch, was a dark figure. Its face was obscured, but its eyes, burning with an unearthly light, branded themselves into hers.
"Welcome," the figure rasped, its voice a chilling echo. "Welcome back, Elara. We have waited. The vows… they bind us all."