Aysel's blood ran colder than a winter's tomb. Sylvaen the Wither. The very name was a hushed curse, whispered only in shadows throughout the manor. He was a creature woven from bone and deepest shadow.
His magic twisted life into grotesque, horrifying forms. His punishments were the stuff of nightmares and chilling legends. Aysel felt a primal fear, far deeper than any she'd known with Velira or her cruel sisters. This was different—a terror that promised to crush her very soul.
She began to scramble backward across the floor. Her hands clawed uselessly at the cold, unforgiving marble. "Please!" she choked out, her voice a raw, desperate whisper. "Please, Sylvaen, I beg you! I didn't… I didn't do anything!"
Velira, however, beamed, a chilling smile spreading across her face. Her voice held a note of triumphant satisfaction. "Sylvaen! What a pleasant surprise. Your timing is impeccable."
Sylvaen's eyes, as cold and devoid of light as a moonless winter night, fixed on Mireth. His gaze was a chilling promise. "You, worm," he hissed, his voice like dry leaves scraping over rough stone. "You dared to suggest that the Lady of this house, Velira Blackthorne, needs to await anyone's permission to mete out justice? Know your place, servant, before I ensure you never forget it."
Mireth flinched, her usually composed face paling to a ghostly white. She bowed her head deeply, muttering a hasty apology that was barely audible. Aysel, even amidst her own crushing terror, felt a sharp pang of despair for Mireth. She was an ally, however quiet and subtle. To see her cower so completely filled Aysel with a desperate sense of helplessness.
"She was caught with the Heartwood Ward," Velira explained, her voice regaining its imperious, commanding edge as she turned back to Sylvaen. Her tone was a triumphant recounting of Aysel's supposed crime, dripping with venom. "This ungrateful bastard, this child of a common maid, dared to steal the very charm that protects our family. She even tried to blame Elysara, that sweet, innocent child!"
Sylvaen's gaze slid to Aysel, a flicker of something akin to dark amusement dancing in his eyes. It was a cruel, unsettling look. "I always knew this one would bite the hand that fed her," he murmured, his voice laced with pure disdain. "A feral creature, unable to appreciate the generosity bestowed upon her."
"No!" Aysel cried, her voice cracking with desperation. "I swear, it's not true! I didn't steal it! Elysara gave it to me! Please, you must believe me!"
Sylvaen's expression hardened immediately. His eyes flashed with a dangerous light, devoid of any mercy. "Still denying? Such stubbornness in the face of undeniable proof. Very well. Perhaps a demonstration will loosen your tongue, you wretched girl."
He extended a hand, and from the tips of his skeletal fingers, a thin, whip-like strand of bone magic materialized. It shimmered with an unholy, malevolent light. The bone whip pulsed with a cold, predatory energy that made Aysel's stomach clench. Her breath hitched in her throat. This was a torment reserved for the most grievous offenses, designed to break both body and spirit.
"Strip her," Sylvaen commanded, his voice utterly devoid of human emotion. It was a flat, chilling order.
Two burly guards, unseen until that moment, stepped forward. Before Aysel could even protest, they ripped at her already worn dress. The fabric tore with a harsh, rending sound that echoed in the silent hall. Aysel cried out, trying desperately to cover herself. Her face burned with humiliation as her frail body was exposed to the gawking eyes of the servants and her tormentors. The air felt brutally cold against her suddenly bare skin.
Then, the first lash fell.
The bone whip whistled through the air, a terrifying sound. It struck her back with agonizing force, a blow that reverberated through her very bones. Aysel screamed, a raw, animalistic sound that tore from her throat, escaping her lips before she could stop it. Pain exploded across her shoulders, hot and searing, as if she had been branded with fire. Her knees buckled violently beneath her. She crumpled to the floor, writhing in pure agony.
This is it. This is how it ends. Aysel's mind screamed in silent despair. They're going to kill me. They're going to break me. The thought was a suffocating shroud.
Again. And again.
Her vision swam, blurred by hot tears. She bit down on her tongue to stifle another scream, tasting blood. Somewhere above her, servants murmured and gasped, but all she could feel was the ocean of pain dragging her under.
When the last lash finally fell, Aysel lay trembling. She was a broken heap on the cold marble floor, every muscle screaming in protest. Her back was a fiery canvas of angry welts and deep cuts, each breath a fresh stab of agonizing pain. She tasted blood and dust, a bitter concoction. She felt utterly, completely exposed and helpless.
"Finally," Zeraphine sneered, stepping forward, her hand already glowing with the sickly green light of her necromancy. It was the color of decay. "Now, to finish what should have been done long ago. This abomination has sullied our home for far too long. Let her spirit finally find its rightful place in the void."
She raised her hand, her eyes blazing with murderous intent. She was ready to deliver the killing blow, to end Aysel's suffering—or rather, her existence. Aysel watched, numb with agony and despair, utterly unable to move, utterly unable to fight back. Her body refused to obey.
"ENOUGH!"
The roar echoed through the grand hall, shaking the very foundations of the ancient manor. The sound was thick with raw power, with an undeniable, unyielding authority.
It was Lord Corvin Blackthorne. His voice alone commanded attention.
The immense oak doors swung open wider, revealing the stormy night outside. Lord Corvin strode into the hall, his dark robes swirling around him like a tempest. His face was a mask of stern displeasure, his dark eyes—so uncannily like his legitimate daughters—surveyed the horrifying scene before him. Behind him, several other head witches, their expressions varying from disdain to morbid curiosity, followed. Among them, Nerith the Veiled, the family oracle, stood slightly apart from the others. Her face was completely obscured by a thick, heavy veil, yet Aysel felt her gaze—a strange, knowing pressure against her raw, exposed skin.
Calista immediately sprang forward, her voice a torrent of exaggerated, frantic accusations. "Father! You're here! This… this creature! We caught her stealing the Heartwood Ward, the charm that protects our home! She even had the audacity to try and blame sweet Elysara for her treachery! Sylvaen has already begun her punishment, but Zeraphine believes she deserves a swift end for such a heinous crime!"
Aysel could barely process the words through the haze of pain that enveloped her. Her body spasmed, a silent scream trapped in her throat. She heard Zeraphine begin to mutter a low incantation, the faint, sinister hum of death magic already forming in the air around her—a prelude to oblivion.
"Zeraphine! I said enough!" Corvin's voice was like rolling thunder, commanding and unyielding. His sharp gaze pinned his eldest daughter, holding her in place. Aysel felt a chilling dread settle deep in her bones. "She is not to be harmed further. Not one more touch."
Velira, her face contorted in utter confusion, stepped forward. Her usual composure was beginning to crack. "Corvin? But why? Why allow this… this thing to continue breathing? She's a stain on our name, a constant, ugly reminder of… of that. We should rid ourselves of her once and for all! She brings us nothing but shame."
Corvin turned to his wife, his eyes narrowing to dangerous, icy slits. His voice dropped, but it was no less menacing, no less a threat. "Do not question me, Velira, especially not in front of our esteemed colleagues. This is a matter of strategic importance, not personal vendettas."
His gaze swept over the other head witches, who merely looked on with impassive, unreadable faces. They revealed nothing.
"A decision has been reached by the Council of Head Witches," Corvin announced, his voice ringing through the hall with chilling clarity. "A solution to the three-hundred-year feud with House Velemir has been brokered."
Aysel felt the last shred of warmth leave her body, as if someone had opened her veins to the night air. House Velemir.
The name was synonymous with death and brutal destruction. They were a royal vampire house, the merciless rulers of the vast, shadowy lands of Vaerithen. For three long centuries, their feud with the witches had been a brutal, bloody war, a constant, grinding struggle for dominance over the land. The cause, whispered only in hushed, fearful tones, was a devastating betrayal. Three centuries ago, a powerful witch, desperate to secure her own power, had seduced a Velemir prince, then publicly betrayed him, leading to his gruesome, humiliating death. The vampires had never forgotten. Never forgiven.
Kaelen frowned, a genuine flicker of confusion crossing his crude features. He was rarely confused. "A peace bride? To House Velemir? Why would you suddenly marry off the bastard, Corvin? And to whom, pray tell?"
Corvin's gaze, cold and calculating, fell directly upon Aysel. It was a look that promised no warmth—only a grim fate.
"To Prince Raith."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall, a wave of shock. Zeraphine and Velira looked utterly aghast, their faces pale with disbelief. Calista's mouth opened, then shut again, her usual sharp tongue silenced by disbelief. Even she seemed rattled.
"Prince Raith?" Zeraphine exclaimed, her face a mask of utter disbelief. "Father, you cannot be serious! This… thing… married to a prince? A prince, no less! It's an outrage!"
"Indeed!" Velira interjected, her usual composure cracking under the strain of the news. "My Lord, you cannot mean to give your own bastard such an honor! She is nothing! She deserves nothing but eternal suffering!"
Corvin's eyes blazed with a terrifying fury. "Silence, all of you!" he roared, his voice shaking the very crystal chandeliers that hung above them. "Do not be swayed by pretty faces and superficial charm! You speak of him as if he were a potential suitor, not our most dangerous enemy! Prince Raith is utterly ruthless! He has sworn to eliminate all witches, to eradicate our kind! Just yesterday, he seized control of the Gloamwood, our ancestral territory, and slaughtered over three hundred of our kin! He has only just debuted this season as the Crown Prince, and already he moves with such brutal efficiency! What do you think he will do when he is finally crowned King?"
Velira bowed her head, a rare display of submission from the proud woman. "Forgive us, My Lord. We spoke without thinking. What then, is the true purpose of this… arrangement?"
Corvin's lips curled into a chilling, predatory smile. "The purpose, Velira," he stated, his voice low and deadly, a promise of doom, "is for Aysel to kill Prince Raith during their wedding night."
Through the haze of pain and blood, Aysel didn't cry. Not anymore. A new, colder resolve settled deep within her. She was no longer just a victim; she was a tool, honed by suffering, awaiting her grim purpose.