Chapter 2: The Crimson Procession
"There are carriages meant for queens. And carriages meant for sacrifices."
The road to Castle Vespermoor was not carved by human hands.
It wound like a serpent through the Hollow Vale, where light refused to linger and no bird dared to sing. The carriage wheels creaked, iron-bound and bone-laden, echoing into the dark woods like a funeral hymn.
Inside the prison of black velvet and silver bars, Isla Corven clutched her knees and tried not to cry.
The chains on her wrists pulsed faintly with cold magic. Runes had been etched into the metal in blood. Every time she tried to shift, they tightened—gentle but firm, like the grip of a ghost who wouldn't let go.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been riding. Time twisted in the vale. One moment it was twilight, the next utter night. Mist clung to the window slats. Trees blurred past like skeletal arms reaching from the grave.
And she was alone.
Or so she thought—until the whispering started.
At first it was soft, like wind.
But then it sharpened into words. Old words. Forgotten ones. A language that crawled beneath the skin.
> "Bride of bone... soul of flame...
Who wakes the blood and ends the name..."
Isla pressed her hands over her ears. "No. Stop. Please—"
The whispers faded.
But something colder replaced them.
A presence.
It slithered through the carriage like smoke. Something unseen. Watching.
And then—suddenly—a mirror revealed itself across from her. She hadn't noticed it before, though it stretched nearly floor to ceiling. The glass was rippled, like water frozen mid-motion. Her own reflection stared back at her—pale, wide-eyed, lips bloodless.
But then the reflection... moved.
Not her.
It.
The other Isla tilted her head the wrong way. A fraction too late.
And she smiled.
> "You are not the first to wear the veil," the reflection whispered. "You are not the first to scream beneath it."
The image blinked out. The mirror was empty again.
Isla scrambled away from it, heart thundering, breath fogging the glass.
A knock came on the wall.
Not from outside.
From underneath.
She froze.
Something... no, someone... was beneath the carriage.
Scratching.
Scraping.
Then, singing.
A child's voice. Off-key. Humming a lullaby older than time.
> "Hush thee now, my bloodborn bride,
No door can open, no light can hide,
When castle calls, the soul must ride—
So hush thee now, and die inside."
The wheels lurched.
The horses screamed.
The carriage shuddered violently, then stopped.
Outside, the world had changed.
---
The Procession
She heard footsteps.
Not just one set. Many. Moving in perfect rhythm—like soldiers in ritual formation. A low horn sounded. The air thickened with scent: ash, roses, old parchment, and rot.
The door opened.
Torchlight spilled in.
A figure stood silhouetted in crimson armor, helm tucked under one arm. His face was bone-pale, lips dark with ancient wine or blood. His eyes were not red—but silver. Merciless and inhuman.
"Rise, Isla Corven," he said. "The Crimson Procession begins."
She didn't move.
He stepped closer, extended a gloved hand. "I am Lord Veyr of the House of Hollow Reeds. Herald to the Crimson Court. If you fall behind, you will be left to the shades."
"The what?"
"The shades," he repeated. "The lost brides who tried to run."
She rose.
Barely.
The moment her feet touched the ground outside, the chill struck her—soul-deep. The procession stretched before her through the black woods: torches held high, dozens of red-cloaked vampires on foot and horseback, their faces hidden behind silver masks.
All silent.
All watching.
She was led to the center of the path, where a grand, open palanquin waited—lined with velvet, carved in dark wood, painted with scenes of fire and sacrifice. She hesitated.
"You may walk or ride," Lord Veyr said. "But you may not flee."
She stepped in.
Two masked figures closed the curtains behind her. The palanquin lifted. The drums began—slow, steady, mournful.
The procession moved.
---
Visions on the Road
Time warped again.
Isla saw things between the trees.
A girl in a wedding dress hanging from a tree, veil twisted in the wind.
A boy digging a grave with his bare hands, crying blood.
A red river where no river had ever flowed.
Eyes blinking in hollow tree trunks.
A castle—always distant, always watching—its towers shaped like fangs, its gates chained with bone.
And everywhere, the whispering:
> "You'll never leave."
"He'll drink your name."
"He remembers the others. And none of them screamed like you will."
---
The Arrival
It came into view just before dawn.
At first, she saw nothing but a jagged hill in the distance. But as the mist cleared and the sky turned a bruised purple, it rose—Castle Vespermoor.
It was not a castle built by men. It was carved from the cliff like the remains of a giant beast—its towers like broken ribs, its arches like jaws agape. Bats spiraled above its spires in shrieking flocks. Torches burned with blue fire along the winding bridge that led to its main gate.
A stone drawbridge lowered with a groan that sounded like a scream.
The palanquin halted. Two guards approached to open the curtains. Lord Veyr stood beside them.
"This is your moment, Isla of Corven," he said. "Do not stumble. The Lord is... particular."
She stepped down onto black stone veined with red. The mist recoiled as if afraid to touch the threshold.
Above her, the great gate of the castle slowly opened, revealing a corridor of candlelight and shadows. A long crimson carpet unfurled before her, as though expecting her footsteps.
She walked.
Each step echoed.
Each echo whispered her name.
The vampires of the procession did not follow her inside. They stood at the threshold, watching silently as the gate creaked closed behind her.
She was alone.
---
The Castle Breathes
The air inside was colder than death.
The grand hall was built of obsidian and bone, with vaulted ceilings lost in darkness. Pale fire flickered in iron sconces. Massive portraits lined the walls—none of them human. Their eyes seemed to follow her, blinking once when she wasn't looking.
At the far end of the hall stood a throne carved from petrified wood and thorns. Blood-red roses bloomed from its twisted arms.
It was empty.
But she wasn't alone.
She felt him before she saw him.
A slow, deliberate footstep echoed behind one of the marble columns. Then another. And then—he stepped into view.
Lord Raelthorn Valeblood.
He was tall—inhumanly so—and clad in black armor so ancient it had cracks of silver running through it like veins. A long cloak of crimson velvet dragged behind him, and his boots made no sound.
His skin was pale as frost.
His hair black as spilled ink.
But it was his eyes that held her breath.
They were not red.
Not gold.
But the deepest shade of blue—the kind of blue you see before drowning.
And they were sad.
Not just sad—haunted.
He looked at her as if he'd seen her before.
> "So," he said at last, voice rich and smooth as poisoned wine. "The Blood Moon chooses again."
His voice echoed in the vast hall, even though he hadn't raised it.
Isla's throat felt dry. "Are... are you the king of this place?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Once. Before the thrones fell. Before the war stole time itself."
He took a step closer. Then another.
Isla wanted to run.
But she didn't.
"Come closer," he said. "Let me see your mark."
She raised her trembling arm. The birthmark glowed faintly in the candlelight—silver, crescent-shaped, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Raelthorn's expression darkened.
> "Of course," he murmured. "The same mark. The same fate. Again and again."
He reached out—not touching her, but hovering his hand just above her skin.
And Isla saw it.
A flicker—just a glimpse—of pain in his eyes.
And recognition.
"Have we met?" she whispered.
He froze.
For a moment, the silence stretched so long it became unbearable.
Then he said:
> "You were the first.
You are the last.
And you will be the end."
Isla's voice trembled. "What do you mean?"
Raelthorn turned away, walking toward the grand throne, his cloak dragging behind him like a river of blood. He didn't sit, but he placed a hand upon its arm as though it burned him.
"I have waited centuries. Seen brides brought in chains. Some wept. Some fought. None endured. You are different. The mark burns brighter on you."
She stepped closer, unwillingly drawn to him. "You make it sound like I chose this. I didn't."
He looked over his shoulder. "But you did. Long ago. In another life. You chose me. And I failed you."
Their eyes locked. For a moment, something ancient stirred between them—a memory not hers, a warmth not his.
Then he crossed the distance in an instant, his hand at her cheek. Cold, yet gentle.
"Do you remember the lake? The moonlight? The promise?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her heart pounded.
He leaned in, his voice like velvet shadows. "I buried you with roses. I burned the world for you. And still, the Blood Moon brings you back."
She couldn't breathe. She should be terrified.
But her eyes fluttered closed.
And when his lips brushed her forehead, it wasn't a monster she felt...
It was mourning.
Grief.
Desire.
Love lost in centuries of ash.
When he pulled back, his fangs were visible.
"I will not drink from you tonight, Isla Corven," he said. "Not until you remember why you once begged me to."
The doors slammed open behind her.
Servants in red veils entered with robes, water, food she could barely name. Raelthorn turned his back.
"Take her to the western tower," he commanded. "And do not chain her. She must come freely."
Isla stood frozen as they guided her away.
But just before the doors closed, she looked back one last time.
Raelthorn still stood by the throne, staring into shadows only he could see.
And in that darkness, something terrible and beautiful waited to awaken.