The Crimson Veil
Her scent… sweet like roses, warm like fire, familiar… terrifyingly familiar.
"…It's really you," she whispered, voice cracked with emotion. "My son… my son… you've returned to me."
Alex's body remained motionless, the impact of her words crushing him like an unseen wave. He just stood there, stare fixed—naked, covered in blood, not knowing where he left off and where this world started. And then something within him snapped. His arms crossed his body on autopilot, enfolding her, holding her to his chest with a strength he didn't mean—to which he couldn't resist.
He didn't mind that he was naked. That his flesh was chilled. It didn't matter.
Only her.
The woman who quavered when she addressed him as son.
An odd pain throbbed in his chest, not generated by memory—but by something else. He shouldn't have recognized her. Reason dictated she was a stranger. A goddess wrapped in darkness. But as soon as she spoke, something within him broke—like an ancient lock that had been pried open by the proper key.
He didn't merely hear her suffering. He felt it. Lived it. His heart writhed beneath the pain of her desire, and the soul within this new body began to stir. Another self. Another history. One that wasn't even his own… yet was not altogether distinct either.
Prince Alex Bloodheart.
That name rang in him now, not as a label—but as a component of himself. The memories were hazy, piecemeal, but real. They seeped into his own like ink into water, changing who he was without washing away who he once was.
His fingers shook with them grasping her. Not from fear—but from the crushing knowledge that he was where he was meant to be. He didn't feel like a taken spirit or a lost specter for the first time since he'd opened his eyes in that blood-soaked coffin. He felt grounded—anchored by her warmth and the anguish in her voice.
And she… she didn't hold back either.
At the far corner of the room, the two kneeling guards did not stir. Heads bowed low, posture frozen with respect, but their silence rang loud. They did not speak. Could not. Their eyes softened as they saw the Empress—a living, breathing figure of power and immortality—break down into the arms of the son she had grieved for centuries.
There was awe in their silence, but also understanding. The kind of understanding only acquired when one witnesses something sacred.
Finally, the hug relaxed.
Alex took a step back, breath shallow, not knowing how long they had stood there—frozen in a reunion that neither of them had anticipated. And only now, as the heat between them dissipated, did he really look at her.
She stood tall—regal and otherworldly. Her presence filled the room like an old melody brought back to existence. The gown she wore was hugging her curves like she had woven it from shadow and flames, shimmering in shades of black and red. A cut along her side exposed the smooth length of her thigh, her pale skin catching the dim candlelight like refinished marble.
She glided with a softness, each step slow, each breath deliberate. Her form was perfect—curvy at the hips, thin at the waist, her chest rising and falling in an even rhythm that was almost mesmerizing.
But it was not her shape that reduced him to stunned silence.
It was her face.
Cut and sharp, the curve of her jaw was as if perfected by a master chiseler. Her lips were painted a deep rose, gentle and plush as fruit that had been allowed to ripen. But her eyes were what stopped him cold—two shining rubies burning under the shadowy light of dusk, that shone with an unmistakable sheen of tears almost but not quite suppressed.
Her hair, pale pink as floating sakura petals, fell down her back and shoulders in a silken stream. Every strand glimmered softly, reflecting the torchlight like rain-wet silk. Against the smooth ivory of her skin, she seemed a goddess chiseled from living crystal.
Alex was naked in her regard. His blood-soaked skin, the rawness of his flesh, the lost child within this powerful shell—all of it shone in her eyes.
But she did not turn away.
She did not blink.
Instead, she smiled.
"It's been many years," she murmured, her voice infused with a grief that moved the air around them. "Since I last saw you… You were a little boy then. Vulnerable. Innocent. But now…"
Her gaze traveled over him—slow, deliberate, unashamed. There was no malice in it, yet it pierced deeper than any weapon.
"You've become a man."
Alex swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat. That glint in her eyes… it made him uneasy in ways he couldn't even articulate. Not because it was mean—but because it wasn't. There was an open warmth in her face, a proud and unguarded look, and that odd warmth crept inside him, unraveling something tightly twisted in his chest.
He'd stood bared in front of armed guards, bleeding and naked, and hadn't blinked. And yet—before her—he felt even more naked.
A gentle voice whispered in the recesses of his mind: You shouldn't feel this way…
But he said nothing.
She leaned forward, a smile blending with kindness. "What's wrong, my son? You're blushing."
Heat rose to his face, and he quickly looked away, hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I… I'm not… It's just—" He exhaled slowly. "It feels a little strange, that's all. Standing here… like this."
You're mine," she replied, unthinking. Her hand crept up, cool fingertips tracing the line of his cheek. "There's nothing unusual about it. I held you each night. I bathed you, sang lullabies into your hair, kissed your fever-bright brow when you cried. There is no portion of you I have not known. or loved."
His heart crashed once.
Before he was able to frame a response, she smiled again—this time brighter, as if the years had dissolved away like magic.
"Come," she said softly. "Let us go to my room. You need appropriate attire… and beyond that, we have years to reclaim."
She touched his face, brushing a strand of hair from his cheek. Her hand was light, yet something in it made the moment seem irrevocably fragile.
Alex nodded slowly, lifting eyes for one final look at the red moon overhead.
"…Let's go… Mom."
With a queenly serenity, Rose faced the guards and gave them orders in a voice that left no room for doubt. "You two are off duty. Get some rest until I summons you."
"As you command, Supreme Empress," they intoned in perfect harmony, kneeling low before fading into the darkness like smoke.
Peace fell back over the destroyed colosseum.
Rose held out her hand to him.
He lingered, for a second. then grasped it.
Her hand enveloped his. Icy, but gentle—like frost snow that had never thawed.
When they touched, a wave of red mist boiled up from beneath their feet, curling around them like velvet fog. A veil of blackness rolled across his eyes.
And the world was gone.
When the mist dispersed, he blinked.
No longer devastations. No more dust and stone.
He stood barefoot on heavy red carpet, in a room hewn of raw excess. Immense, dark walls covered in blazing blood-red sigils enclosed him. The ceiling soared up above, topped by chandeliers that glimmered like ruby drops.
In front of him, a huge bed lay like a throne—adorned in silks that glimmered with enchanted light. Black-gold drapes lined walls, intricately carved mirrors reflected flashes of crimson, and each corner of the room breathed the scent of a queen's court.
And yet…
Something about it was. familiar.
He turned slowly, his gaze following every inch. The memories awakened—soft, quiet, but inescapable.
That chair… where she used to brush his hair.
That bed… where she read to him stories.
That balcony… where she whispered the blood moon's secrets, once, with her arms around him.
Nostalgia shifted in his chest like a caught echo.
Rose stood beside him, watching, silently.
Her hand crept out once more, smoothing over a wandering lock of pink hair on his face. "Your hair… it's longer. And softer."
Alex's eyes met hers and nodded. His voice was barely above a whisper. "…I remember this place."
Her lips curled into a soft smile. "You should. You were here for fifteen years."
His eyes wandered again, sucking in every memory shrouded in velvet darkness and candle flame.
".It's odd," he said softly. "Like I'm somebody else… but also still me."
"That's because you're both," she said softly. "Alex… and Bloodheart.
She turned then, walking toward a smaller door set into the far wall. Its golden frame shimmered with roses etched in red.
"Come," she said over her shoulder, pausing at the threshold. "Go take a bath. We'll talk afterward."
He began to follow; footsteps light on the plush carpet.
But he froze as her voice drifted back once more—soft, intimate.
"I'll help you."
His foot stopped mid-step.
And his breath caught in his throat.
"…What's that?" He turned slowly, surprised.
"I said," she replied with a soothing smile, "I'll assist you in your bath."
His eyes widened. "Wait—no, no. You don't need to do that. I can take care of it. I mean… I'm not a little kid anymore."
He looked away, clearly flustered, as if staring at her might make things worse. "I'm still, uh… you know—buck naked. And this is sort of. strange."
Rose let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. "You've grown shy, hmm?"
"It's not that," he muttered, ears turning red. "It's just… bathing? Seriously?"
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, her presence warm yet commanding.
Her tone didn't falter, but her voice grew softer. "You are my son. I've rocked you through innumerable nights, calmed your tears, watched over you more times than you can count. There's nothing inappropriate in this. It's been so long since I tended to you last… let me do it, just once again.
His lips parted to object, but the words never escaped. They knotted in his throat and melted under the pressure of her eyes.
Then her fingers brushed against his lips—soft, light, conclusive.
"No arguments," she breathed.
Something in him froze. Her touch halted the din in his head, and all he could do was nod, as if the decision had slipped quietly beyond his control.
She smiled, eyes brimming with something unspoken and tender, and took his hand.
"Come, my son."