The organ music had no source.
It echoed through the stone ribs of the castle like a heartbeat — slow, deliberate, hollow. The melody was beautiful and mournful, but beneath it pulsed something darker. Notes that didn't belong. Chords that throbbed with malice.
Isadora followed the sound barefoot through the endless corridor of the west wing, her nightdress dragging over cold stone. She passed door after door — identical, weather-worn, all numbered in tarnished brass. Ten. Eleven. Twelve…
And then came the door with no number.
The thirteenth.
It was taller than the rest, made of black wood carved with a spiral of twisted symbols, some half-burned, others bleeding from the grain like old wounds. Her fingertips tingled just standing near it.
The music was loudest here.
A part of her screamed to turn back. The smarter part. The human part.
But something deeper pulled her forward.
She reached for the iron handle—
"Don't."
She turned.
The boy stood at the end of the hall, pale and small, the same one from the nursery. His eyes were too wise. Too old.
"If you open it, he'll know you're ready."
"Who?" Isadora whispered.
The boy took a step closer. "The one you used to belong to."
Her breath caught. "Lucien?"
The boy didn't answer.
A gust of wind blew down the hall — impossible, in a sealed wing — and the door groaned open on its own.
Darkness inside. And red.
So much red.
She stepped inside.
The air was thick, heavy with incense and smoke and something metallic — blood, though she hadn't seen any yet. The chamber was round, candlelit, walls lined with ancient mirrors — tall, cracked, covered in velvet cloths. Only one stood uncovered.
The one directly in front of her.
She approached.
Her reflection looked back — but not as she was now.
The woman in the mirror was her… and not her. Pale, regal, adorned in a crimson wedding gown soaked in blackened blood. Her eyes glowed faintly gold. Her mouth moved, silently, lips forming words she couldn't hear.
Then — she did hear them.
From behind her.
"Do you remember now?"
She turned.
And there he stood.
Not Lucien.
The Devil.
The Crimson King.
He had taken a new form — less monstrous than the dream, but no less terrifying. A tall man in a blood-red coat, skin like polished obsidian, eyes ember-bright. His smile curled like smoke.
"You shouldn't be here," Isadora managed, her voice shaking.
"Ah, but you came. Just like before."
He circled her slowly, his presence overwhelming. The candles hissed.
"I've waited, sweet girl. So long. So patiently. Lucien cheated me once. But he won't do it again."
She backed away. "I don't know you."
"Not yet," he murmured. "But you will. Your soul remembers. Even if your body lies."
She stared at the mirror. The version of herself in it began to bleed from the eyes, smiling wide, too wide.
"Do you want to know the truth?" the Devil whispered. "About why Lucien can't love you without hating himself? About why this castle feeds on your fear? About what your womb was made to carry?"
"Stop—"
He touched her chest, and it burned. A brand formed beneath her nightgown, searing through the fabric.
"You are the flame. The vessel. The sacrifice. My bride reborn."
She screamed and staggered back—
And Lucien burst through the door.
He was wild, eyes black, a blade in his hand glowing with ancient light. The Devil only smiled.
"Too late, Lucien," he said, stepping back into the shadows. "You always arrive too late."
With a gust of wind, he vanished.
Lucien ran to her, catching her as she collapsed.
"Did he touch you?" he demanded, eyes frantic.
She nodded weakly.
Lucien cursed under his breath. "Damn him. Damn me."
He lifted her in his arms like she weighed nothing and carried her down the corridor, faster than any man should move.
Before she lost consciousness, she whispered, "What am I?"
Lucien paused, jaw clenched.
"You're the end of everything."
End of Chapter Three.