She awoke to the scent of ash and roses.
Her body ached — not from injury, but from something deeper, like her bones had been rewritten in her sleep. She blinked against dim candlelight. The velvet canopy above her bed rippled slightly, as though breathing.
Lucien sat at her bedside.
He looked like he hadn't moved in hours, hands steepled beneath his chin, shadows clinging to him like chains. The fire in the hearth cast red light across his face, sharpening the hollows in his cheeks. His eyes — once void, now burning.
"You should have stayed away from that room," he said quietly.
Isadora sat up slowly, clutching the bedsheets. Her nightgown clung to her, damp with sweat and blood.
She looked down and gasped.
A mark.
Etched into the skin just below her collarbone — a symbol in deep crimson, shaped like a spiral with thorns. It throbbed. Not just in pain… but with power.
She traced it with shaking fingers. "He branded me."
Lucien looked away. "He claimed you."
Her voice trembled. "Is it permanent?"
He hesitated. "Not in flesh. But in soul? Yes."
She reached for him instinctively, but he recoiled like her touch might burn.
"Why?" she whispered.
Lucien stood, his back to her. His voice was low, pained.
"Because once, long ago, I made a vow. To save a woman I loved. A woman who looks just like you."
Isadora froze.
"She died," he continued. "And in my grief, I… bargained. With him."
"The Crimson King."
Lucien nodded once. "He brought her back. But not for me. For himself. Her soul was never truly freed. He scattered it, hid it through time. And now… it's you."
Isadora stared at the mark on her chest.
"Why me?"
"Because your soul belongs to him now. As it once belonged to me. And we are the battleground."
Later, when she was alone again, Isadora stood before her mirror.
She peeled back her nightgown and stared at the mark. The spiral seemed to shimmer faintly. Her reflection did not move with her.
The other Isadora smiled.
A knock interrupted her horror. Three slow, deliberate taps.
She opened the door.
Madame Thorne.
Her blindfold still covered her face, but she tilted her head, listening to something only she could hear.
"You are bleeding magic, child," she said. "He will come to you again. Not as himself, but as someone you trust."
Isadora whispered, "How do I stop him?"
"You can't," Madame Thorne said. "But you can choose which monster to love."
She turned to go, but paused. "Tell Lucien not to lock the chapel again. The dead are restless. They remember your wedding."
"My… what?"
But the old woman was already gone.
That night, Isadora dreamt again.
This time she stood in the castle's black chapel, bathed in candlelight. The pews were full — not of people, but figures in veils. Shadows with eyes. A wedding dress hung suspended above the altar, blood-soaked and writhing.
And at the end of the aisle stood the Devil — wearing Lucien's face.
He extended a hand to her. "Say yes."
She backed away. "No."
He smiled wider, and his skin began to peel away, revealing flame beneath. "You've already said it once. In another life."
Isadora turned to flee — but the chapel doors had vanished. The pews leaned forward. The shadows moaned. The gown fell to the floor with a splash of blood.
She screamed—
She awoke, breathless.
Someone stood at the foot of her bed.
Anthony.
Her childhood friend. Her only family.
He smiled warmly. "Izzy," he said. "It's me. You're safe now."
Her lips trembled. "That's not possible. You're not—how did you get here?"
He sat beside her, cupping her hand. His warmth felt real.
"You wrote to me, remember? You begged for help." His voice softened. "You sounded so afraid."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I… don't remember."
Anthony smiled again. But this time, it didn't reach his eyes.
He leaned forward and whispered:
"Say yes."
The world tilted.
Her candle blew out.
End of Chapter Four.