Chapter 6: The Hidden Library
Secrets are never buried deep enough in houses built on silence.
Elira couldn't sleep.
Long after the wine had dulled and the nobles had left their crimson stains on the velvet of the ballroom, her mind still clung to that flicker—a face. A figure standing beyond the lanterns, half-shadowed, half-seen. Her brother's face.
Calen? It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. And yet, the memory wouldn't fade. It pulsed behind her eyes like the echo of a dream too real to dismiss.
She sat upright in bed, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. The manor was asleep—or pretending to be—but she was wide awake, heart hammering like a caged bird.
She wrapped her arms around her knees.
Lucien would forbid it.
She could hear his voice in her head—cool, sharp, impossibly calm:"Curiosity is a weakness, pet. And in this house, it gets you killed."
She glanced at the silver collar around her throat. As if the damn thing could read her thoughts. Maybe it could.
But still—that face. Her brother's face. It wasn't madness. She knew what she saw.
He had to be here. Somewhere. Alive.
She rubbed her hands together, thinking. Her fingers were cold. Her soul colder. If she waited, she'd get nothing. Lucien wouldn't volunteer truths. He preferred riddles and blood-soaked silences.
"I don't care what he'll do," she whispered, almost believing it.
The collar pulsed softly at her neck. Was it a warning, or an agreement? She didn't know anymore.
But she rose.
Throwing on her cloak and slipping on soft-soled boots, Elira moved like a shadow, every step deliberate. She cracked open the door and peered into the corridor. The manor had that hush again—the eerie kind that made her wonder if the house itself was breathing.
Still, she stepped out.
Toward the east wing. Toward the secrets.
The eastern wing was supposed to be sealed, two guards had been posted near the hall's threshold, their faces impassive, armor too polished for men who were ever truly idle. But tonight—by some odd twist of fate or cruel invitation—they were gone.
Not a soul lingered. Only candle sconces, flickering low. The long corridor stretched ahead, its arching ceiling carved with wolves chasing moons and vines that curled like serpents.
Elira hesitated at the archway.
Her skin tingled. The collar did not tighten, but it felt aware—as though Lucien himself was watching through it. She swallowed, hand resting just at the hollow of her throat, where the silver warmed strangely against her skin.
She whispered, "Too late to turn back now."
A thrill of fear skittered down her spine.
The wing beyond was dust-choked and silent, save for the faint creak of floorboards that sighed under her steps. Cobwebs hung like lace from the corners. Mirrors stood veiled in black cloth. Portraits with gouged-out eyes loomed above cold hearths.
Then—halfway down the corridor—she saw it.
A door, different from the rest. Not carved like the others, not grand. Plain, oak-dark, and bearing no handle. Just a sigil carved in the center: a three-headed wolf with a crescent moon at its chest.
Her family crest.
Her blood turned to ice.
Why is it here?
Reaching out, she pressed her fingers to the wood. The sigil shimmered faintly, just once. Then the door creaked open on its own.
Elira stepped inside.
The chamber beyond wasn't a room. It was a vault.
Tall, towering shelves stretched upward like the ribs of a great beast, vanishing into darkness above. Books filled every crevice—bound in black leather, pale vellum, chained spines and red-inked pages. Dust hung in the air like breath suspended in time.
It smelled of old parchment, iron, and secrets.
She moved slowly, eyes wide, fingers brushing across spines marked in languages she didn't recognize. Many of the books were unlabelled. Some bled ink. One seemed to hum softly when she passed it, a low, painful sound like distant mourning.
In the center of the room stood a stone pedestal. Upon it: a single book.
Not dusty. Not chained.
This one had been placed. Recently.
She approached, heart thudding louder than her steps.
The cover bore the same sigil—her family's crest—but now, beneath it, were words written in High Vampyric. She recognized only a few symbols, just enough to make out the name beneath the sigil:
House Varnel.
Her mother's bloodline.
With trembling hands, she opened the cover.
She ran her fingers down the spine of the book once more. The embossed leather, though aged, felt like it still remembered the hands that had once opened it.
The Vaelric family tree.
Columns of names—centuries of bloodlines etched in looping calligraphy—nobles, lords, and ladies born into crimson privilege. Most names were familiar from whispers at the Crimson Court or carved into manor plaques. But it was the final branch that sent a chill slicing down her spine.
Carefully, she flipped to the last few pages.
Pages turned as if guided by wind until it stopped—halfway through. There, pressed between two sheets, was a drawing. A family tree.
She leaned closer.
It started with her grandfather. Branor Varnel. Then his children. One of them was her mother. Lira Varnel
Her father's name. Corvin Ainsleigh.
And beneath them…
Two names.
Calen.
Elira.
Freshly inked.
Her name had not been part of any noble registry. Her family had fled the upper rings of society years ago, shamed, exiled, forgotten. Yet here it was—her blood acknowledged. A silent declaration: She belonged to this world, even if it had long rejected her.
But it wasn't validation she felt.
It was a trap.
"Why would they record me?" she whispered aloud. "Why now?"
She touched Calen's name gently. His was written first, her brother. His script scratched.
Elira's entry looked newer—hurried, but deliberate.
Someone had made sure she was claimed.
She reached out, her fingers hovering above the ink as if it would vanish the moment she touched it. But it was real. The ink was dry. The page was cool beneath her fingertips.
"What are you?" she whispered, barely able to recognize her own voice.
This book had been hidden behind a secret latch, deep in the east wing's forgotten library—a part of the manor sealed off by Lucien's orders. She hadn't meant to find it. Not truly. She'd only wanted to explore, to breathe outside the suffocating elegance of her confinement.
But now, the cold weight of discovery settled over her shoulders like a burial shroud.
She closed the dome, her heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird. She should leave. Before he noticed. Before the collar did something terrible. Before the house whispered her betrayal.
Her steps hesitated at the threshold. Candlelight brushed against shelves lined with tomes that had not seen daylight in decades. Dust motes danced in the silence, as if mocking her hesitation.
Lucien would be furious.
She imagined the curve of his mouth—tight with displeasure. His voice, cold as the stone halls: "Disobedience has consequences, little pet."
But the idea of crawling back into her room, pretending she had never seen this, tasted like ash. Elira Ainsleigh was not a pet. Not truly. Not yet.
With a soft breath, she extinguished the candle and slipped out.
She was halfway through the east wing when she felt it.
A sharp pull at her throat.
The collar.
It didn't burn or tighten—not yet—but it thrummed with awareness. Like it knew.
And so did he.
Before she could make it to the stairwell, the temperature dropped.
"Elira."
His voice was velvet and frost.
She froze.
Lucien stood at the end of the corridor, draped in a high-collared coat of sable black, his silver hair unbound for once—falling like moonlight over his shoulder. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim torchlight, not crimson, but something colder. Sharper.
She tried to speak. Failed. Her fingers curled against her skirts.
"Do you think I'm blind in my own house?" he asked, each word precise as the crack of bone.
"I…" Her voice trembled. "I wasn't trying to—"
"Weren't you?" He took a slow step forward. "The east wing is sealed. Bound. You crossed into forbidden grounds, past runes you don't comprehend. And for what? A stroll? Curiosity?"
Elira flinched. She felt the collar hum with tension, but it didn't tighten. Not yet.
"There was a book," she said, heart pounding. "It had my name in it. On a family tree. I had to see—"
"You defied me."
The words lashed out, invisible whips of cold fury.
She lowered her gaze, lips pressed into a tight line.
"I gave you shelter, food, your own chamber—comforts a prisoner doesn't deserve," Lucien said, circling her like a wraith. "And yet you treat my kindness like a suggestion. You disobey, and speak of books you do not understand."
She couldn't take it anymore. "You're not kind," she hissed. "You treat me like an object. A possession. Then expect me to act like some loyal hound!"
"You are not entitled to anything in this house. Curiosity is not license. Do not mistake this for a sanctuary." His eyes cut to hers. "You are here because you chose to take your brother's place. A choice does not excuse ignorance."
"I was only trying to understand—"
"You will understand when I allow it."
The room went cold.
She clenched her fists. "What are you so afraid I'll find?"
He moved closer in a blink, his presence eclipsing the room, the air itself tightening like a noose. He leaned in just enough that she could feel the chill radiating from him, but he didn't touch her.
"Do you mistake this for a game, little thing?"
The name sent a strange ripple down her spine, soft as a whisper, cruel as a blade.
"You were given freedom here," he said. "More than most. And you spat on it. So now…" He stepped back and motioned toward the table.
On it sat a single black candle, unlit, and a small silver bell.
"You will earn it back."
Lucien stepped even closer, the shadows clinging to his form like living things. His hand reached out—not to strike her, but to brush the collar at her throat.
Elira stiffened.
"The collar protects you," he said softly. "Even from yourself. But perhaps I've made you too comfortable."
His gaze flicked toward the hall. With a flick of his fingers, a rune lit beneath her feet. The world blurred for a heartbeat—and then her surroundings shifted.
It was her room—but the fire had been snuffed out. The curtains drawn. Her books and writing materials gone. Her comforts stripped. The warmth had vanished.
Elira turned in place, heart sinking.
"You'll remain here," Lucien said from behind her, "until I decide you've earned back what I gave. No books. No walks. Meals will be brought. And you will not leave this room until summoned."
She whirled to face him. "You're imprisoning me?"
His expression didn't change. "This is discipline."
"And the book—what I saw—"
"You saw what you were not meant to." His voice dipped, grave. "And next time you may see something that unravels you."
He stepped forward, his gloved hand cupping her chin with infuriating gentleness.
"I keep you here not because I wish to," he said, eyes boring into hers. "But because the world beyond these walls is not as forgiving as I am."
Her chest tightened.
"Sleep well, Elira."
The door closed with a thud, and a click echoed in her bones.
Locked.
She stood in the cold silence of her stripped-down room, the echo of his touch lingering like a brand.
That night, the house whispered louder.
But the collar said nothing.
Just pulsed against her throat, alive with unspoken warnings.
And somewhere, deep in the manor's dark heart, a memory stirred—waiting for her to break the rules again.