The chamber was a wound.
Runes carved into the floor pulsed like a heartbeat. A tapestry dominated the far wall, its threads rotted to ghosts: a woman burning a crown wrapped in thorns, her face blotted out by time.
At the room's center sat a diary, its cover embossed with a single word:
Vionne.
Celeste's hands shook as she opened it. The ink was faded, the handwriting achingly familiar—her own.
"To the one who bears her face:
This house will test your soul.
The Duke is bound by his sin.
Only love born of truth can break him."
A drop of sweat slid down her spine. Love? This place demanded too much.
Then—"You touched the chamber."
Alaric filled the doorway, his silhouette edged in fury.