Fear stabbed through my chest like ice. My vision swam in the darkness, blurred and uncertain, but after what felt like an eternity in the pitch black, shapes began to form. Shadows peeled back into detail—rows of lampstands lined both sides of the wall, unlit but waiting, and a long, narrow passage stretched endlessly ahead, dark like a grave.
My body shivered violently. That touch—that hand still ghosting on my shoulder— I had nearly forgotten it in my frantic thoughts that -god-knows-what- was still holding me. My breath hitched. Something… someone had touched me down here.
I jerked violently, swatting it away as though fire had burned me. My body stumbled back, falling into a rough fighting stance—though the truth stung bitterly: I had no training, no combat skills, not even a spark of magic to defend myself. My defiance was just instinct, born of terror.
"Breathe…"
The voice was calm, rich, manly—like warm smoke curling in my ear.
My heart stilled. "Labyrinth?" I squinted, desperate for clarity, my chest burning with hope as I dropped my guard.
No. It wasn't him.
The lamps ignited all at once, flames blossoming without oil or tinder. Fire hovered gently above each stand, casting the place in a glow that was dim yet impossibly enchanting. Golden light washed over carved walls covered in ancient sigils, spirals, and symbols I couldn't comprehend. My eyes roamed too long, caught in the trap of wonder, until the voice snapped me back.
"Do you really not care who's speaking to you?"
I turned sharply, expecting to face some wretched hag from bedtime horror stories—a bent witch with rotted teeth and ragged robes. Instead, I froze.
Standing before me was a young man. No—something more than a man. His dark skin glowed faintly under the firelight, sculpted with lean, defined muscle. His long, silvery-white hair cascaded like streams of moonlight, framing a face carved with sharp beauty. And those eyes—deep, storm-grey pools that seemed to read every secret I'd buried.
He wore only trousers and a glittering wizard's hat, his upper body bare, marred only by the perfection of his sculpted chest. My jaw dropped in mortified disbelief as his nipples seemed to wink at me in the flickering firelight.
"What in the world?!" My voice cracked. "Where is your sense of decency? Put on a shirt!"
But my eyes betrayed me, locked against my will on the marble perfection of his form.
He smirked knowingly and stepped forward, closing the space between us. His fingers brushed gently along my cheek, slipping into my hair with a familiarity that made my skin prickle.
"You're beautiful," he said softly. "The first damsel to wander into the Underworld of Mystery Books in over four centuries of my service here." He tilted his chin proudly, smug in his declaration.
"'Underworld of Mystery Books?'" I snorted, rolling my eyes to hide my racing pulse. "That's too obvious. Who names a place like that?"
His smirk widened. "Don't pretend you're not intrigued. You are Azhurla, twelve years old—outcast, unloved, detested and rejected by your brothers especially Blinx I mean at least that's what you think, hated and despised by your father, except the one brother you secretly long for."
I stiffened.
"And your mother…" His voice grew darker. "who is about to be killed and enslaved by Jinx the Necromancer."
Everything else he said blurred into nonsense—until those words.
"Killed… and enslaved?" I whispered, the words catching like thorns in my throat.
"Yes, yes," he waved impatiently, though his eyes stayed locked on me. "Though honestly, I care more about you. I'd rather you loved me. I'm stronger than your brother—in body, mind, and spirit. Wouldn't you prefer me?" He flexed arrogantly, muscles tensing under the torchlight, displaying his body like a sculpture of war and desire.
But I wasn't listening anymore. My thoughts were tangled, storming.
My mother? Enslaved? By Jinx?!
Memories crashed over me.
On my third day at school, I had been forced into the Necromancy class. The teacher had taken an unsettling interest in me, his fondness far from academic—his eyes lingered, his words dripped with innuendo, his smiles carved with hunger. He looked barely twenty but was nearing his one hundred and eightieth birthday, a grotesque mask of youth clinging to immortal bones, he was even going to celebrate at the masquerade festival coming up next month. The girls swooned over him, worshipped him, while I mocked him with names like old hag, sore throat, three-legged man.
That's why they hated me. Why she hated me.
Doxa. The terror of the class, untouchable. Daughter of Jinx himself. A young necromancer whose obsession with the teacher bordered on madness. She had warned me—threatened me—that I'd suffer for drawing his attention. That she'd take something precious from me. I had laughed it off. I had even dropped Necromancy entirely to escape her malice.
And now…
Could she truly—?
"It's not Doxa," the man's voice snapped me back.
I stumbled closer, pressing my small palm against his firm abdomen, at least that's as tall as I can get, searching his face with frantic eyes. "What? Then what's her connection to Jinx?"
He froze. His storm-grey eyes shifted away, and to my shock, a flush crept across his cheeks. His lips parted, hesitant. Then, in one smooth motion, his arm coiled around my waist, pulling me closer, until our noses brushed. His breath scorched my skin like embers.
My chest constricted. My heart thundered.
I slapped him suddenly, breaking free of his smooth embrace, though he barely staggered—too strong for my strength to matter.
"Then what's her connection with Jinx?" I repeated sharply, desperation cracking in my voice.
He smirked again, regaining his composure. "Ah. Answers. Usually, people bring gifts—treasures, gold, delicacies, kisses—"
I didn't let him finish. I lunged, biting his lower lip softly before pressing my mouth to his. A kiss—hot, urgent, lingering. My eyes clenched shut, unwilling to see his shock until he melted against me, his strong arms circling, pulling me tighter.
Ten seconds. Ten eternal seconds.
I pulled away, panting, my lips burning, my knees trembling.
His form wavered—literally melted into molten gold before reforming again. His face glowed crimson, darker than flame, his composure utterly shattered.
"O-one kiss per question," he stammered, barely able to contain his excitement.
I nodded, my jaw tight. "Then answer me. Why is Jinx after my mother?"
His smirk faltered. For the first time, he looked uncertain.
"Don't leave out a detail," I warned, stepping closer. "If it's my problem, I'll deal with it."
He hesitated, pain flashing in his storm-grey eyes. "It will hurt you to hear this. More than you know."
"I've been hurt my entire life." My voice broke into steel. "This won't be any different."
He sighed—long, deep, reluctant. Then he looked at me.
"It's your father. He agreed to it."
The world stopped.
"My… m-my… father?"