Before she could react, the taller man raised a hand, stopping his companion in his tracks. "Easy, Duneven. She's more valuable intact."
Duneven snarled but obeyed, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at Verita. "You're only making this harder on yourself, girl."
Verita's gaze darted between them, her mind racing. She had to think, had to act quickly. If she couldn't outrun them, she'd have to outsmart them. Her magic was unstable, but perhaps she could use it to create a diversion—something to buy her time.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and reached for the power buried deep within her. It surged to the surface like a tidal wave, wild and untamed. She focused on the ground beneath her attackers, imagining it cracking open and swallowing them whole.
The earth trembled, a low rumble that grew into a violent quake. Rocks tumbled down the incline, forcing Duneven to leap back with a startled curse. The taller man stumbled but quickly regained his footing, his expression unreadable.
Verita didn't wait to see the extent of the damage. She turned and ran, her magic still thrumming in her veins. The forest blurred around her as she pushed herself to her limits, her legs burning with the effort.
But her relief was short-lived. A sudden gust of wind whipped through the trees, and she felt a hand close around her wrist, yanking her to a halt. She cried out, struggling against the iron grip, but it was no use.
Duneven sneered down at her, his smirk filled with triumph. "Nice try, little witch. But you're coming with us."
Verita's heart sank as she realized she was out of options. The taller man appeared beside Duneven, his gray eyes fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," he said softly. "Jevan doesn't like to be kept waiting."
The finality in his tone sent a chill down her spine. She stopped struggling, her shoulders sagging in defeat as they dragged her toward the edge of the forest. The shadows seemed to close in around her, swallowing the last remnants of her hope.
As the towering silhouette of Blackthorn Manor loomed in the distance, Verita's mind raced with a single thought: this wasn't the end. It couldn't be. Not yet.
The forest disappeared behind Verita as she was dragged toward the looming silhouette of Blackthorn Manor. Her wrists throbbed where the man named Duneven's hand clamped like iron, his grip unrelenting despite her occasional attempts to wrench free. The taller man—calm, collected, and calculating—walked beside her with measured steps, his gray eyes betraying nothing but an unsettling calm. His presence was even more unnerving than Duneven's sneer.
Blackthorn Manor grew larger with every step. Its jagged spires stretched high into the night sky, the moonlight casting eerie shadows across its blackened stone walls. Verita's breath caught as they passed through the wrought-iron gates, their intricate designs appearing more like prison bars than any decorative flourish. The path leading to the entrance was lined with thorny, unnatural plants that pulsed faintly with magic. The scent of decay lingered, faint but impossible to ignore.
"Charming place you've got here," Verita muttered, her voice sharp with defiance despite her fear.
Duneven laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed in the still air. "You've got some fire in you, I'll give you that. Won't do you any good, though."
The taller man shot him a warning glance. "Quiet, Duneven. You'll speak when Jevan asks you to."
The smirk slipped from Duneven's face as he grumbled under his breath, but he didn't respond further. Verita made a mental note of the power dynamic between them. The taller man, though quieter, clearly commanded more authority—and not just with Duneven. He moved with the air of someone who had seen and done far more than most, and the others knew better than to cross him.
As they reached the entrance, massive double doors carved with scenes of battle and bloodshed swung open with a groan. Inside, the manor was as darkly opulent as Verita had imagined. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting ancient vampire wars, their deep reds and blacks vivid against the flickering light of the chandeliers. The floors gleamed like polished obsidian, their cold surface reflecting the flames of the wall-mounted sconces.
Despite herself, Verita shivered. The air here was heavy, oppressive, as if the very walls were alive with the echoes of screams long past. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, though there was no one else in sight.
Duneven tightened his grip on her arm, steering her toward the grand staircase at the center of the room. The taller man followed in silence, his expression as unreadable as ever.
At the top of the staircase stood Jevan Ashford.
Jevan was everything Verita had heard and more. His presence was magnetic, commanding attention even from across the room. He was tall and lean, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the light around him. His icy blue eyes locked onto hers, their intensity freezing her in place. His black hair was slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and the cruel curve of his mouth.
"Well, well," Jevan said, his voice smooth and rich, dripping with amusement. "The elusive Verita Winslow. You've caused quite the stir."
Verita's mouth went dry as he descended the staircase with the grace of a predator, each step measured and deliberate. He stopped a few feet from her, his piercing gaze sweeping over her as if cataloging every detail.
"She's smaller than I expected," he mused, his tone casual but cutting. "And yet, the power radiating from her… fascinating."
Verita clenched her fists, her fear giving way to anger. "What do you want from me?"
Jevan's smile widened, revealing a flash of sharp white teeth. "What I want, dear Verita, is quite simple. Your magic. It's unique, powerful, and utterly wasted on someone like you."
Her stomach churned at his words, but she refused to look away. "I don't care what you want. You'll get nothing from me."
Jevan tilted his head, his expression one of mock pity. "Brave words. But bravery alone won't save you." He turned to the taller man. "Esira, ensure our guests are made… comfortable."
Esira. The name suited him—sharp, strong, and impossibly steady. Verita glanced at him, hoping to catch some sign of hesitation or regret, but his face remained impassive. He nodded once, then gestured for Duneven to follow him.
"Come on," Duneven grunted, yanking Verita forward. She stumbled but caught herself, glaring at him as he dragged her toward the staircase leading down into the manor's depths.
The descent was suffocating. The air grew colder with each step, and the flickering torchlight barely illuminated the narrow stone hallway they entered. The walls here were damp, moss creeping into the cracks between the stones. The faint hum of magic vibrated through the air, stronger now, and Verita realized it was coming from the reinforced wards designed to suppress her powers.
They stopped in front of a heavy iron door. Duneven pushed it open, revealing a small, dimly lit cell. The stone walls were bare, save for the faintly glowing runes etched into their surface. A narrow cot sat against one wall, the thin mattress looking about as comfortable as a pile of rocks.
Duneven shoved Verita inside, and she stumbled forward, catching herself on the cot. She turned to glare at him, but he only smirked before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The sound of the lock clicking into place sent a shiver down her spine.
Esira remained outside the cell, his gray eyes fixed on her through the bars. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, to her surprise, he stepped closer, his voice low and calm.
"I suggest you get some rest. Jevan doesn't appreciate defiance."
Verita crossed her arms, her gaze defiant. "Why do you care?"
His expression didn't change, but she thought she saw a flicker of something—regret, maybe—in his eyes. "I don't. But you'll need your strength if you want to survive this."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the silence of the corridor.
Verita sank onto the cot, her hands trembling as she buried her face in them. She felt the weight of the wards pressing down on her, suppressing her magic, her strength, her very essence. For the first time in years, she felt truly powerless.
But as despair threatened to consume her, a spark of determination flared within her. Jevan might have her now, but she wouldn't make it easy for him. Whatever it took, she would find a way out of this.
And when she did, he would regret ever crossing her. The damp, suffocating air of the cell wrapped around Verita like a shroud. She sat on the cot, her fingers tracing the faint lines of the glowing runes etched into the walls. The wards vibrated against her magic, suppressing it with an uncomfortable pressure that made her skin crawl. It was a prison meant to break her will, but she wasn't ready to surrender. Not yet.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor, steady and deliberate. Her head snapped up, her golden-brown eyes narrowing as the tall figure of Esira Edin appeared on the other side of the bars. He carried a tray in one hand, a flickering lantern in the other, the warm light casting sharp shadows across his chiseled features.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. His gray eyes locked onto hers, unreadable and cold, but not cruel like Duneven's. He set the tray down on a small ledge just outside the cell, the faint clink of the ceramic bowl breaking the silence.
"You should eat," he said, his voice low and calm. "You'll need your strength."
Verita let out a bitter laugh, leaning back against the cold stone wall. "Is that supposed to be comforting? Coming from the man who helped drag me into this nightmare?"
Esira's jaw tightened, the flicker of emotion in his eyes gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to keep you alive."
"How noble," she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you always play the reluctant hero, or is this a special occasion?"
His lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "I don't expect you to understand."
"Try me," she challenged, her gaze never leaving his. "Why are you doing this? Why work for someone like Jevan if you clearly hate every second of it?"
Esira crossed his arms, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that stretched across the cell. He leaned against the bars, the cool detachment in his expression wavering just enough for Verita to notice.
"I don't hate it," he said, his voice clipped. "Hating it would mean I care. Jevan doesn't allow for that kind of weakness."
Verita frowned, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of his words. There was something in the way he spoke, something guarded but not entirely callous. He wasn't like Duneven or Jevan—there was a crack in the armor, small but undeniable.
"And yet, here you are," she said softly, her tone no longer sharp. "Bringing me food, warning me to stay strong. That doesn't sound like someone who doesn't care."
Esira gaze hardened, his gray eyes flashing with something dangerous. "Don't mistake practicality for compassion. If you fall apart, Jevan will get exactly what he wants. I'm not about to make it easier for him."
Verita studied him in silence, her frustration giving way to curiosity. There was more to this man than he was letting on, more than the cold, disciplined façade he presented. But before she could press further, he straightened, his towering frame casting her in shadow.
"Eat," he said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You'll need your wits about you if you want to survive."
"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Esira paused, his hand resting on the iron bar. For the first time, she saw a flicker of regret in his expression, a crack in the stoic mask he wore so well.
"Then you'll end up like the others," he said quietly. "And no one will remember your name."
With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance. Verita watched him go, her mind a whirlwind of questions she wasn't sure she wanted answers to. She turned her gaze to the tray he'd left behind—a bowl of thin soup and a hunk of bread, hardly appetizing but enough to stave off hunger.
She forced herself to eat, her thoughts returning to Esira. He was a puzzle, one she couldn't afford to ignore. If she was going to survive this, she needed to understand him. She needed to find the crack in his armor and use it to her advantage.
But as the flickering lantern light cast shadows on the walls, a sinking feeling settled in her chest. Whatever game Esira was playing, it was a dangerous one. And if she wasn't careful, she'd be caught in the crossfire.
Verita lay back on the cot, the cold stone pressing against her skin. Her magic stirred faintly, a reminder of the power she held, the power Jevan wanted. She clenched her fists, determination hardening her resolve.
She wouldn't let them break her. Not Jevan. Not Duneven. Not even Esira. Whatever it took, she would find a way out of this place. And when she did, she'd make them all pay.