The next day, Elena demanded answers. She found her grandmother in the west wing, staring at a painting older than the mansion itself. It showed a nobleman draped in velvet, with pale skin and dark, hungry eyes.
"Who is he?" Elena asked.
Lady Isolde's mouth tightened. "We do not speak his name."
"But he is the Ancestor, isn't he?" Elena pressed.
Her grandmother's gaze flickered, and for a moment Elena saw fear in her eyes. "He was the first of our bloodline. A man who lived before kingdoms rose, before the church built its walls. His hunger cursed us all. To speak his name is to call him closer."
Elena's voice lowered. "Then why do I hear him? Why me?"
"Because you are strong in his line," Lady Isolde said. "Stronger than I ever was. Stronger even than your mother." She turned sharply, her voice firm. "That is why you must resist. Do not give him what he wants."
Elena hesitated. "And what is that?"
Her grandmother's eyes glistened like cold steel. "You."
That night, Elena could not sleep. She walked through the halls, the mansion silent except for her soft steps. The air grew colder near the library, and against her better judgment, she entered.
The book waited on the desk. She swore the leather cover pulsed, like a slow heartbeat. She opened it again.
This time, the words burned into her mind:
"Call me, child. My name is Darius. Whisper it, and I will come to you."
Her lips parted, trembling.
"Da—"
"Elena!"
She gasped. Lucian stood in the doorway, his voice sharp. His golden eyes burned with warning. "Do not speak it. Once his name is spoken, there is no turning back."