The realization of her captivity did not come all at once, but in a series of chilling discoveries that mapped the boundaries of her new world. If the interior of the castle was a labyrinth of psychological dread, the exterior was a fortress designed to remind its inhabitants that the world beyond was an unreachable dream. Evangeline spent the third day of her residence exploring the perimeter, driven by a desperate need to find a weakness in the stone, a gap in the iron, or a path that didn't lead back to the shadow of Lord Valerian.
The air outside was thick with the brine of the ocean, a sharp, stinging scent that filled her lungs and made her eyes water. She walked along the inner ramparts, the grey stone cold beneath her palms. The sheer scale of the fortifications was staggering. To her left, the cliffs dropped vertically into the frothing, violent maw of the sea, where jagged rocks rose like the teeth of a leviathan. To her right, the black walls of the citadel rose higher than any cathedral, their surfaces so smooth and sheer that not even a vine could find purchase.
As she moved along the parapets, she noticed the guards again. They were positioned at regular intervals, standing as motionless as the gargoyles that watched from the eaves. They did not turn their heads as she passed, but she could feel the weight of their gaze through the narrow slits of their visors. They were not guarding the castle against invaders; they were guarding the castle against her. Every time she veered toward a staircase that led down toward the lower docks or the outer gates, a guard would silently step into her path, his halberd lowered in a subtle but unmistakable gesture of denial.
"The view is deceptive, isn't it?"
The voice came from above. Evangeline looked up to see Valerian standing on a balcony jutting out from the central spire. He was silhouetted against the pale, sickly sun, his long black coat billowing in the wind like the wings of a predatory bird. He looked down at her with an expression that was impossible to read from the distance, but his presence felt like an anchor, pulling at the very air she breathed.
"It is a beautiful cage, My Lord," she called back, her voice carrying over the wind. "But even the most ornate bars are still bars."
Valerian disappeared from the balcony and, a few moments later, emerged from a heavy oak door onto the ramparts. He walked toward her with a predatory grace, his boots making no sound on the stone. He stopped at the edge of the wall, looking out at the horizon where the grey sky met the darker grey of the water.
"A cage is a matter of perspective," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the roar of the surf. "For some, these walls are a prison. For the House of Hastings, they are a sanctuary. The world beyond this cliff is filled with those who would see this line extinguished. The walls do not just keep you in, Evangeline; they keep the darkness out."
"And what of the darkness already inside?" she countered, gesturing toward the looming spires behind them. "The soil in the solarium, the silence of your servants, the way your guards watch my every breath. Is that sanctuary, or is it a slow suffocation?"
Valerian turned to her, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of genuine pain in his storm-colored eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the mask of icy indifference he wore so well. He raised his right hand—the one encased in the heavy black leather—and traced the edge of a stone battlement. Where the leather touched the stone, she saw a faint, shimmering distortion in the air, a ripple of heat that shouldn't have been there in the freezing wind.
"You speak of things you do not understand," he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "There are cycles in this world, debts of blood that must be paid. You were sent here to fulfill a contract, not to play the role of a martyr. Stay within the limits I have set, and you shall have everything you require. Stray beyond them, and you will find that the sea is not the only thing that devours."
He left her then, retreating back into the gloom of the citadel, leaving her with more questions than answers. Driven by a mix of fear and a newfound stubbornness, Evangeline waited until the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, twisted shadows across the courtyard. She knew the guards shifted their positions at dusk, a brief window of time where the surveillance might falter.
She slipped away from the main path, ducking behind a row of ancient stone statues that depicted the founders of House Hastings—men with cruel faces and eyes made of obsidian. She found a narrow, forgotten service stairwell that spiraled downward, smelling of damp earth and rot. Her heart hammered in her ears as she descended, each creak of her boots sounding like a gunshot in the oppressive quiet.
The stairs led to a small, hidden courtyard at the base of the East Wing—the forbidden wing. It was overgrown with black, thorny weeds that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. In the center of the courtyard stood a well, its stone rim cracked and covered in a strange, bioluminescent moss that glowed with a faint, sickly green light.
As she approached the well, the whispering she had heard in the solarium returned, louder this time. It wasn't just one voice, but a chorus of them, a tangled web of feminine laments that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth. She leaned over the edge, her breath hitching. The water below was not clear; it was as dark as ink, and in its reflection, she didn't see her own face.
For a split second, she saw the face of another woman—pale, golden-haired, with eyes wide in terror. The woman's lips moved, forming a single word: Run.
Evangeline recoiled, her heel catching on a stray stone. She fell back into the thorns, the sharp points tearing through her silk sleeves and biting into her skin. But she didn't feel the pain. She was staring at the window of the East Wing, the one she had seen from the carriage. The faint red light was pulsing now, in time with the beating of her own heart.
A shadow moved behind the glass. It wasn't Valerian. It was something taller, more skeletal, its movements jerky and unnatural. It pressed a hand against the pane—a hand that was nothing but bone and shadow.
Terrified, Evangeline scrambled to her feet and ran. She didn't stop until she reached the safety of her room, her lungs burning, her hands stained with the black sap of the thorns. She locked the door and slumped against it, trembling. The walls of the citadel felt as if they were closing in, the stone breathing with a malevolent intent.
She looked down at her torn sleeves and the scratches on her arms. The blood was red, but as she watched, it began to darken, turning into that same oily, black substance she had seen in the solarium. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. The curse wasn't just in the house. It wasn't just in Valerian.
By entering this place, by breathing this air and touching this soil, the curse was now inside her. She was no longer just a bride. She was becoming part of the sacrifice.