The invitation to dinner was not a request; it was a summons delivered by the same masked servant who had brought her to the citadel. Evangeline stood before the tall mirror in her chamber, her hands still trembling as she tried to conceal the dark, stained scratches on her arms beneath the long lace cuffs of a fresh gown. The silk was an emerald so dark it bordered on black, a color that made her skin appear as pale as the marble statues in the hallway. She looked at her reflection and saw a stranger—a woman with haunted eyes and a jaw set in a line of desperate defiance.
The dining hall was even more oppressive at night. The blue-flamed candles had been replaced by a single, massive candelabra at the center of the ebony table, casting long, flickering shadows that danced like specters against the tapestries. Valerian was already seated at the head of the table, his presence commanding the gloom. He was dressed in a velvet tunic of midnight black, the silver embroidery at his collar glinting like frost. His right hand, as always, was hidden within the heavy leather glove, resting motionless on the table's edge.
"You look as though you have seen a ghost, Evangeline," he said, his voice cutting through the silence without him even lifting his head. "Or perhaps the thorns of the courtyard proved more treacherous than you anticipated."
Evangeline took her seat, the heavy chair scraping against the stone floor with a sound like a pained groan. She did not reach for the wine, nor did she look at the silver platters of meat and fruit that had been laid out. She kept her gaze fixed on him, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"I saw a face in the well, My Lord," she said, her voice remarkably steady despite the terror thrumming through her veins. "And I saw a shadow in the window of the East Wing. A shadow that did not belong to a man."
Valerian finally raised his eyes. The storm within them had darkened to a deep, turbulent charcoal. He slowly picked up his glass with his left hand, the wine swirling like blood within the crystal. "The mind plays tricks in a house this old. The wind through the spires, the reflection of the moon on the water—it is easy for a frightened girl to manufacture demons where there are only shadows."
"I am not a frightened girl," she snapped, leaning forward. "And the oil on my skin was not a trick of the light. There is something rotting at the heart of this family, Valerian. Something that bleeds into the soil and whispers in the dark. Is this what happened to the others? To the three brides who came before me? Did the well swallow them, too?"
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The temperature seemed to drop, the blue flames of the candles sputtering as if an invisible weight had settled upon them. Valerian's expression remained stony, but the grip on his wine glass tightened until his knuckles turned as white as bone.
"You would do well to keep their names out of your mouth," he said, his voice a low, lethal silk. "They were... unsuitable for the burden this house demands. Their fates are sealed in the history of the Hastings, a history you would be wise not to provoke."
"Unsuitable? Or were they merely exhausted by the lies?" Evangeline challenged, her defiance flaring. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the ebony table near his gloved hand. "You speak of sanctuary and protection, yet you live in a tomb. You wear that glove to hide the mark of your own curse, while you watch me turn into the very thing you claim to guard against. My blood is changing, Valerian. I can feel it."
Valerian stood abruptly, the force of his movement nearly toppling his chair. He walked around the long table, the shadows seeming to stretch and follow him like a living cape. He stopped behind her, and she felt the radiating cold of his presence, a chill that transcended the physical.
"You want the truth?" he whispered, leaning down until his breath stirred the stray hairs at her temple. "The truth is that this house is a beast that must be fed. My ancestors struck a bargain with a power that does not recognize the concepts of mercy or time. I am the vessel of that bargain, and you... you are the anchor."
He reached out with his left hand, his fingers grazing the lace of her cuff. He pulled it back slowly, exposing the scratches she had tried to hide. The marks were no longer red; they were thin, jagged lines of shimmering obsidian, pulsating with a faint, rhythmic glow.
"It has already begun," he murmured, a trace of what sounded like regret softening his voice for a fleeting second. "The land is recognizing you. It is claiming what was promised."
Evangeline stood and turned to face him, her eyes burning with a mix of fury and fear. "I was promised to a man, not a monster. I was told my presence would bring a truce, not a transformation. If you have any shred of humanity left in you, Valerian, you will tell me what the 'sacrificial bride' truly is. Am I to be killed? Or am I to be consumed?"
Valerian looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the exhaustion of centuries, the weight of a thousand sins, and a loneliness so profound it made her own isolation feel trivial. He raised his gloved right hand, the leather creaking in the silence. For a second, she thought he might touch her cheek, might show her what lay beneath the hide.
"You are to be the bridge," he said, his voice cracking. "The one who stands between the curse and the world. But the bridge always bears the weight of the crossing, Evangeline. And the weight is heavy enough to break the soul."
He turned away from her, his silhouette merging with the darkness at the end of the hall. "Go to your room. Bolt the door. And whatever you do, do not listen to the voices from the well tonight. The moon is full, and the hunger is at its peak."
Evangeline didn't wait for a second warning. She fled the dining hall, the sound of her own frantic breathing echoing in the corridors. But as she reached the safety of her chamber and turned the heavy iron key, she realized with a sickening jolt that she wasn't alone.
On her pillow lay a single, wilting black rose—identical to the ones she had seen in the vision of the blood-drenched garden. And beneath it, a scrap of parchment with a message that chilled her to the core:
He cannot protect you from what he is.