Liora's POV
I stare at the words carved into the wall, my heart hammering so hard it hurts.
Number 300He's already fallingThat's why you'll hurt most
The scratching has stopped. The invisible hands are gone. But the message remains, carved deep into stone that should be impossible to mark.
I press myself against the far wall, as far from that message as I can get. My whole body shakes. This room isn't just a prison. It's a tomb. Two hundred ninety-nine women died here, and they're still here somehow. Still trying to warn me.
Or torment me.
I can't tell which.
The crying-laughing sound comes again from inside the walls. Closer this time. Like whatever's in there is moving toward me.
I should scream. Should pound on the door and beg to be let out. But my throat is too tight, my voice frozen.
The fireplace suddenly flares brighter, blue flames leaping higher. In the increased light, I see something I missed before.
More scratches.
Dozens of them. Hundreds maybe. Covering every wall, some faint and old, others deep and recent. They're everywhere—beside the bed, near the door, around the windows. Desperate claw marks from women trying to escape.
None of them succeeded.
My stomach twists. I'm going to die in this room. Just like them. In thirty nights, Theron will drain my blood, and I'll become another ghost scratching messages into the walls.
Unless the blood sickness takes me first.
The thought should comfort me. At least I'd die on my own terms, not his. But it doesn't. Because now I've met him. I've seen the pain in his silver eyes. And some stupid, reckless part of me wants to understand why he's trapped in this nightmare.
The flames die back to normal. The scratching doesn't return. Whatever was in the walls has gone silent.
I don't sleep. Can't sleep. I just sit on the floor with my back against the wall, watching the shadows and waiting for dawn.
If dawn ever comes in this place.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time feels wrong here, stretched thin and warped.
Finally, light begins filtering through the windows. Not sunlight—the sky outside is still that eternal twilight. But the light changes, grows slightly brighter, like the world is pretending to have a morning.
In the new light, I see the room properly for the first time.
And my blood turns cold.
The beautiful silk sheets? Stained. Faint brown marks that look like old blood. The velvet curtains? Torn in places, threads hanging loose like someone tried to use them to escape. And the wooden floor near the bed has dark stains ground deep into the grain.
Blood.
So much blood.
I scramble to my feet, backing away from the bed. How many women died there? How many bled out on those sheets while Theron drained them?
Two hundred ninety-nine.
The number echoes in my mind like a curse.
A knock on the door makes me jump. The lock clicks, and Cassiel steps inside carrying a tray of food. When he sees me pressed against the wall, his expression softens.
"You didn't sleep."
"Would you?" My voice is hoarse. "In a room where three hundred women are supposed to die?"
He sets the tray on a small table. "I tried to get you different chambers. The prince refused. He said all sacrifices stay in the east wing."
"Because this is where he kills them." I gesture at the bloodstains, the scratch marks, the messages carved into stone. "This is the death room."
Cassiel doesn't deny it. He just looks tired. Sad.
"Tell me the truth," I demand. "What happens on the thirtieth night?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he moves to the window, staring out at the twisted landscape. "Every bride spends thirty nights in the castle. On the final night, the prince comes to this room. He drinks their blood completely. They die in that bed."
"Why?" The word comes out broken. "Why does he have to kill them?"
"The curse." Cassiel's jaw clenches. "Three hundred years ago, a rival vampire house slaughtered Theron's family. They left him alive deliberately and bound him with a curse. Every year, he must accept a mortal sacrifice. Thirty nights later, he must drain her blood completely, or the curse spreads through the entire kingdom."
"Spreads how?"
"It turns vampires into mindless beasts. Blood-drunk monsters who kill everything in their path—mortal and vampire alike." He turns to face me. "The prince has a choice: kill one woman, or watch his entire kingdom descend into madness and slaughter thousands."
My legs feel weak. I sink onto the edge of the bed, not caring about the stains anymore. "So he's trapped."
"Completely. For three hundred years, he's killed women who didn't deserve to die. Good women. Innocent women. It's destroying him piece by piece."
"Is that why he's so cold? So cruel?"
"He's protecting himself the only way he knows how." Cassiel's voice softens. "If he lets himself care about his sacrifices, their deaths would break him completely. So he keeps them at a distance. Makes them fear him. Hates them so killing them doesn't hurt as much."
"But it still hurts."
"Every single time." Cassiel moves toward the door. "That gallery you heard about? Where he keeps portraits of all his victims? He visits it every night. Remembers their names. Apologizes to their ghosts. He's carrying three hundred years of guilt, and it's crushing him."
Tears burn my eyes. Not for myself. For Theron. For the man forced to become a monster to save his kingdom.
"What if he refuses?" I ask. "What if he just... doesn't kill me?"
"The curse activates immediately. Every vampire in Nocturne becomes a beast. They'll slaughter every mortal in the surrounding villages, then turn on each other. Thousands will die instead of one." Cassiel's expression is grim. "That's why he never refuses. No matter how much it destroys him."
"There has to be a way to break the curse."
"If there is, no one's found it in three centuries." He reaches for the door handle. "Get some rest, Liora. Eat something. You'll need your strength for what's coming."
"Cassiel, wait." I stand on shaking legs. "The walls. Last night, I saw messages appearing. Carved by invisible hands."
His face pales. "The previous brides. Sometimes their spirits linger. They try to warn the new sacrifices."
"Warn them about what?"
"That fighting is useless. That escape is impossible. That the prince always wins in the end." He opens the door. "I'm sorry, Liora. I truly am. You seem different from the others. Braver. But brave or not, you'll die here just the same."
He leaves, the lock clicking behind him.
I'm alone again.
Alone with bloodstains and scratch marks and ghost messages.
Alone in the room where I'm supposed to die.
I walk to the window, pressing my hand against the cold glass. Outside, the blood-red cliffs drop into darkness. The forest of glowing moonflowers stretches to the horizon. And somewhere in this cursed castle, Theron is carrying the weight of three hundred deaths.
Soon to be three hundred and one.
My chest suddenly tightens. Pain explodes through my ribs, sharp and vicious. I can't breathe. Can't get air.
No. Not now.
I stumble toward the bed, but my legs give out. I hit the floor hard, my vision going black at the edges. The blood sickness is attacking, worse than it's ever been.
I try to call for help, but no sound comes out.
Blood fills my mouth. I cough, and it sprays across the floor. Red. So much red.
I'm dying. Right now. Not in thirty nights. Now.
My body convulses. More blood. My lungs are drowning in it.
The room spins. The walls close in.
Is this it? Is this how I die? Alone on the floor of a cursed room, choking on my own blood?
The door crashes open.
Through my fading vision, I see a figure rush in. Not Cassiel. Someone else.
A woman with kind eyes and graying hair kneels beside me. "Hold on, child. I've got you."
She rolls me onto my side, and I cough up more blood. Her hands are gentle but efficient, working quickly.
"Elena," she says calmly. "I'm the castle healer. You're having a blood sickness attack, but I can help."
She pulls something from her bag—a vial of dark liquid. "Drink this. It won't cure you, but it will stop the bleeding for now."
She presses the vial to my lips. The liquid tastes like copper and herbs. I swallow, gagging.
Almost immediately, the coughing stops. The pain eases. I can breathe again.
Elena helps me sit up, supporting my weight. "Better?"
I nod weakly, wiping blood from my mouth.
"Good." She studies my face with sharp eyes. "How long have you had the blood sickness?"
"Six months. My father said I have two weeks left."
"Your father is optimistic." Elena's voice is gentle but honest. "Based on what I just saw, you have days. Maybe a week if you're lucky."
The words hit like a punch. Days. Not even two weeks.
"Does the prince know?" Elena asks.
"He can smell it. But I haven't told him how bad it is."
"Good. Keep it that way." She helps me onto the bed, arranging pillows behind me. "The prince has enough guilt without knowing his sacrifice is already dying."
"You've seen other sacrifices?"
Elena's face clouds with pain. "All of them. Every year for twenty years. I was supposed to be a sacrifice myself once, but a loophole saved me. I've served this castle ever since, watching young women die in this room."
"Then you know there's no escape."
"I know the prince is trapped in a nightmare he can't wake from. I know every death carves another piece from his soul. And I know—" she pauses, studying me carefully, "—that you're different from the others."
"How?"
"You're not afraid of him. You challenge him. You see through his masks." Elena's expression turns thoughtful. "That's either very brave or very foolish."
"Probably foolish."
"Perhaps." She stands, gathering her supplies. "I'll come check on you twice daily. That medicine will help manage symptoms, but it won't stop the progression. You're still dying, Liora. Nothing changes that."
She moves toward the door, then stops.
"One more thing. The prince has never saved a sacrifice before. Never protected one from another vampire. Never showed any emotion toward them at all." Her eyes meet mine. "But last night, he threatened Lady Morgana for you. He put himself between you and danger. In three hundred years, that's never happened."
My heart pounds. "What does that mean?"
"It means you're already changing him. And that—" Elena's expression turns grave, "—might be the most dangerous thing of all."
She leaves, locking the door behind her.
I sit on the bloodstained bed, my body weak and shaking from the attack. Days left. Maybe a week.
Will I even survive to the thirtieth night? Or will the blood sickness take me first?
And why does part of me hope I survive long enough to understand the broken vampire prince with silver eyes?
A sound makes me look up.
Scratching. Again.
New words carving themselves into the wall:
He saved you
He never saves anyone
You're making him feel
That's why you'll destroy him
The scratching stops.
And somewhere in the castle, I hear footsteps.
Coming closer.