Chapter 4

Another day passed. Only twelve nights remained until the Crimson Eclipse.

Elara returned to her small tower. Her first command upon entering was:

“Maeve, light the hearth.”

As the fire caught, orange light leaped up the wall, illuminating the objects she had once clung to as proof.

The ivory gown—meant for her Blood Oath ceremony with Lucien.

The portrait on the wall—depicting her looking back from the edge of the mist-shrouded woods, as if still believing someone would come to bring her home.

On the dressing table, a few small trinkets:

A ring engraved with the Ashbourne crest;

A bracelet of blackened silver links;

A locket of dark crimson glass, sealed with a single drop of Lucien’s blood.

Gifts from Lucien.

Each, hard-won.

The ring, painstakingly fashioned by his own hand after his coming-of-age, his fingers bleeding from the work.

The bracelet, traded for with three sacks of blood-scrip in a Hunter’s market because he heard it offered protection.

The locket, a reward from the Council for valor in battle, which he nearly died obtaining during a border skirmish.

The city had whispered—Lucien Ashbourne was madly in love with Elara Voss.

Once, Elara had believed it.

But the man capable of that madness was gone.

“The fire is ready, my lady.” Maeve placed a black iron brazier before her, eyes already red-rimmed. “My lady… you cherish this painting. You look upon it each night. Why burn it?”

Elara did not answer.

She walked to the wall, took down the portrait, and without hesitation, cast it into the flames.

As the paper curled and blackened in the fire’s embrace, she was transported back to her fifteenth year—her Rite of First Feeding.

Lucien had presented her with the painting, his gaze holding her as his sole light.

“Elara,” he had said then, “you are of age. Will you be my future Consort?”

It was the last time he had seriously spoken of swearing the Oath with her.

The fire consumed the painted smile.

Elara’s voice was soft. “The betrothal is void.”

“Keeping these only makes me a laughingstock.”

Maeve moved to retrieve it, but Elara stopped her.

“Burn what can be burned.”

“Sell what cannot.”

She looked at Maeve, her tone gaining a shred of warmth. “I will leave this world.”

“But you must live.”

Maeve’s tears fell freely as she nodded fiercely.

The next dawn, Elara went as usual to the main house to pay her respects to her parents.

The silver-wrought welts on her back were still raw, a persistent, nail-like pain anchoring itself in her chest.

Every step was an agony.

In the hallway, she encountered Lucien.

He stood at the far end of the corridor, tall and straight, his demeanor cool.

The face that once promised safety now radiated only detachment.

Seeing her pallor, Lucien’s brow furrowed. He stepped forward, reaching for her cold hand.

“Elara, you are pale. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Elara withdrew her hand. “A restless night.”

He did not press, as if her distress was merely ‘a mood.’

He stated his purpose. “Today is the anniversary of my mother’s passing.”

“I have come to take you to the Ashbourne family crypt.”

On a fixed day each month, Elara had accompanied him to pay homage.

His mother had despised her in life, even declaring, “If Elara Voss ever passes the Ashbourne threshold, I shall know no peace in death.”

Lucien had defied his mother’s dying wish to be with her.

So Elara had gone, month after month, seeking an acceptance that would never come.

Now, everything had changed.

Elara met his gaze, her voice frighteningly calm.

“I will not accompany you again.”

“Your intended Consort is Celeste Voss.”

Lucien’s frown deepened, her words seeming to spark genuine irritation.

“Elara, must you be so petty? Must you compete with Celeste for everything, even this?”

“Is my mother’s posthumous approval so vital to you?”

Petty.

Elara nearly laughed aloud.

She opened her mouth to retort, but a sudden, coppery taste flooded her throat.

Instinctively, she pressed a handkerchief to her lips.

When she pulled it away, stark against the white linen was a vivid splash of crimson.

Blood.