Chapter 6

The footsteps and voices faded into the distance.

The room held only the mournful whistle of wind through the window cracks—a sound like mockery.

When Maeve rushed in, she found Elara ghost-pale, her bedclothes soaked, the shattered remains of the bowl beside her.

The maid froze.

“My lady… what has happened?”

“Where is he? Where is Lucien?”

Elara’s gaze was vacant, as if she were already elsewhere.

“It is nothing,” she whispered, the sound barely audible. “I am unharmed.”

Maeve took in her lifeless stillness and understood. The one who had reduced her lady to this state was Lucien himself.

Biting her lip, hands trembling with a mix of fury and pity, Maeve began to change Elara’s soiled garments. “He was not always thus…”

“Once, a mere scratch from a silver-thorned rose made him order every last one in the gardens uprooted.”

“Now he swears an Oath to the young mistress… What does he take you for?”

No ripple of emotion crossed Elara’s pale features.

She spoke softly, as if recounting a tale about strangers. “Let it be.”

“I care no longer.”

When love existed, it could lift you to the candlelight.

When it vanished, it could grind you into the mud and still find you wanting.

Elara’s eyes drifted to the empty bowl.

The bitter scent of herbs lingered.

The draught had not healed her.

It had effortlessly severed the last, fraying thread between her and Lucien.

And with it, the final vestige of her affection for him.

In the nights that followed, Elara fell truly ill.

A fever like molten silver burned through her bones.

In her delirium, she felt a presence—a cool hand brushing her brow, words murmured too softly to decipher.

She grew weaker by the day. The medicines Maeve coaxed into her were soon expelled, until even the blood she coughed up felt cold.

Her parents did not come.

Yet the manor grew more vibrant with each passing hour—a hive of activity preparing for the Blood Oath Ceremony between Lucien and Celeste.

Black roses, ceremonial blood-chains, scrolls of vows, invitations to the old cathedral…

The entire Voss estate seemed ablaze with anticipation for a grand celebration.

Her tower felt like a forgotten sepulcher.

Maeve, wiping the blood from Elara’s lips, offered hollow comfort. “The Lady is merely occupied… with the young mistress’s ceremony.”

“Once it is done, they will come.”

Elara watched the ashen sky through her window, a faint, weary smile touching her lips. “With you here, I am not lonely.”

The words only made Maeve’s eyes redden anew.

The days bled into one another. The fits of coughing blood grew more frequent, her breaths shallower.

She knew she was reaching her limit.

Finally, it was the eve of the Crimson Eclipse. The moonlight itself seemed tainted with a rusty hue, cold and cruel.

The door to her chamber opened.

Lady Isolde Voss swept in, resplendent in an evening gown, her face etched with a rare, urgent ‘concern.’

“Elara, child, are you improved?”

Elara stared, stunned. The first flicker of maternal care in so long stirred the pathetic, unkillable hope within her.

“Mother… I am in pain.”

Lady Voss gathered her into an embrace, stroking her hair—a gesture so long absent it felt like a dream. “These last nights, with Celeste’s ceremony… I have been distracted. Do not blame your mother.”

Elara leaned into the fragile warmth, desperate to believe.

She began to nod—

Then her mother’s voice shifted, the purpose clear.

“Elara, your sister swears her Oath. As her elder, you should offer a token of your blessing.”

“Give her the Ashbourne Heir Ring.”

Elara went rigid.

That ring—Lucien had placed it on her finger himself. He said only his future Consort would wear it.

Her mother had not come for her.

She had come for Celeste’s ‘due.’

The wave of disappointment was a cold, drowning tide.

Elara pulled away from the embrace, her throat raw. “I will give it to you, Mother.”

“But first, answer me one question.”

Lady Voss blinked. “What question?”

Elara held her gaze, each word deliberate. “If I, too, were not to live past this Crimson Eclipse…”

“Would you show me the same care you show Celeste?”

Lady Voss stiffened. She did not answer.

She would not even offer a comforting lie.

The last breath of hope left Elara’s body.

“I see.”

With effort, she pushed herself up, retrieved a small wooden casket from her dressing table, and placed it in her mother’s hands.

Lady Voss took it and turned to leave.

At the door, she paused and looked back.

A foolish, fleeting hope sparked in Elara’s chest—

Only to be extinguished by her mother’s final, clear instruction:

“Tomorrow, you will still go to the old cathedral. Perform the three kneeling vigils for your sister’s blessing.”

“Given your… condition, you are excused from attending the ceremony itself. It would be… inauspicious.”

The door closed softly.

A single tear traced a cold path down Elara’s cheek.

In that moment, she finally accepted it.

Her parents did not love her.

The last of her lingering attachment, her futile yearning for their regard, dissipated like mist.

And in the newfound stillness, the familiar call from the Underworld whispered once more at the edges of her consciousness, clearer than ever before:

“The Black Gate opens at midnight. The true child returns.”