I stumbled forward, my hand brushing against something solid—Kiaran's back. He stiffened, his muscles coiling under my touch like a spring ready to snap.
"Watch it," he growled, his voice clipped and sharp. There was tension there, but I couldn't tell if it was frustration, anger, or something else entirely.
"There's no light," I shot back, my tone rising just enough to cut through the suffocating silence. "What do you expect me to do?"
The headache started as a faint pressure at the base of my skull, a dull throb that pulsed with every beat of my heart. I winced, raising a hand to press against my temple. It wasn't unusual to feel lingering effects after being near a Phantom Requiem, but this was... worse.
The ache sharpened, spreading like wildfire, burrowing deeper with every passing second. My jaw clenched as I tried to will the pain away, but it was relentless, digging into me like claws.
And then, the images came.
They hit me out of nowhere—quick and jarring, fragments of a memory I knew wasn't mine. Kiaran's face was the first thing I saw—his expression raw with passion, his voice low and gravelly as he murmured her name.
Serendine.
I saw his hands on her, moving over her with a familiarity that made my stomach twist. Their bodies intertwined, every detail so vivid it was as if I were standing in the room with them, watching something I had no right to see.
The phantom sensations overwhelmed me, too real, too consuming. My grip on Kiaran's arm faltered as my knees wobbled. I gasped, the memory stealing the air from my lungs.
"Princess Mablevi." Kiaran's voice sliced through the haze, sharp and commanding. "What's wrong?"
I blinked hard, the images fading like a receding tide, but they left me disoriented, breathless. My head still pounded, the pain sharp behind my eyes. I forced myself to focus—on the rough fabric of his sleeve beneath my fingers, on the cold, damp air pressing against my skin, on the stench of rot clinging to everything around us.
"I..." My voice cracked. I tightened my grip on his arm, using it to keep myself grounded. "I'm fine. It's nothing."
Kiaran glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes narrowing. "If you're still feeling the effects of that Phantom Requiem, you need to get a handle on it. Whatever's in here—it's counting on us to lose focus."
I nodded, swallowing hard. His presence—solid, unyielding—was the only anchor I had in the suffocating void around us. It was enough to keep me steady. For now.
Then, just as the darkness felt endless, I saw it—a faint light flickering in the distance. It was weak, like a dying flame, its silvery glow casting long, wavering shadows that danced along the walls.
"Do you see that?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Kiaran nodded slowly, his movements deliberate as he guided us toward the light. With every step, the air grew colder, sharper, as though the glow itself was leeching the warmth from the room.
The stench of rot still clung to my nose, but now it was mingled with something metallic and bitter, something that made my stomach churn violently.
As we drew closer, the light revealed the outline of a doorway. The wood was warped and splintered, its frame sagging under the weight of the mansion's decay. Pale, silvery light spilled through the cracks, casting uneven patches across the floor.
Kiaran tensed under my hand, his shoulders rigid, his crimson eyes scanning the shadows like a predator. "Stay behind me," he murmured, his voice low but firm.
I didn't argue. My fingers loosened, but I stayed close, my eyes locked on the doorway. The light beyond felt unnatural—cold, unwelcoming—but it was the first sign of anything in this endless void that wasn't darkness.
Kiaran pushed the door open. The wood creaked loudly, the sound sharp and grating. I flinched, my heart pounding as light spilled into the room beyond.
And then I saw it.
At first glance, it was beautiful. Dresses in shades of cream and gold hung neatly from a rack, their silken fabric rippling faintly in the cold air. Bottles of perfume—some shattered into glittering shards—rested on a vanity beside powders and kohl sticks arranged with care. A painting leaned against the far wall, its gilded frame cracked but still lovely. Mirelle's likeness stared back at me, her eyes wide and innocent, her lips curved in a faint smile.
But it was all wrong.
Bloodstains marred the vanity's surface, smeared and dried. A torn sleeve lay crumpled in the corner, streaked with dirt and something darker. A harp leaned against the wall, its strings snapped and hanging loose like sinews torn from a corpse. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, sharp and sickening, beneath the cloying scent of perfume that lingered like a ghost.
I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened, my vision blurring at the edges as my stomach twisted violently. I stumbled back, choking down the bile that rose in my throat.
"Princess Mablevi!" Kiaran's voice cut through the fog, sharp and commanding. "Don't—"
I bolted. My boots skidded against the stone floor as I ran for the small door tucked into the corner of the room. The bathroom. I barely made it to the sink before I retched, my body heaving as I emptied the contents of my stomach into the chipped porcelain basin.
The stench of rot was worse here, clinging to my throat and nose like a living thing. Tears streamed down my face as I gagged again, gripping the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles ached.
Then, in the corner of my eye, I saw it—a faint glint of light beneath the cracked sink. A small, gilded box, its edges smeared with dirt and blood. My hands trembled as I reached for it, fingers brushing against the cool metal.
The box opened with a soft click, revealing a dagger nestled inside. Its blade gleamed faintly, the hilt adorned with intricate carvings of vines and flowers—Celestial Muse motifs. This was Mirelle's. I knew it.
My fingers closed around the dagger, and a faint warmth spread through my palm, steadying me.
"Princess" Kiaran's voice echoed from the other room, low and tense. "Get back here."
I stumbled back into the main room, clutching the dagger to my chest. Kiaran stood by the vanity, his back to me, his shoulders rigid. In his hand was a bundle of bloodied clothes—Mirelle's.
He turned, his crimson eyes blazing with fury. "This," he said, his voice trembling with barely contained rage, "is what I was talking about."
iaran stalked toward the harp leaning against the wall, his movements stiff and deliberate. His hands wrapped tightly around its frame, his knuckles white against the polished wood. Without warning, he smashed it against the floor with a feral roar.
The sound of splintering wood and snapping strings echoed through the room, sharp and jarring. I flinched, my breath hitching as the noise rang in my ears like a scream.
"You wanted to go to the slave caravan first," he snarled, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You thought Mirelle was safe because she was with a noble. But look around, Princess! Look at what they did to her!"
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My throat felt tight, my chest heavy with guilt. The sight of the harp's shattered remains on the floor only made it worse, the jagged strings curling like broken veins.
"Humans use us," Kiaran continued, his voice rising with each word, his fury spilling over like an overflowing dam. "To fulfill their greed. To entertain them. To pleasure them. To satisfy their sick, twisted desires. And you thought she was safe? With them?"
He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and sharp. "When I find that bastard, I'll make him scream. I'll tear him apart piece by piece and watch him beg for mercy."
His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, and my knees buckled beneath me. I stumbled forward, clutching the dagger and the front of his tunic as I buried my face against his back. My shoulders shook with silent sobs, the weight of his anger and my own guilt crashing down on me.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The room was silent except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath our feet. Then, slowly, Kiaran exhaled, his breath shuddering as if he were trying to steady himself.
"I didn't mean to lash out," he muttered, his voice low and strained. "I just... damn it."
I pulled away slightly, my hands trembling as I held up the dagger. "She left this," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "It's hers."
His crimson eyes flickered to the blade, and his expression softened, just barely. He took the dagger from me, his fingers brushing against mine, and turned it over in his hands. His gaze narrowed as he noticed something wedged beneath the blade—a folded piece of paper.
Kiaran pulled it free, unfolding it carefully. His eyes scanned the faint writing scrawled across the page, his frown deepening with every word he read.
"The Harvest Feast," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
My heart skipped a beat, the words sending a cold shiver down my spine. "What does it mean?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Kiaran didn't respond immediately. He tucked the dagger into his belt, his movements deliberate, and turned toward the doorway. The light in the room flickered, dimming until it vanished entirely, leaving us in darkness.
"Let's go," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "We're not done here."
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