Chapter 11.
POV: Faye Nightbloom
I love Lucien, but I can't fight Seraphina or even Lilith if it comes to that. I'm just a demoness, not a deity, Faye thought, the weight of her inadequacy settling in her chest like a cold stone. I deal in spirits and secrets, not wars.
We arrived at Elara's grandmother's house—the very place the old woman had died. The air inside was stale, tasting of dust and long-forgotten memories. It was the perfect conduit for the dead.
Faye wasted no time. As a spirit consultant, this was her domain. She knelt on the creaking wooden floorboards, the rough grain digging into her knees. With a piece of chalk, she began to sketch a complex witchcraft sigil. The sound of the chalk scratching against the wood echoed too loudly in the silence. Once the drawing was complete, she placed candles at the cardinal points, the flames sputtering to life and casting long, dancing shadows against the peeling wallpaper.
Finally, Faye took the pair of earrings she had borrowed from Elara—heavy, tarnished silver drops—and placed them gently in the center of the sigil. They were the tether.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of melting wax and ozone.
"By candle glow and shadowed veil, I call the lost beyond the pale," Faye chanted, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands. "Speak to me from worlds unseen. Reveal the secrets that lie between. By my will, your voice be free, come forth, spirit, and answer me."
The temperature in the room plummeted instantly. A violent gust of wind slammed the window open, the glass rattling in its frame. The candlelight flickered wildly, threatening to die out, plunging them into darkness.
Then, the shadows coalesced.
A spirit materialized in the center of the circle. It was an old woman, translucent and shimmering with a pale blue light. Her hair was a wild halo of grey, and when she looked up, her eyes were terrifying—pure white voids with no pupils. The Great Witch.
"What do you want, my child?" the woman asked. Her voice didn't come from her throat; it vibrated from the walls themselves, a hollow, echoing sound.
Faye swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look away. "My friend here said she needed more power to fight for her love."
The spirit turned her sightless gaze toward Lilith. "But she is the Queen of Shadows. What more does she need?" The question hung in the air, haunting and accusatory.
Lilith stepped forward, her face set in grim determination. "I want more power to fight for my love for the Devil. The demons and angels are not meant to be together," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she quoted the ancient curse that bound them all.
Faye looked between them, feeling the tension stretch tight. "She wants more, Mother," Faye urged softly.
The spirit remained silent for a long moment, the air crackling with energy. "Okay. I will give you powers, but with great cost."
Lilith didn't hesitate. "I don't care. I want it for my love."
The woman stretched out a withered, ghostly hand. A blinding beam of white light shot from her fingertips, striking Lilith directly in the heart.
Lilith gasped, her back arching, and then she collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
Just as quickly as it had begun, the wind died. The window slammed shut. The spirit vanished into mist, leaving the room plunged into an oppressive silence.
"Lilith!"
Faye rushed to her friend's side, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dropped to her knees, her hands shaking as she pressed two fingers against Lilith's neck.
"Lilith, are you alright? Lilith, wake up," she pleaded. She held her breath until she felt it—a steady, rhythmic thump against her fingertips.
"Okay, she is still breathing," Faye whispered, slumping back in relief.
A moment later, Lilith's eyelids fluttered. She groaned, finally opening her eyes. They looked dazed, unfocused.
"What just happened? I don't feel different," Lilith asked, pushing herself up into a sitting position. She looked down at her hands as if expecting them to be changed.
"I don't know," Faye admitted, helping her steady herself. "But at least you are safe. Don't worry, we will find out what your new powers are."
Lilith looked at Faye, a sudden vulnerability in her expression. "Am I still the Queen of Shadows?" she asked, curiosity and fear warring in her eyes.
That is the question of the century,Faye Faye thought grimly.
"I don't know. Let's get home first," Faye said, pulling Lilith to her feet.
Together, they left the haunted building, stepping out into the night, leaving the smell of sulfur and secrets behind them.
POV: Prince Orion Vale.
We finally arrived in the Underworld, the air thick with sulfur and heat. Thanks to the help of our witch, Seren, we were disguised as demons, our true forms hidden beneath layers of glamour. We walked through the thick, twisted forest of the Underworld until the trees broke away to reveal a village. It was alive with chaos—demons were dancing with wild abandon, laughing, and drinking as if tomorrow would never come.
We got closer, trying to blend in, when a voice boomed out.
"Hey mate, welcome to Drakmora," a man said, stumbling forward while holding a frothing mug of beer.
I laughed nervously, the sound tight in my throat.
The man narrowed his eyes, leaning in uncomfortably close. "What happened to you, mate? You look nervous. Are you not a demon?"
Behind me, I felt my guards tense, their hands twitching toward the hilts of their swords, ready to release them. I shot them a warning look.
"Aye, mate, why would you think that? I'm just new here, that's all," Orion said, forcing a rougher edge to his voice. "I came from Noctyra City."
The man's suspicion melted into a grin. "Oh! This is the capital city of our Kingdom of the Underworld," the other man said, clapping Orion on the shoulder.
My guards relaxed, sliding their swords back into their sheaths with a soft click.
We followed the men into the bar. Inside, it was a sensory overload. The drink was surplus, flowing like water, and the smell of roasted chicken hung heavy in the smoky air. Girls danced on tables and in the center of the room, their chests bare and heaving as they twirled to the frantic music. They were twirling around me, closing in. I took one by the hands, and we danced in a very seductive way, moving to the rhythm of the drums.
Around us, men laughed, their long beards matted with ale, their crooked teeth flashing in the dim light.
"What is your name, pretty?" I asked the lady, pulling her close.
"Ophelia Lark, my lord," she replied, her voice breathless.
"What do you do? Do you always dance in this bar?" I asked again.
"No, my lord. I work at the Palace as a maid and a dancer," she replied, offering a coy smile.
"No wonder you dance so well," Orion said, his hand resting firmly on her waist.
"What's your name, my lord?" she asked, tilting her head.
I can't tell her my real name,Orion thought, panic spiking briefly.
"Kalith," I said.
"Wow, what a beautiful name, my lord," she replied. She shook her chest for him, the movement hypnotic and brazen.
I leaned in, captivated by her face. "Your eyes are beautiful. Your different color of eyes… that is mesmerizing," I said, tightening my hold on her waist.
I don't know what got into me, but a sudden, primal urge took over. I grabbed a chunk of her blonde hair and brought it to my nose. I smelled it deeply; in this place of rot and fire, she smelled like daisies and vanilla.
"OUCH! You are hurting me, sir!" she cried out, trying to pry my fingers loose.
I snapped back to reality, looking around. Thankfully, everyone was too busy dancing or drinking to even notice the altercation.
"I'm sorry. I think I should go," I said abruptly. I signaled my guards, and we left the bar, stepping back out into the cool, dark air.
Once we were clear of the crowd, I turned to my men, my voice low. "We are in the capital of the Underworld. We are close to the place. Be ready for anything," I said.
We moved quickly through the shadows until we reached a cottage belonging to one of our spies. It was small and unassuming, the perfect hiding spot.
Once inside, Laenith turned to me. "Do you want anything, my prince?" Laenith asked, bowing his head respectfully.
"No, I don't. I just want my sister back," I replied, staring into the dying embers of the fireplace.
I sank into a chair, lost in deep thought about my sister. How has she been coping? Has she eaten? Is she being treated well? The thoughts raced through my mind, a relentless loop of worry.
I didn't realize I had zoned out until Laenith tapped me again.
"What are you thinking of, my prince?"
I shook my head, rubbing my temples. "It's nothing, mate."
Exhaustion finally overtook us, and we slept off, the dangers of the capital waiting for us in the morning.
POV: Lucien Draegor
Why can't I stop thinking about her? Her scent haunted me—creamy vanilla mixed with the sharp sweetness of wild roses. It lingered in my mind even when she wasn't near. My mate was breathtaking, her emerald green eyes burning into my very soul. I can't wait for her to accept me.
I was lost in the fantasy when the heavy oak doors crashed open.
"My King!" Sable shouted, barging into my throne room.
I stood up slowly, smoothing the fabric of my coat, annoyed by the interruption.
"What is it, Sable? Why are you barging in like a panicked cricket?" I asked, descending the dais to tower over him.
Sable was bent over, breathing rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead. "Seraphina's brother has managed to enter our realm. He brought men with him."
My demeanor shifted instantly. "What? That is impossible. How did they break through the barriers?" Lucien demanded, raising a dark eyebrow in disbelief. The wards around the Underworld were ancient and absolute; no mortal—or immortal—should have breached them so easily.
"I do not know, sire, but they are here," Sable gasped.
"Secure the kingdom tightly. I want guards everywhere—on the walls, in the streets, at the gates," I ordered, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
"Okay, my king." Sable bowed his head low and scrambled out of the room to execute the command.
The room fell silent again, but the air was charged with tension. A cold smirk crossed my face.
Let me see how they can enter my palace now, he thought, a challenge forming in his mind.
I left the throne room, the stone corridor echoing with the heavy thud of my boots. I was walking toward my chambers when I paused. Seraphina's door was slightly ajar, spilling a sliver of dim light into the hallway.
I couldn't resist. I peered through the crack.
She was fast asleep, looking deceptively peaceful in this realm of darkness. What a beauty. Her silver hair spilled over the pillow like moonlight, strands of it falling softly across her face. My hand hovered over the doorknob, itching to push it open, to touch that hair, but I pulled my hand back.
I gently pulled the door closed until it clicked shut.
I turned and went to my own room to rest. I sank onto the bed, exhaling a heavy breath. It had been a long, exhausting day of trying to control myself—fighting the urge to claim her and the urge to destroy those who tried to take her away.
POV: Ophelia Lark.
Mother, I'm home!" I called out, my voice cheerful as I dropped my heavy bag by the door. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light cutting through the room. I waited for her usual warm response, the clinking of pots, or her humming a soft tune.
Silence answered me.
"Mother?" I said, a frown creasing my forehead. I walked through the heavy velvet curtains that separated the living area from the back room. "Mother?"
The sight that greeted me stopped my heart cold.
My mother was lying on the floor, her body crumpled like a discarded doll. Trays of herbs and dried flowers were scattered everywhere, the ceramic pots shattered, the dried leaves crunching under my boots as I rushed forward.
"Mother!" I shouted, the sound tearing from my throat.
My brother, hearing the panic in my voice, rushed in from the courtyard. His eyes went wide as they landed on her still form.
"Where were you?" I screamed at him, fear turning into instant, irrational anger. "Call the physician! Now!"
He didn't argue. He turned on his heel and ran out, the door slamming behind him.
I fell to my knees beside her. Her skin was cold, too cold. I managed to lift her—she felt terrifyingly light—and carried her to the narrow bed in the corner, smoothing her hair away from her face.
Minutes that felt like hours passed before the physician burst in, my brother close behind him. The old man wasted no time. He checked her pulse, his face grim, and then pressed a poultice of pungent herbs against a strange, searing burn mark on her neck.
Silence stretched in the room, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, the physician sat back, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked at me with pity in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry, Ophelia. She is not responding to the drugs. The cause of her death... she was attacked by an angel. The holy fire burned her from the inside out."
My world tilted on its axis.
"What do you mean she is not responding?" I snarled, lunging forward and grabbing the collar of his shirt. I shook him, desperate for him to take the words back. "Fix her!"
He didn't pull away, but his expression remained sorrowful. "She is dead, Ophelia."
The strength left my body. I released my grip on his shirt, my hands falling uselessly to my sides. The physician murmured a quiet apology and walked out, unable to bear the weight of the grief in the room.
My brother collapsed beside me, wrapping his arms around my shaking shoulders, trying to console me, though he was weeping just as hard.
"Why is this happening to us?" I wailed into his chest. "Our father left us for another woman, and now our only source of living is gone."
The pain was a physical blow, a jagged knife twisting in my gut. I knew, with a terrifying finality, that she was never coming back. The death of my mother shattered something fundamental inside me, and in the cracks of my broken heart, a deep, festering hatred for angels began to take root.
For two weeks, the house felt like a tomb. Ophelia could not eat. She could not drink. The pain consumed her whole, leaving no room for sustenance.
Mother, please come back. I will be a good girl from now on, Ophelia whispered into the darkness every night, her pillow soaked with tears. I'll do anything.
She couldn't even bring herself to go to the palace to work; the thought of dancing while her mother rotted in the ground was impossible.
Then came the morning the silence became absolute.
"My sister is not well! Please do something! Someone should help her!" My brother's frantic voice pierced through the fog in my mind. He had called the physician again because when I woke up, I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I was trapped in my own body.
The physician returned, checking my pulse with cool, professional fingers.
"She is physically fine," he told my brother, his voice distant. "She is going through critical numbness and a panic attack brought on by severe grief. Give her these herbs to calm her spirit, and she will be fine in a few days."
He left a packet on the table and walked out, leaving us alone in the quiet house once more.