Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Caelan didn’t look back to see if she followed.

His black boots moved soundlessly over the obsidian stone as he approached the towering double doors at the end of the corridor—twelve feet high, forged of dark iron, veined with red glass. Without slowing, he lifted his hand and gave a lazy flick of his fingers.

The doors burst open with a resonant clang, both slabs swinging wide as if they weighed nothing.

Emily flinched at the sound, heart lurching. The sharp echo rattled through the stone hall and left her pulse racing.

“Varis,” he called, voice sharp and cold as steel, “Now.”

The command cracked through the air like a whip.

Footsteps scrambled beyond the threshold, fast and light. A small figure darted into the room—barely over five feet tall, pale as chalk, with a tangle of fine blonde hair pinned back in a fraying braid. Her dark green robes swished as she dropped into a half-bow, head bent low, never daring to meet Caelan’s eyes.

Black rune-threads shimmered slightly along the hems of her sleeves and collar.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, voice thin, breathless.

Caelan didn’t acknowledge her reverence. He turned his head—just slightly—and gave the barest nod toward Emily, who hadn't moved from her spot over by the dias, unsteady and gripping the three cuts along her forearm.

“Heal,” he said.

Varis glanced up, just briefly, her pale lashes flicking toward Emily.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she murmured, already moving.

She crossed the room in swift, quiet steps. As she reached for Emily’s arm, Emily flinched back, jaw tight.

Varis froze, her hands suspended midair. Without lifting her gaze, she turned slightly—head still bowed, posture deferential—as if silently asking Caelan what to do.

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t raise his voice.

“Give her your arm,” he said, voice like iron.

The command struck with quiet force, each word deliberate. Controlled.

Emily’s breath hitched.

No.

She tried to hold still, tried to keep her grip locked tight—but something inside her pulled. Not violently. Just... inevitable.

Whether it was her new Servant class or the bond between them, she didn’t know. But her body shifted, her muscles loosening despite the way her mind screamed no.

Her arm lifted.

Offered. Not by choice.

Caelan didn’t move from the doorway. He watched—silently as Varis stepped closer.

The healer raised one hand, hovering just above the bleeding cuts. Her fingers began to circle slowly in the air, and faint green light shimmered around her palm, threads of it trailing like smoke.

The moment the magic touched her skin, Emily hissed. A burn flared under the surface, sharp and stinging—then came the itch, maddening and deep.

She looked down, heart pounding.

The wounds on her forearm were knitting together before her eyes. Flesh closed, layer by layer, until nothing remained but a faint, reddened line.

She stared in stunned silence.

Across the room, Caelan lowered his gaze to his own forearm. For a moment, he simply looked at it—expression unreadable.

Emily followed his glance.

His arm…was healed too.

Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared through the doors, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

“Wait!” Emily called after him, twisting toward the threshold. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance back.

Varis still held her arm. The healer’s grip was light, but Emily could feel the tremble in her fingers. Slowly, Varis let go, as if releasing something fragile.

She hesitated, then finally lifted her head enough to risk a look.

Her eyes were a rich dark brown.

Emily forced a breath and tried to gather whatever scraps of normalcy she could find.

“…Varis, right?” she said, voice rough. “I’m Emily. Thank you—for the healing. Do you… do you know where we are?”

Varis blinked, as if startled to be addressed directly. Her gaze darted to the door Caelan had vanished through, then back to Emily.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I mean—yes, I’m Varis.”

She paused, swallowing hard. Her fingers twisted together at her waist.

“You’re in Viremoor,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “His domain.”

Emily exhaled slowly. Of course it’s his. The man carried power like a mantle, and apparently ownership too.

“I don’t know what that means,” she admitted. “Is that… a country? A city?”

Varis hesitated again. “It’s a region. A territory. But no one else rules here. Just him.” Her voice lowered reverently. “It’s been his since the Reckoning.”

Emily caught the capital letter in the way Varis said his. Like it was more than a title. Like it was sacred.

“And that’s… good?” Emily asked carefully.

Varis’s eyes flicked up again, then down. “It’s right,” she whispered. “He keeps the dark things at bay. He commands what no one else dares. We owe him everything.”

Emily stared at her. “You’re afraid of him.”

Varis didn’t respond.

The silence answered for her.

Emily rubbed her arm where the wounds had vanished, only the ghost of a sting remaining.

“Varis,” she said slowly, “where am I? I mean really. What is this place? Is this still…” Her voice thinned as the absurdity of the question caught up with her. “Is this still California?”

Varis looked at her blankly. “I don’t know what that is.”

Emily’s chest tightened. “San Francisco? The United States?”

The blankness didn’t change.

“…Earth?”

Varis shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost like a confession. “I’ve never heard those names.”

The floor seemed to tilt under Emily’s feet.

Not a hidden bunker. Not a cult in the mountains. Not even some remote war zone where English barely filtered through. This wasn’t just far from home.

This was nowhere near her world.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “So I’m… in another realm. Another planet? Another dimension?”

Varis hesitated. “You crossed through the Veil. However it happened… you don’t belong to this realm.”

Emily let out a breath that felt too sharp. “No. I really don’t.”

There was a pause, then Varis spoke more gently. “You’re not the first thing to come through. But you are… different.”

Emily’s head snapped up. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Varis admitted. “But he wouldn’t have kept you here if it weren’t important. If you weren’t important.”

Emily opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

She wasn’t sure what was more frightening: the fact that she’d been dragged to some other world… or the look in Varis’s eyes when she said he wouldn’t have kept her unless she mattered.

As if Caelan Morviel never made mistakes.

As if even his accidents were destined.

Before Emily could speak again, the double doors slammed open with a thundering crack.

Two men strode in, dressed not in robes but in sleek gray uniforms—high-collared jackets, belted at the waist, their sleeves fitted tight to the wrist. Not ceremonial. Military. Their boots struck the floor in perfect unison.

Varis flinched and immediately dropped her gaze to the ground.

The men didn’t spare her a glance. They moved straight for Emily, fast and wordless, like shadows with orders. Before she could react, each one gripped an arm—firm, impersonal—and began hauling her toward the door.

“Wait—wait, what’s going on?” she demanded, digging her heels against the smooth stone. “Where are you taking me? Hey—!”

She twisted in their grasp to look back.

Varis still stood near the dais, head bowed low—until, for a heartbeat, she lifted her face just enough to meet Emily’s eyes. Her expression was tight, pale, unreadable. But she gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Stop fighting.

Emily’s breath caught. Her heart was still pounding, but she forced herself to ease her struggle—just enough. Her steps were clumsy, half-dragged, but she didn’t resist the way she wanted to.

The last thing she saw before the doors closed again was Varis, hands clasped and head bowed once more.

As if nothing had happened.

As if it was out of her hands now.

They moved fast—up a narrow spiral staircase carved from the same black stone as the ritual chamber below. The walls closed in, silent and cold. Instead of torches, floating orbs of stark white light hovered at regular intervals, unnaturally bright. They cast no heat. No flame. Just sharp illumination—too clean, too clinical, like LED lights stripped of their wires and left to hang in midair.

As they passed beneath them, the black stone reflected the light in harsh angles, throwing strange, angular shadows that skittered like insects across the walls.

Emily’s eyes squinted against the brightness, her pupils slow to adjust. Every footstep echoed too loud, and the sterile glow only deepened the wrongness curling in her gut. This place didn’t feel ancient, even though the stone suggested it should. It felt precise. Engineered. Like someone had hollowed out a mountain and filled it with both magic and cold intent.

They turned down another corridor—long, ribbed with dark arches—and stopped at a smaller set of double doors.

One of the men flicked his wrist. The doors clicked and swung open without a touch.

They shoved her inside.

“Change,” one of them said curtly.

The doors slammed shut before she could ask what she was supposed to change into.

Emily stood frozen for a moment, blinking into the sudden quiet.

The room before her didn’t match the rest of the castle. Not at all.

Soft golden light poured in through a tall stained-glass window—this one not red like the others, but a mosaic of pale pinks, silvers, and warm creams that bathed the chamber in a kind, diffused glow. The black stone walls remained, but they were softened by pale drapes, pulled back with silver cords, and a plush cream-colored rug spread across the floor, muffling her footsteps.

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A canopy bed dominated the space—four tall, carved posts wrapped in gauzy silk, the mattress piled high with layered blankets and oversized pillows. It looked… absurdly soft. Like the kind of bed a fairy-tale princess might be tucked into after a long day of swooning and silk-gloved courtship.

Everything in the room felt too luxurious, too delicate—like someone had tried to carve out a bubble of warmth in the middle of a fortress built for war.

A vanity table stood near the window, scattered with ornate brushes and neatly folded towels. Beside it, on a low bench, lay a set of clothes.

Emily stepped closer—and immediately recoiled.

Not a tunic. Not leggings or boots.

A robe. Bright orange. Unmistakable.

The fabric looked fine, almost silk-like, but the color was garish—loud and impossible to ignore. Whoever wore this was meant to stand out.

Emily’s stomach turned. A prisoner’s uniform? A servant’s garb? Or something worse?

She walked a slow circle through the room, wary, her fingers grazing the bedpost, the edge of the vanity, the fabric she didn’t want to put on. Everything felt real. Tangible. But none of it made sense.

She stared at the robe for a long, silent moment.

“…Well. Fuck it,” she muttered.

Her voice was low, rough in the quiet—more tired than angry. But it steadied something in her chest.

“What else am I supposed to do?” she asked the empty room. “Sit here and wallow? Scream into the pillows? Cry like that’s going to open a portal home?”

She snorted under her breath. Bitter. Hollow.

“No. We keep our shit together. We move forward. That’s the deal.”

Her fingers reached out before her thoughts caught up. She grabbed the edge of the robe and lifted it carefully, letting the bright fabric unfold in her hands.

The color was even worse in full view.

Bright orange. Blinding. The kind of hue that turned heads in all the wrong ways—designed not for beauty or tradition, but to make sure no one could miss her if they tried. A walking flag.

Her eyes caught on the hem.

Black thread—thin, precise—curled into runes like Varis’s. Not identical, but close.The design was intricate, the symbols sharp and deliberate.

She pulled it over her head. The fabric was smooth, oddly soft. It settled around her shoulders with a surprising lightness, despite the weight she felt in her chest.

Once it was on, she turned slowly toward the tall mirror beside the vanity.

And froze.

She didn’t recognize herself.

The woman staring back wore a robe the color of fire warnings and safety cones—her hair tangled, her posture stiff, her eyes shadowed but steady. She looked like someone who had walked through hell and hadn’t yet decided if she’d make it out.

She looked marked.

Not just by color, or rune, or bond—but by everything that had happened in the last hour. Or day. Or however long it had been since she’d woken up in a room, with a glowing sigil burned into her hand and a stranger claiming her as his servant.

Emily squared her shoulders.

“Alright,” she said quietly to the girl in the mirror. “Game on.”

She sank into the vanity chair and slowly undid her braid, fingers working on autopilot.

The vanity had brushes laid out in neat rows—more care than she expected from someone like Caelan. She chose one with a dark wooden handle and started working gently through the waves, smoothing out the travel and the panic.

It felt grounding. Normal.

Ridiculous, considering she was brushing her hair in a strange fortress after being kidnapped by a soul-mage king.

But still—she looked a little more like herself when she was done.

She blinked. For once, it wasn’t a mess.

Her hair fell in long, beach-soft waves, black at the roots fading into rich, chocolate brown by the time it reached her waist. The warm lamplight made it glow faintly, like she'd stepped out of some summer dream instead of a nightmare.

She smiled faintly at her reflection. Not bad, considering the circumstances.

Then she stood and dusted her palms against the orange fabric. “Okay,” she said, glancing toward the door. “What do I do now?”

As if the walls had been listening, the door slammed open.

She jumped, heart lurching. The same two guards from earlier stormed in, their movements brisk and synchronized—like they’d been waiting just out of sight.

Were they watching? Listening? The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

They didn’t speak. Just grabbed her by each arm again, firm and impersonal, like she was cargo.

“Oh, come on,” she snapped, voice rising with her temper. “Jesus Christ—I can walk on my own, you know. Try just showing me where to go.”

That seemed to land. They hesitated.

One of them let go, moving a few steps ahead like a guide. The other loosened his grip but didn’t release her entirely.

She exhaled slowly, teeth clenched. Progress. Barely.

They marched her through the stone halls again, the silence thick, the air still smelling faintly of ash. Her steps echoed a little more confidently this time. Even if she was still in a nightmare, at least now she was standing in it on her own feet.

They led her down a series of corridors, each one colder and less distinct than the last. The stone walls all looked the same—gray and red veined, lit by those same bright lights.

After the third turn, she gave up trying to keep track of direction.

A damn maze. That’s what it felt like. A silent, echoing maze with no windows, no markers, and no end.

Finally, they stopped in front of a plain door. No runes, no carvings. Just solid dark wood and an iron handle.

She waited for them to do something. But they didn’t.

The door creaked inward on its own, slow and smooth like someone was waiting on the other side.

Then they moved.

The one who’d been leading her stepped to the side, planting himself to the left of the open doorway. Facing her. Watching.

The one behind her finally let go, shifting silently to the opposite side.

They flanked the door like statues, leaving her alone in the center.

Emily hesitated. The doorway yawned open in front of her, shadows curling inside.

Then—his voice.

Low. Commanding. Unmistakable.

“Come.”

A single word.

And her body moved.

Her feet stepped forward of their own accord, like the floor had tilted beneath her. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, trying to resist—but her legs didn’t listen. The bond didn’t care that she was wary, confused, or angry.

She stepped into the room.

She emerged near the back of the chamber from a small side door, tucked discreetly against the wall. The stone beneath her boots was cold, polished smooth. Ahead and slightly to the left, the massive expanse of the throne room opened like a cathedral built for war.

And it was… staggering.

Guards lined the room on both sides, standing with a stillness that felt practiced, almost reverent. The walls were high, arching like the inside of a fortress cathedral, but darker, colder. A single crimson rug stretched from the grand entrance doors—colossal and open at the far end—all the way to a raised dais ahead.

Atop the dais sat a throne.

Not a chair. A monument.

Three times her size, carved from silver metal that shimmered in the bright lights, it looked like it had been built to seat a god of death and judgment.

Seated high on the silver throne, Caelan faced the massive black doors at the far end of the hall. From her small entrance at the back corner of the room, behind the throne’s elevated platform, Emily could see only the back of his head—those soft, ink-dark curls, just unruly enough to look careless, just neat enough to look deliberate.

His voice rang out, smooth and cold. “To the front.”

The command slipped into her bones.

She walked, skirt whispering against her legs, tracing the edge of the raised dais along the left side. Guards stood like statues against the stone walls. The throne loomed ahead, flanked by stairs and crowned with Caelan’s silhouette—still and sharp, like he belonged there.

She stepped onto the red carpet that ran straight up the center of the room and came to a halt at the base of the throne.

To the right of the throne stood a man—massive, mid-thirties, arms crossed, jet black hair and a thick short beard. His robes were plain and gray but imposing, cut with military precision. He looked like someone who could break necks with or without magic.

Just behind him and slightly to the right, Varis knelt quietly on the ground. Her eyes looking forward, her hands folded in her lap like she was praying.

And in the center, on the throne, sat Caelan.

His gaze raked over her, from head to toe. It stalled at her hair—loose now, falling in black-to-brown waves to her waist. The white lights caught the strands and lit them like something half-sunlit, half-dreamed.

A flicker passed over his face.

Hunger. Not cruel, not leering. Just… raw.

Their eyes met.

For a breathless moment, he didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Then something shuttered behind his gaze.

He blinked—once, twice—too quickly.

His hand lifted and pointed sharply to a place on the floor just to the right and in front of the throne.

“Kneel.”

Her body moved.

She lowered herself to the spot he’d pointed at, knees brushing the red carpet. The fabric of the orange robes pooled awkwardly around her, too bright, too loud for the silence that followed.

But all she could think about was the way he’d looked at her.

Like he’d forgotten what he was doing for a second.

Like something about her had unraveled him.

It hadn’t been cruel, or possessive. Just startling. Raw. Human.

Emily didn’t move.

Not even when the dark folds of Caelan’s robes brushed the edge of her vision. Not even when the weight of his presence settled behind her like a storm waiting to break. Her spine stayed straight, her gaze fixed ahead—unmoving, unreadable, refusing to rise to the pull of him.

But she felt it.

Felt the chill of his attention, quiet and suffocating, like a hand pressed to the back of her neck. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared, she knew he—watched her, as if memorizing how she knelt. As if seeing something she couldn’t.

The silence drew longer.

Then—

“Next,” the big man behind him barked.

The word cracked like a whip in the chamber, pulling her violently back into her body.

Emily blinked. Her shoulders flinched, just barely. Her breath, which she hadn’t realized she was holding, left in a quiet rush. The moment snapped in two.

From across the room, two figures emerged through the open doors.

An older man and woman stepped into the hall, both cloaked in humble robes of brown and cream, the fabric worn thin from years of use. The man walked with a limp, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, and the woman held tightly to his hand as if holding him upright through sheer will alone. Together, they slowly approached the base of the stairs.

When they reached the bottom, they bowed.

Low. As low as their bodies could manage. The woman’s knees trembled. The man’s cane clicked softly against the stone as he steadied himself.

“Your Majesty,” the old man said, voice rough with age and something heavier. “We seek your help. Our farming town… the Blood Cult. They came back.”

Emily blinked. Farming town? Blood cult? Her eyes narrowed slightly. She couldn’t help but glance toward the throne.

Caelan hadn’t moved, but the weight of his gaze had shifted.

His voice came low, quiet. And different.

“Please continue.”

Emily frowned. Was he—was that… concern? Her thoughts scrambled to keep up.

The old man glanced up just slightly, as if to make sure he was heard. “They ransacked the homes again, but this time—this time they took a young couple. And their little girl.”

The woman beside him swallowed and gave a small nod, as though confirming the words for him.

The old man’s voice cracked. “Your Majesty… she’s only four years old. She doesn’t even have her class yet.”

Emily’s stomach turned.

Four years old? She tried to process it, tried to make sense of this world’s horrors, but something about the way he said it—class, like it meant more than just age—stuck out in her mind.

She risked a glance upward.

Caelan had leaned forward.

Not dramatically, but enough. One elbow resting on the arm of his throne, his fingers steepled near his mouth, as though holding himself back from moving more. His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, now looked…

Softer.

Focused.

Like he was actually listening.

Emily stared at him.

And he looks like he cares.

Something shifted in her chest. Not trust. Not yet.

But confusion, definitely. And maybe—just maybe—a thread of doubt in her assumptions.

Caelan didn’t speak right away.

Silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It held weight now. Expectation. Thought. His pale eyes stayed fixed on the old man below, unreadable but intent. Then, slowly, he straightened in his throne.

“How many?”

The question was quiet. But it carried. No one in the room failed to hear it.

The old man cleared his throat. “Six homes burned. Three taken. Eight cultists”

Emily’s chest tightened.

Caelan’s fingers flexed once where they rested on the arm of the throne. His voice, when it came, had a harder edge.

“Do they still wear the red wax?”

The woman nodded quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty. On their mouths. And over their eyes.”

Beside her, the old man shivered.

“They said the child was ‘pure.’ Said the soul takes better when it’s unshaped.” His mouth twisted. “Said the gods would be pleased.”

Emily felt her stomach drop.

Unshaped. Takes better. She didn’t know what any of it meant, but her gut told her it wasn’t just talk. Not here. Not in this world.

Caelan exhaled once through his nose.

Then he turned his head slightly—not toward Emily, but toward the tall man behind him.

“Markerum. How long to mobilize a squadron?”

The big man bowed his head. “A full unit in two hours. Faster if we send one ahead.”

“Send one ahead,” Caelan said. “They’re not to engage. Only to track. The full force leaves within the hour.”

“Yes, my king.”

Markerum gave a sharp nod and turned with quiet efficiency, the heavy fabric of his cloak whispering against the stone as he strode from the throne dais. His boots echoed through the vaulted hall, purposeful and unfaltering. A side door hissed open and shut in his wake.

He turned back to the couple at the base of the stairs.

“You did the right thing coming here,” he said, and it wasn’t a performance. His voice had dropped into something low and steady—measured but calm, like the stillness before rain.

“You will stay here for the night. Varis will see that you are fed and tended to.”

The woman gasped softly. The old man bowed again, almost folding in half.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

They didn’t move until he gestured once with his hand. Varis rose from behind the throne and stepped forward quickly, guiding the couple gently toward a side corridor.

As their footsteps faded, Emily was still staring straight ahead.

Silence settled again.

Only the hum of the floating lights remained, casting white-blue glints on the red-stained glass and dulling against the obsidian walls.

Emily stayed perfectly still.

The couple was gone. Markerum was gone. Varis hadn’t returned yet. That left only her… and Caelan.

She didn’t dare glance at him. She could feel him—too close, too quiet behind her. His presence didn’t weigh like before, didn’t smother. But it was there, thick in the air. Watching.

Then, finally—she heard the shift of fabric. The slow sound of him rising from the throne.

Her breath caught.

The soft shift of fabric, the hush of motion. He approached slowly, his presence looming larger with each quiet footfall. Emily didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air felt tighter with every step he took toward her.

Then he stopped.

Right in front of her.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked—hers defiant, his unreadable. He stood over her like something carved from shadow, all sharp edges and restrained heat. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just looked at her.

After a moment Caelan tilted his head, just slightly.

“This is a good look for you.”

Emily rolled her eyes, a dry, involuntary breath huffing out of her nose.

Caelan’s lips curved—barely—but the smirk was real this time. Uncontained.

Her mouth parted as she drew in a quick breath, sharper than she meant. His gaze dipped, just briefly, to her lips.

“Stand,” he said.

Emily rose swiftly.

The top of her head reached just below his nose—perfect height. Close, but not equal. She stared him straight in the eyes.

He stared back.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. His gaze was pale fire and unflinching. Then, without a word, he looked away and turned, his dark robes shifting like smoke around him as he took a few slow steps across the chamber floor.

“I’m leaving for a little while,” he said, voice low but firm. “You will stay here. You are not allowed to leave the castle for any reason. Do you understand?”

She didn’t want to say it.

She didn’t want to feel the pull in her chest, the pressure behind the words as they left her mouth—but it was there, subtle and impossible to ignore.

“Yes, sir.”

A flicker passed over his face.

Satisfaction. Deep and visceral.

It was gone just as quickly—his expression smoothing back to something cooler, more composed—but she’d seen it. Felt it.

And worse—she’d liked it.

Just for a second. Just the way his expression changed, the way her words hit him. Something in her chest reacted before her brain could stop it.

And that scared her more than anything else.

Quick footsteps echoed through the hall.

Emily tensed, instinctively turning toward the sound just as Markerum reappeared through the side door. His stride was brisk, and his eyes flicked to Caelan in silent report.

Caelan glanced at him once. A nod. Nothing more.

Then he turned back to Emily.

Behind Markerum, the two guards who had escorted her earlier entered as well. Waiting by the door, stiff and silent, eyes forward.

Caelan’s gaze returned to hers.

“My men will be with you,” he said, his voice back to its usual cool command. “And Varis will find you shortly.”

She gave a small nod, uncertain whether it was meant as a courtesy or a warning.

“You may explore the castle if you like,” he added. “But the room at the very top—and the one in the basement—are off limits.”

Emily’s brow lifted slightly at that. Of course the creepy castle had a forbidden basement. And a mysterious tower room. Of course it did.

She didn’t say anything, though. Just nodded again, a little slower this time.

Caelan studied her for a breath longer.

Then he turned, robes whispering behind him as he moved past Markerum and out through the far doors, leaving her alone in the center of the vast stone hall.

Alone… except for the guards.

And the weight of everything that had just happened.