"Will you promise me… that you'll live, and not drown in sorrow, my love?" she asked gently, her voice a tremble in the wind.
Her hand cradled his, warm against his trembling fingers.
But Elias only cried. He shook his head, clutching her hand as though it anchored his soul.
How could he say those words? When she was the very reason he wanted to keep living.
"If you leave me," he choked, his voice raw, "I shall exist no more. The only spark left in me will crumble."
"No, Elias. No," she whispered, a bitter smile curving her lips. "You must live. For me, you must live."
But he hadn't.
He abandoned his throne, forsook his kingdom, and wandered the earth searching for her lost soul.
She roamed across lifetimes—unaware, unreachable. And still, he searched.
Until now.
And when he finally found her… she had already given her heart to another.
So Elias did the only thing he knew.
He killed her lover.
In order to bring her sleeping soul back to him.
Now, he sat alone, clutching the letters she once wrote. His fingers trembled as he crumpled the pages against his chest.
"You wrote to me too," he whispered. "And I kept… every single one."
He exhaled deeply, and held them up.
One was a letter she had written to her dead lover—ink still fresh with grief. The other was fading with time… a fragile letter written to Elias, four hundred years ago.
It was the same handwriting.
The same looping curves.
The same rhythm that wove poetry from the depths of her soul.
In his letter, she had written: "To you, my darling Elias—the one who made me see the light in myself I never believed existed."
And to George: "I write, knowing you will never read them. But I pray your soul hears me… and frees mine from this grief. I miss you."
Elias's fingers curled tightly around the letter to George.
He nearly tossed it into the hearth, firelight flickering against the edge..but his hand paused mid-air.
She had written to her lover. And even if he wasn't the one, they were still her words.
So instead, he slowly lowered the letter.
With aching care, he placed it into a carved wooden bowl.
Then he stepped back, took the other letter—his—and tucked it into the second bowl. The one where he kept everything she had ever written to him.
Faded with time. Yet still alive with memory.
The fire crackled softly in the dim room.
Elias moved to the wooden armrest and sat down with a heavy sigh. He reached for the decanter and poured himself a cup of bloodwine. The deep red liquid caught the glow of the flames.
"I should keep my distance now… now that I've seen you're well," he murmured, taking a slow sip.
His gaze narrowed, fixed on the fire, "If there was a mistake in the ritual… will you not remember me at all?"
He downed the rest of the drink and slammed the cup onto the table with a sharp thud.
Then he closed his eyes.
The sound of the crackling hearth filled the silence.
But it only stirred old memories.....
A loud cry.
Flames rising.
The sharp, bitter scent of smoke in his throat.
"Master!"
The door burst open, and Elias's eyes snapped open.
Lucien strode toward him, eyes burning with urgency.
"We found her," he said, breathless. "Witch Elena. We found where she's been hiding all these years."
>.< >.< >.< >.< >.<
Catherine stepped into her room and placed the small clock on her bedside table.
Now that the lantern light bathed it fully, she could only marvel at its beauty once more.
"How could someone craft something so delicate…" she murmured, sitting on the edge of her bed. Her fingers brushed the surface gently.
Then her thoughts turned to the day's events.
Her brows furrowed.
"I have to put an end to this wedding. How can I possibly marry Lord Edward?"
She stood and began pacing across the room.
"Protection, he said," she scoffed under her breath, a bitter laugh escaping. "It's not protection—he wants to cage me."
She sighed, her steps slowing. Her gaze drifted back to the clock.
"What are Father and Lord Edward truly planning?"
Her fingers tapped her chin in thought.
"And Eric… he said the creature meant no harm. Was that really true?"
Her mind flashed to Elias—his eyes, his restraint.
The vampire hadn't hurt her, even when he'd had every reason to take her blood.
And that meant something.
"If I turn the hand of the clock to twelve… will it bring him to me?" Her fingers curled into a fist as she stepped forward.
Outside, the wind howled. The candle flickered violently.
But Catherine didn't stop.
Determination filled her steps—she would summon the one who held the answers.
Just as her hand reached for the clock, the flame blew out.
She froze, then turned slowly.
Darkness swallowed the room. The breeze hissed through the cracked window, making her shiver.
Only the moonlight remained—silver and soft—pouring in across her skin… and onto the mirror facing her bed.
Her reflection stared back at her. Ivory skin. Still. Watching.
She frowned and looked away.
Carefully, she moved through the dark, stumbling more than once as her feet knocked against the furniture. Still, she reached the table, found the match, and struck it with a sharp flick.
The flame sparked.
She reached for the lantern..but it blew out again.
"Stupid wind," she muttered, clutching the matchbox tighter.
She struck another match—only for it to flicker out like the last.
"All right then," she muttered.
Rising to her feet, she turned toward the window. Thank heavens for the moonlight—it spilled in just enough to guide her steps.
But just as her fingers brushed the curtain, a violent gust slapped her hand away and shoved her back into the room.
She stumbled, catching herself.
A low growl escaped her lips. She stepped forward again.
But then— The wind whipped harder, circling her like a storm given breath.
"What is this…?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Fear bled into her bones.
The door slammed open, crashing against the wall. The wardrobe flung wide—its doors opened and closed with sharp, jarring bangs.
Catherine shivered. She stood frozen, teeth clattering as the cold crept up her limbs.
The sounds grew louder. Closer. Her feet curled in place. Her breath hitched.
It wasn't just the sound now—
It was the way her hands clutched each other, rubbing fast in a desperate attempt to summon warmth.
It was the sharp, crawling sensation across her arms— like someone had poured ice water over her skin.
And yet… no one was there.
Only the wind.
Only the dark.
"What is this?" she whispered, turning slowly toward her reflection in the mirror.
Her breath caught.
"Why… why am I turning pale?"
Her ivory skin was draining of color—fading whiter with every passing second. And in her eyes, a flicker of gold flashed like light through glass.
"Heavens," she breathed.
The cold curled around her, creeping down her spine. Still, she forced her feet forward—toward the mirror.
But her skin only grew paler.
"What's happening to me?" she cried, her voice shaking as her eyes widened in terror.
Then—
The wind stopped.
Silence.
But the cold remained.
And then she saw it.
She blinked once. Twice.
Her hands were rubbing together for warmth—yet in the mirror… her reflection's hands were folded calmly across her chest.
Her blood ran cold.
And then—
Her reflection smiled.
"Hello, Catherine."
She gasped.
Her reflection… had just spoken to her.
Or was this some kind of cursed mirror?
She took a step back, heart pounding, lips parting in disbelief.
Then the reflection tilted its head—slowly, deliberately—and spoke again.
"Did you miss me? Because I did."
Her eyes widened, breath caught in her throat. That voice, It was unmistakable.
She whispered the name she was too afraid to say, "George…?"
The mirror gleamed with light. And then the reflection changed.
Right before her eyes, it shifted into a man.
Not just any man. The one whose face she had stared at only in pictures for weeks.
There he stood. As handsome as ever. That wide, familiar grin. That flawless face she'd memorized in dreams.
And those eyes—sharp hazel—still burning into her like they always had.
It's him.
It's George.
And he has come for her.