Carpathian Mountains, 1887
The wind screamed through the jagged cliffs like a beast denied its prey. Lora Moreau pressed her gloved hands to the windowpane of the carriage, watching the shadows deepen as they entered the forest. Ancient trees arched overhead, branches like skeletal arms blotting out the late afternoon sun. The driver said nothing as the horses climbed higher, the path narrowing into a road only the desperate—or the damned—would follow.
She pulled her cloak tighter. Her father's letter rested in her lap, creased from reading.
" Lora, you must go. Duke Virel has agreed to take your hand in exchange for our family's debts. He is a man of honor. Do not ask questions. Sign nothing until the priest arrives."
The Duke. A man she had never met, never heard of until last month, yet who now claimed her hand in marriage.
And she was to be his bride.
The carriage stopped. Lora leaned out—and gasped.
Before her, rising out of the cliffside, stood a castle carved from midnight itself. Dark spires reached toward the sky like broken fingers. The gates creaked open slowly as if sensing her presence. Torchlight flickered along the high stone walls, casting monstrous shadows.
A tall man in black awaited her beneath the archway.
She stepped down, spine straight, chin lifted—despite the thundering of her heart.
"Lady Lora Moreau," the man said, bowing low. "You are expected. Please follow me. His Lordship has prepared the west wing for you."
She followed him through the halls, noting the velvet drapes, candlelit corridors, and portraits whose painted eyes followed her. It felt like walking into a dream—no, a memory. But that was impossible.
Her escort stopped at a pair of tall doors and pushed them open.
The room was enormous—lit by a hundred candles. A wedding gown lay across the bed, ivory and laced with black embroidery. A silver mirror stood against the wall.
And on the far end… a painting.
Evelyn approached it slowly.
Her breath caught.
It was her.
Standing beside a dark-haired man with eyes like a winter night. Her hand rested on his chest. Her expression was radiant. His lips brushed her temple.
She stepped back. "What is this?" She was surprised.
The man behind her didn't answer. The door shut softly behind her, sealing her in.
LATER........
That night, Lora stood before the mirror in the gown, as the castle bell rang once… twice… thrice.
The ceremony was to be held in the great hall. She moved mechanically, driven by obligation, by duty, by fear.
The hall was filled with strangers—nobles in black, faces pale and ageless, silent as tombs. At the altar stood a man she'd never seen before—and yet, something inside her knew him.
His presence was magnetic. Dark hair. Sculpted face. Eyes like frost and fire.
She froze as he extended his hand.
"Do you not recognize your husband".He said in a language she did not understand.
The priest began the ceremony in Latin. Evelyn's head swam.
When it came time for vows, the man took her hands gently.
"I, Lord Dorian Virel," he said, eyes locked to hers, "take you once more, my bride—though you tore out my heart, though you ran, though you swore you'd never return. You are mine still."
A sharp pain bloomed behind Evelyn's eyes.
Flashes.
A kiss in a moonlit garden. A chalice of blood. A scream. Fire.
She gasped.
The priest turned to her. "And do you, Lora Moreau, take—"
"I…" Her voice trembled. "This isn't real."
Dorian's gaze darkened. "You chose this once. You will choose it again."
And then—
She pulled the dagger from beneath her skirts and drove it into his chest.
A scream tore through the room. Gasps. Chairs falling. But Dorian didn't flinch.
He looked down at the silver blade, buried to the hilt in his heart.
And smiled.
"You remember," he said.
Lora stumbled back, hand bloody, eyes wide.
Then everything went black.
---
Chapter 2: The Bride Who Died Twice
Darkness.
Soft. Smothering. Familiar.
Then—a rush of cold air, a scent of rosewater and old blood, and the steady drip… drip… drip of water on stone.
Evelyn opened her eyes.
She was lying in a bed, the canopy above her dark velvet stitched with moons and thorns. Her wrists were bare—no shackles, no blood. She sat up quickly, breath sharp in her throat.
Her gown had been changed. She wore a silk nightdress that clung too closely to her skin. Someone had undressed her.
A soft knock on the door startled her.
Before she could speak, it opened.
A woman entered—a servant, no older than thirty, dressed in gray. Her eyes were downcast.
"You're awake," the woman said gently. "His Lordship said you might be confused."
Evelyn stood, backing away. "Where am I? What happened at the altar?"
The servant's face twitched with something—pity? Fear?
"There was no altar, my lady. There was no ceremony. You fainted from exhaustion before the vows were made.
"That's a lie," Evelyn snapped. "I stabbed him. I remember—his blood…"
The woman blinked. "You've been asleep for two days. There was no blood. No wound. No dagger. Perhaps it was a dream."
"No. It was real." Evelyn's voice trembled now. "I felt it. I saw him smile. He said, 'You remember.'"
The servant paused. "Sometimes, when the past is too painful, the mind invents stories. His Lordship said this would happen. He said you might have visions again."
Again?
Evelyn stepped forward. "What do you mean again?"
The woman looked up now—eyes dark and heavy with sorrow. "I served you… once, a long time ago. Before your death."
"My what?"
The servant bowed. "Forgive me. I've said too much."
She turned and fled before Evelyn could stop her, the heavy door slamming behind her.
✨✨✨
Later that evening, Lora sat beside the cold fireplace, staring into its unlit hearth. A storm clawed at the windows, thunder growling like some ancient beast.
The mirror reflected her dim outline. Pale skin. Wild eyes. A beauty now haunted.
Someone knocked again.
This time, the door opened slowly—and Lord Dorian entered.
He wore no cloak tonight, only a deep burgundy waistcoat and dark trousers, elegant and effortless. His presence filled the room like gravity.
"I trust you're feeling better," he said.
Lora stood but said nothing.
He stepped closer. "You tried to kill me."
"You should be dead."
"Many have tried," he said with a smile. "None succeeded."
She clenched her fists. "You drugged me. You made me forget."
He tilted his head. "I did not erase your memories, Lora. You did. Or rather… someone convinced you to."
Her pulse quickened. "Why bring me back here now?"
"Because the past cannot be buried forever." He approached, stopping only a breath away. "Because I need you to remember who you were. What we were. What you did."
"I did nothing."
His smile faded.
"No. You chose to abandon your throne. You chose to erase your immortality. You chose to leave me."
Lora shook her head. "That isn't possible. None of this is possible."
Dorian leaned closer. His voice was velvet and poison.
"Do you remember our wedding night, lora? When you asked me to bind your soul to mine, so death would never touch you again?"
Her breath hitched.
He reached for her hand. She flinched, but he didn't force her. Instead, he raised her palm to his lips and brushed a kiss across it.
Her skin burned with the contact.
Then he turned her wrist slightly, revealing a faint scar—shaped like a crescent moon.
"I never removed the mark," he whispered. "Because I never gave up on you."
She tore her hand away.
"I'm not your wife. Not anymore."
He stepped back, unreadable now.
"Not yet," he said. "But you will be."
Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing gently behind him.
✨✨✨
Lara sank into the chair, her heart pounding.
What was real? What was dream? Why did she feel like her soul already knew this place, this man, this life of shadows?
She touched the faint scar on her wrist.
And for just a moment… she remembered fangs against her throat.
A crown of black thorns.
A baby's cry.
And flames.
---