Chapter 2: The Door That Shouldn’t Exist
The corridor beyond the throne room didn’t belong to this world.
Stone walls hummed with strange sigils.
Candle flames flickered without wind.
And the air smelled of burnt parchment and violets.
Lucien walked ahead, his steps silent despite the heavy boots.
Evelyne followed, heart thudding.
“What is this place?”
“The oldest part of the palace,” he replied. “Built before Aurelius had a name.”
She touched the wall—instantly, her head spun.
Flashes. Fire. Screams. A woman in white, eyes bleeding silver.
She jerked her hand back.
“You feel them,” Lucien said quietly. “The echoes.”
They reached a circular chamber.
At its center stood a massive mirror—cracked, rimmed in gold, with chains binding it to the floor.
It pulsed.
Like it was alive.
Evelyne stepped closer.
And saw herself.
Except her reflection was dressed in bridal red.
Eyes glowing like Lucien’s.
Mouth stained with blood.
She gasped.
“What is this?”
Lucien’s expression darkened.
“This is where the curse lives.”
The mirror began to whisper.
Low voices. Names. Secrets.
Lucien fell to one knee, clutching his chest.
Evelyne rushed to his side.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s waking… too early…”
“Who?!”
“The first bride.”
The mirror shuddered.
Chains snapped one by one.
And from the surface, a hand began to emerge.
Pale.
Laced with black veins.
Lucien growled—yes, growled—and pulled Evelyne behind him.
“You need to leave. Now.”
But the hand reached farther.
Then an arm.
A shoulder.
A face.
The woman who stepped out looked like Evelyne.
But older. Crueler.
And very, very dead.
“I see you’ve found a new toy, Lucien,” she whispered.
Lucien drew a dagger.
“I bound you. You should not be here.”
The ghost-bride laughed.
“You did not bind me. You married me.”
Evelyne watched in horror as magic clashed—flames and shadows colliding.
Lucien fought like a demon.
But the ghost was stronger.
“Run!” he shouted.
Evelyne turned and ran through the corridor, chased by whispers and cold wind.
She barely made it back to the throne room before the mirror exploded behind her.
She collapsed on the marble floor.
Alone.
Until Lucien stumbled out.
Bleeding.
Half-transformed.
Eyes glowing. Horns beginning to pierce the skin.
And he whispered, “We don’t have eleven nights. We have three.”