Chapter Four: Secrets in the Cellar
The candle in Elara's hand trembled as she descended the final step.
The cellar smelled of damp stone and iron—ancient, secret, wrong.
Lucien was still kneeling amid shards of glass. The red liquid that glistened across the floor wasn't wine.
"Lucien," she whispered.
He didn't look up. "You shouldn't be here."
"You're hurt—"
"Not in the way you think."
He rose slowly. In the wavering light, his face was all angles and shadows; his eyes, two bruised pieces of fire.
"What are you?"
Silence stretched, heavy enough to crush her breath. Then he spoke, barely audible.
"Something that forgot how to be human a long time ago."
Elara's fingers tightened around the candleholder. "That's not an answer."
Lucien stepped closer. The air between them thinned until she could feel the cold radiating from his skin.
"I was twenty-four when the hunger took me," he said. "It's been a hundred and sixty years since then. My family calls it a gift. I call it a curse."
Her pulse thudded in her throat. "You're saying you're—"
"A vampire."
The word hung there, stark and impossible.
She should have run. Instead, she whispered, "Then why save me? Why warn me?"
Something fragile flickered across his face. "Because you make me remember what it was to feel human. And that's the most dangerous thing of all."
The candle flame fluttered between them, throwing light over the family crest burned into his wrist. She reached out without thinking. When her fingers brushed the mark, his whole body went rigid.
He caught her hand gently but firmly, holding it away. "Don't," he said, voice rough. "I can't promise what I'd do if—"
He broke off, stepping back, jaw tight.
Elara swallowed the rush of fear and fascination. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
He turned toward the wall, pressing his palm to a panel of ancient carvings. The stone shifted, revealing a hidden alcove lined with relics—old journals, cracked glass vials, and a single silver dagger.
"These are the remains of what I was made into," he said. "My father keeps them as reminders. As warnings."
She stared at the dagger's reflection trembling in the candlelight. "Then why show me?"
"Because after tonight, you'll never be able to pretend you're safe here."
He took the candle from her and set it on a shelf, the flame lighting his features from below. For a heartbeat she saw not a monster, but a man—tired, lonely, bound by something older than life itself.
"Promise me, Elara," he said quietly. "Whatever you think you feel, keep your distance. If my father learns I've spoken to you about this…"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Elara nodded, her throat tight. "I won't tell anyone."
Lucien's expression softened—almost a smile, almost pain. "Good."
He opened the door and guided her up the steps.
At the threshold he paused. "Lock your door tonight."
Later
The rain began again, whispering against the windows.
When Elara returned to her room, she found the black rose still on the sill—but now its petals had deepened to a dark, impossible red.
She touched one gently. A drop of color stained her fingertip, warm as blood.
Somewhere in the house, a whisper drifted through the halls—Lucien's voice, low and distant:
"The veil is thinning."
Elara pressed her hand to her heart, knowing she had crossed a line she could never uncross.