They chained her because fear was easier than understanding.
Iron bands circled her wrists, cold against her skin, carved with spells meant to weaken things that should never have been born. The chamber lay deep beneath the mountain, its stone walls damp and ancient, etched with runes worn down by centuries of use.
Moonlight filtered through the open ceiling above, washing the floor in red.
She raised her head slowly. Her body ached, but her breathing remained steady. It always had. Pain was an old companion.
"You're too late," she said.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
The council stood before her—kings, high priests, vampires, mages wrapped in heavy robes. Men who commanded armies. Men who had entered the world before her. Now, they shifted uneasily, avoiding her gaze.
"The seal will hold," one of them said.
He did not sound convinced.
A pressure bloomed in her chest, sharp and sudden. The mark beneath her skin brightened, light bleeding through flesh like a fracture spreading through stone. The air thickened, heavy with magic that carried the scent of blood and rain.
Someone whispered a prayer.
The chains began to heat. Hairline cracks raced along the iron, the runes carved into the floor flickering as they struggled to maintain their hold.
"Run," she said softly.
No one listened.
The seal broke.
Power erupted from her in a violent surge, tearing through the chamber. Wards collapsed. Stone screamed as the mountain trembled, unable to contain what had been buried within it.
When the light finally faded, silence followed.
The council was gone.
The chains lay twisted at her feet, useless metal scorched black. Dust settled slowly, the air still humming with lingering magic.
She stood alone beneath the open sky, the red moon hanging overhead as her heart steadied—not with fear, but with clarity.
They had been wrong.
The curse had never lived inside her.
She was the curse.