Chapter 1 — Prologue: The Betrayal and the Curse

Third Person

The parlor of the Dead Man’s House glowed with the flickering light of a dozen black candles. Their flames sputtered as if caught in some unseen draft, though the air hung unnaturally still. The scent of burnt herbs and wax mingled with something metallic—a faint tang of blood that clung to the back of the throat. Shadows stretched grotesquely across the walls, their jagged forms writhing to the rhythm of the incantation spilling from Vivienne Cross’s lips.

She knelt at the center of the room, encircled by an intricate arrangement of symbols drawn in chalk, ash, and crimson ink. Her pale hands, trembling but resolute, held a silver dagger poised above the open journal lying before her. The words she chanted—an ancient, guttural language—seemed to reverberate in the stillness, each syllable pressing against the room like the weight of a storm about to break.

Vivienne’s emerald eyes burned with a volatile mix of desperation and defiance, glimmering like shards of broken glass. Her long black hair, usually pinned neatly in place, cascaded over her shoulders in wild disarray, as though it too had been stirred by the ritual’s energy. Her gown—a deep green velvet that caught the candlelight like a jewel—was frayed at the hem, smeared with dirt from her rushed flight into the house earlier that evening.

This house, its walls steeped in her family’s secrets and blood, would be her sanctuary. Its foundation, its very bones, thrummed with the echoes of something ancient. She had felt it the first time she stepped inside as a child—a presence that called to her, whispered to her, claimed her. Tonight, she would bind herself to it, severing the ties that had fettered her to a family that sought to control and destroy her.

For years, they had despised her for what she was. A woman who dared to claim power, to seek knowledge forbidden to her by lineage, gender, and the suffocating expectations of society. At first, her family had dismissed her pursuits as harmless eccentricity—an indulgence that could be ignored. But when she uncovered the truths buried in the family archives, the whispers began. Conversations behind closed doors. Glances that lingered too long. Plans that she was never meant to learn of.

Her hands tightened on the dagger as she traced the sigil inked across the open page of the journal. The blade trembled, catching the flickering green light of the candles. She would not let them take this from her. Not now.

The first knock at the front door was soft. Almost polite.

Vivienne froze, the chant faltering on her lips. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, every muscle tensing as the sound shattered the fragile cocoon of ritual. She had bolted the doors. Secured the windows. And yet, she could feel them—her family—closing in like smoke through the cracks.

A second knock followed, louder this time, reverberating through the house like a tolling bell.

“Vivienne,” a man’s voice called. Smooth. Measured. Steely.

Nathaniel. Her cousin, the family’s heir, and the one who had always worn his loyalty like a mask.

“We only want to talk,” he said, the words laced with a practiced calm that made her stomach turn.

Vivienne’s grip tightened on the dagger. “Liar,” she whispered, her breath sharp and cold.

The door shuddered as the knocks turned into pounding. She could hear them now—multiple voices, low and urgent. Footsteps on the porch, hurried and purposeful.

Her time was running out.

Vivienne dropped to her knees, slicing her palm with the blade in one swift motion. Blood welled crimson and hot, dripping onto the journal’s page. The sigils seemed to writhe in response, their lines glowing faintly as the incantation surged back to her lips. Her voice rose above the pounding at the door, weaving power into the air around her.

The door splintered under the weight of a final blow.

Nathaniel burst into the house, flanked by her uncle Edward and her younger brother Frederick. Lanterns in hand, they cast harsh light through the yawning doorway, their shadows stretching grotesquely across the parlor walls.

“Vivienne!” Nathaniel barked, his voice cutting through the charged air like a blade. His pale blue eyes swept over the scene—the symbols, the blood, the unnatural energy thickening the room. His expression darkened, his mask slipping into something colder.

“What are you doing?”

“Protecting myself,” she spat, her voice sharp and venomous.

Edward sneered, his weathered face twisting with disdain. “You’ve gone too far, girl. This—this witchcraft will destroy us all. Do you think the town will forgive us when they find out what you’ve done?”

Vivienne’s laugh was bitter, jagged as broken glass. “The town? Do you think I care about their forgiveness? It’s your cowardice that will destroy us, Uncle. Not me.”

Frederick shifted uneasily, his lantern trembling in his grasp. “Sister, please,” he murmured, his tone pleading. “Stop this madness. There’s still time to make amends. We don’t have to—”

“Amends?” Vivienne cut him off, her voice rising. “For what? For daring to claim what you were too afraid to reach for? For being born into a family of hypocrites who fear what they cannot control?” Her gaze bore into him, fierce and unrelenting. “No, Frederick. You may have chained yourself to their lies, but I will not.”

Nathaniel stepped further into the room, his hand tightening on the lantern’s handle. “You leave us no choice,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of warmth.

At his gesture, Edward reached into his coat and withdrew a length of rope.

Vivienne’s stomach churned as the realization struck. They hadn’t come to reason with her. They had come to end her.

“No!”

Her scream tore through the parlor as she lunged toward the journal, her bloodied hand smearing across its pages. The symbols flared brighter, filling the room with an unnatural green light. The air grew heavy, charged with a force that seemed to vibrate through the walls. The candles twisted into jagged spirals, their flames hissing and spitting.

“This house will remember,” Vivienne hissed, her voice layered with something otherworldly. “It will remember your betrayal. And it will not forgive.”

Edward moved first, looping the rope around her wrists with practiced efficiency. She thrashed, her fury igniting the very air around her. The lanterns flickered wildly, plunging parts of the room into shadow.

Frederick hesitated, his voice cracking. “Nathaniel, we can’t do this! There has to be another way!”

Nathaniel ignored him. His face was a mask of determination, the weight of his family’s legacy etched into every line. He bent down, snatching the dagger from the floor, and raised it high above her.

“This ends now.”

The blade came down.

Vivienne’s scream was otherworldly—a sound that reverberated through the walls, the floor, the very foundation of the house. The circle of symbols erupted in a blinding flash of light, engulfing the room in chaos.

When the light faded, the three men stood motionless, their faces pale and drawn. The journal lay untouched on the floor, its pages eerily blank. The dagger, still clutched in Nathaniel’s trembling hand, dripped with fresh blood.

But Vivienne was gone.

A chill wind swept through the parlor, extinguishing the candles one by one. The shadows on the walls twisted and lingered unnaturally, forming shapes that resembled a woman’s silhouette.

Nathaniel dropped the dagger, his hands shaking. “We need to leave,” he muttered, his voice hollow.

Edward and Frederick didn’t argue. They fled the house, their footsteps echoing in the darkened halls.

Behind them, the parlor grew darker still, the oppressive energy settling into the walls like a living thing. The journal, ribbon, and mirror—each tainted by the ritual’s violent end—pulsed faintly, as though alive.

And in the silence that followed, a single whisper rose from the shadows:

“Remember.”