Gloria's heart thundered as she bolted from the great hall, the red-and-gold Eldeholt gown snagging on her boots, its silk tearing like a scream. The melted chair—its arm a blackened puddle—seared her memory, her hands still buzzing with the Shadow's cold grip. Rebecca's vile words—"Has she even bled? Barren?"—and Edgar's devilish vow—"I'll train her"—propelled her down the corridor, past torchlit stone and Helga's icy glare. Her mother's voice, sharp as frost, had hissed, "Stay away from the dungeons," but the shadows had answered in the hall—"You're enough. Rise."—and Gloria, at fourteen, a noble disgrace, fled to the only place they couldn't touch her.
She hit the dungeon stairs, her patched dress's sapphire heavy in her sleeve, the rats—Victor, Nubs, Scratch, Laura—waiting below. Above, Edgar's laughter boomed, steady now, a noble's mask for the Filmore envoy—blue and purple, serpent on a boat, their fish and fees his obsession. "Helga!" he called, his tone polished but edged, a Count playing his part. "Fetch the girl—she's shamed us enough." The hall's chatter rose—Tristan's silence, Rebecca's brash scorn, Lady Filmore's cold plans—nobles all, their manners cloaking venom. Helga's boots clacked behind, her Air magic stirring dust, but Gloria was faster, diving for the crack in the bricked-up wall, a seam she'd widened since six.
She squeezed through, the stone scraping her shoulders, and stumbled into the tunnel's chill, its iron-tang air a balm after the hall's spiced tea and cinnamon cookies. The crack—sealed in Helga's youth, a secret from the prologue's screams—was her gate to the castle's veins, a maze of passages snaking beneath towers, halls, even the bath chamber. She ran, her boots slapping damp stone, until she reached her hideaway—a ledge worn smooth, a pine plank shelf with her mug, flint, and sapphire glinting faintly. She sank to the floor, gasping, the gown half-shredded, and her rats stirred. Victor, the alpha, limping but massive, padded to her side, his yellow eyes steady. Nubs pressed his nub tail against her shin, Scratch's claws tapped, Laura hid by the plank. "I'm not theirs," she whispered, her voice raw. "Not yet."
Helga's voice echoed down the stairs—cold, commanding. "Gloria! Out, now!" Gloria froze, Victor's growl low, but the steps stopped at the crack. Helga stood there, her blue skirts pristine, her Water magic pulling moisture from the air, a sheen of frost on the brick. "Fool girl," she muttered, her tone venomous but measured, a Countess too lofty to crawl. "Hide all you want—you'll be his, and you'll break." Gloria's chest burned—Helga's bath words, "worthless, no magic," cut deeper now, her mother's refusal to dirty herself a final slap. The shadows stirred, coiling at her feet, whispering: "Learn. Wait." She nodded, silent, and slipped deeper, the tunnel's maze her shield.
The passages twisted, narrow and old, their walls pulsing with the castle's weight. She knew them by heart—left to the kitchens, right to the armory, up to the hall's hidden seams. A crack in the great hall's base, a slit behind a tapestry, beckoned—she'd found it at ten, spying on Edgar's drunken rants. Now, she crouched there, the shadows cloaking her, and peered through. The pine table gleamed, goblets and cookie crumbs scattered, the Filmores' blue-purple cloaks sharp in the torchlight. Edgar sat tall, his Fire dimmed for manners, his Poison aura a faint green haze. Tristan, 6'2, sailor's build, hunched beside Rebecca, her Water swirling tea. Lady Filmore's pale eyes scanned the room, Byron pouring tea with silent grace. The envoy, gray and stern, nodded as Edgar spoke, his voice smooth, noble, a Count's charm masking his heart.
"Tristan, lad," Edgar said, leaning forward, his goblet steady now. "Being a Count's no small thing—lands, power, legacy. When I'm gone, you'll run it with my girl—five villages, one city, yours to hold." He paused, eyes glinting, gauging the boy's face. "But there's a catch—you produce an heir, two years after the wedding, or it's forfeit. The firstborn's an Eldeholt—my name lives on. After that, your brats can carry Filmore, but that first one's ours. When it's born, you're regents—ruling 'til the kid's the true Count." He grinned, sharp and calculating, his gaze flicking to Lady Filmore, then Rebecca. "Clear?"
Tristan swallowed, his green eyes darting, his hands flexing—sailor's hands, calloused from boats. "Yes, my lord," he said, low, his voice rough but firm. Rebecca snorted, her Water splashing tea over her cup. "An heir? With her? Good luck—she's half a ghost." Lady Filmore's hand twitched, her Water stilling the air, but her face stayed stone. "The terms are fair," she said, her tone cold. "Our gold—fish, fees—seals it." Byron poured more tea, his eyes flicking to the tapestry, as if he sensed Gloria's stare.
Gloria's nails dug into the stone, her breath shallow. An heir—her body, her blood, a pawn to keep Edgar's name alive. Four years until eighteen, then two to birth a Count, or lose it all. The shadows thickened, curling up her arms, their whispers sharper: "Learn. Wait." Her skin buzzed, the crack's edge warm under her fingers, violet light pulsing faintly—Helga's buried secret, the prologue's darkness. She wasn't barren, wasn't worthless—the shadows knew, had melted the chair, had chosen her. But Edgar's words—"mine to shape"—and his Poison grin loomed, a noose tightening.
The tunnel quivered, Victor's growl echoing from the hideaway. Helga's voice cut through, still at the crack. "She's gone deep—let her rot tonight." Edgar laughed from the hall, a noble's chuckle now. "She'll crawl back—where else's she got?" Gloria's rage flared, the shadows surging, black tendrils licking the crack's edge. "Ours," they hissed, "Bind your time." She pulled back, her heart slamming, and ran deeper, the maze swallowing her. The castle was hers—every tunnel, every seam—and the shadows were waking. She'd learn, she'd wait, and when the time came, she'd rise.