The Invitation
The castle breathed beneath her feet—an ancient place of stone and secrets, veined with blood and shadow.
For two restless nights, Lora had wandered its corridors, a captive in a gilded cage. Dorian haunted her dreams—his voice, his cold gaze, the taste of his name on her lips.
And now, an invitation had arrived.
A parchment folded in silk, sealed in crimson wax:
"You will Come. Tonight.
The Ceremony of Silk begins.
—Dorian".
A shiver licked down her spine. The servants refused to explain. Only a single sentence, whispered by the old housekeeper:
"It is the way of your kind, my lady."
Her kind.
But what was she?
She barely remembered her life before this castle. Faces blurred, names lost. The dagger she had hidden—now vanished. And her reflection in the high mirrors seemed paler, sharper with each passing day.
As dusk fell, the maids dressed her in layers of black and crimson silk, the fabric sliding cool against her skin. A silver chain graced her throat.
"No steel," one maid murmured. "Only silk may bind."
The phrase echoed in her mind, strange and unfinished.
When the great clock tolled nine, a knock sounded at her door.
He stood there.
Dorian.
Clad in black velvet and a crimson cloak. A blade at his hip, though his hands were bare. His eyes drank her in—hungry, possessive, unbearably cold.
"You came willingly," he murmured. "Good."
Lora's pulse quickened. She hated how her body reacted—warmth rising, breath shortening. Fear and longing tangled beneath her ribs.
He offered his arm.
"Shall we begin, my bride?"
Wordlessly, she placed her hand upon his sleeve. The moment their skin brushed, something sparked between them—magic, hunger, memory.
The corridors twisted. Down staircases lit by cold blue flame, into a forgotten wing of the castle. The air thickened with power—ancient, old as blood.
The Chamber
The great doors groaned open at Dorian's touch.
The chamber beyond was vast and circular—walls draped in black velvet, floor tiled in obsidian. No torches, no candles—only soft illumination from floating orbs of pale light that shimmered like trapped stars.
In the center of the room stood an ancient stone dais. Upon it: a single high-backed chair carved from bone-white wood, entwined with silk ribbons—crimson, black, and deep midnight blue.
Lora hesitated on the threshold. The air was thick with old magic—older than the castle, older than memory. It seemed to press against her skin, seeking a way inside.
Dorian leaned close, his lips brushing her ear.
"This is the place where blood and silk bind what fate once severed," he whispered. "Tonight, you will remember. Tonight, you will choose."
Choose?
She turned to question him—but servants in dark robes appeared, silent as wraiths. One carried a silver bowl steaming with scented oil. Another held coils of silk, their colors gleaming like molten night.
A third approached with a fine-bladed knife—slender, curved, ceremonial.
Lora heart stuttered. "What is this?"
Dorian took her hands in his, gaze unwavering.
"You do not yet remember all that was stolen from you. But soon you will. This ceremony will awaken your buried power, free the part of you bound by mortal grief."
"I—" Her voice caught. "I don't understand. Why me? Why now?"
Dorian's expression softened—strangely tender, touched with regret.
"Because without you, this House will fall.And because..." His voice deepened. "Because I will not lose you again."
The words sent a thrill through her chest—warm, aching, dangerous.
Before she could answer, the robed attendants drew her toward the dais. The silk chair waited.
"Sit, my bride," Dorian said. "Let the rite begin."
She sat.
The silk was cool beneath her, electric against bare skin. The attendants began to wind the ribbons around her—waist, wrists, ankles—tying her not tightly, but firmly. The silk seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, each loop sinking deeper.
The knife flicked out—one quick motion. A shallow cut across her palm.
Blood welled, bright and vivid.
Dorian took her wounded hand, cradling it in his. Without breaking her gaze, he lifted it to his lips and drank.
The first taste.
Lora gasped.
The silk reacted at once—tightening, glowing faintly. Memory surged in her veins: shadows, a cold bed, a child's laughter—then screams. A crown of thorns. Fire.
She trembled. "What—what is this?"
"You are awakening."
Dorian's voice was rough with hunger—but also reverence. He lowered her hand, pressed a kiss to her wrist.
"Let it come, my love. Let the silk speak."
More visions crashed through her—half-formed, fragmented. A wedding cloaked in midnight. Dorian's lips at her throat. The feel of steel beneath silk. A broken vow.
Then betrayal.
Tears pricked her eyes.
"I—no, I don't want to remember—"
Dorian's arms were suddenly around her, voice low and fierce.
"But you must. To be whole. To be mine—truly."
She struggled—but the silk held her fast, now warm with her own blood. And some part of her—dark, hidden—wanted this. Wanted to know. Wanted him.
His mouth brushed hers—soft, coaxing.
And when she did not pull away, he deepened the kiss.
Fire leapt through her—desire and terror intertwined. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, nails biting in.
When he finally drew back, his eyes burned.
"The next rite is of flesh, not silk," he whispered. "And only if you will it."
Lora gasped for breath.
"Why—why would I trust you?"
He smiled—a bitter edge there.
"Because the truth is worse than you dream, my love. And the one who truly betrayed you is not me."
Her heart thundered. "Who, then?"
Before Dorian could answer—the chamber doors slammed open.
Gabriel stood there—cloak torn, sword bared, eyes blazing with fury.
"Enough!" he shouted. "She is not yours to claim, Dorian!"
Evelyn's blood ran cold.
Dorian rose to face him—voice dark as storm clouds.
"You are too late, brother. The silk binds her—and she is remembering."
Gabriel lunges forward, blade aimed for Dorian's heart—while Lora, bound in silk, feels a final surge of memory rise within her.
a child's cry...
her daughter.
---
Blood and Blades
Gabriel moved like a shadow—his sword a flash of silver in the dim chamber.
Lora gasped as the blade arced toward Dorian's heart.
But Dorian caught it with bare hands—steel biting into his palms, crimson welling between his fingers. His eyes never left Lora.
"You bring steel into this chamber, brother?" he said, voice low with menace. "You would dishonor our rites?"
But why was Gabriel trying to stop the ceremony.
Gabriel snarled, wrenching the blade free.
"I will not watch you enslave her again!" he shouted. "Not with silk, nor with lies!"
Lora strained against her bindings.
"What is happening?" she cried. "Why do you fight over me?"
Neither answered. The air thrummed with magic, thick and suffocating.
Blood dripped from Dorian's wounded hands onto the stone floor. The silk around Lora pulsed brighter—feeding on the scent of blood, tightening its hold.
Memories surged again—visions half-buried: a garden at night, a stolen kiss. Dorian's hands on her body. And—another. A different face. Pale eyes, a crown of obsidian.
An enemy king.
Her breath caught.
"Stop!" she cried. "Tell me the truth—both of you!"
Dorian's gaze flicked toward her—sharp with regret.
"You are not ready."
Gabriel's voice broke.
"She deserves the truth! She was never meant to return to this life!"
Steel clashed. The brothers moved in a deadly dance—centuries of hatred in every strike. Lora could only watch, bound and helpless.
And then—a new figure appeared in the doorway.
A woman.
Tall, clad in violet silk, her silver hair braided in a warrior's knot. Her presence filled the room like frost.
"Enough."
Her voice rang through the chamber—cold, commanding.
Both men froze.
Lora heart pounded. Who was this?
The woman's gaze met hers—piercing, knowing.
"She stirs too soon," the woman said. "If you awaken her fully tonight, the Crimson Court will move against us. There will be war."
Dorian's jaw clenched.
"I will risk it."
The woman stepped forward—eyes narrowing.
"And will you risk her life, brother?"
Gabriel's blade lowered. He turned to Lora—anguish written on his face.
"You do not know what you are to them," he whispered. "What you have done to them."
"She can't remember brother"Selena said,then she turned to Lora." I know you can't remember me either".
Lora trembled. The silk bindings burned now—heat searing her skin. Another vision broke free: blood-drenched roses, a ruined throne. Her bretrayalAnd—a child. Her own child. A daughter.
Then pain surged into her.
Lora cried out loud. Until she couldn't.
No.
No.
No.
Dorian's expression darkened.
Their is a traitor within them.It didnt take him long before he realizes who.
Mata.
The witch.
With a pace so fast like a flash and a roar, he slashed the sorcerer's throat. Blood sprayed. The silk unraveled mid-air.
Panic erupted.
Everyone became scared.
The chamber shook—power surging out of control. The stone floor cracked beneath lora's feet.
Dorian caught her as the chair split apart—his arms crushing her to him.
"You will not die a second time," he swore.
And then—he kissed her.
Not gentle—hungry, fierce, desperate. The silk writhed around them, binding them together, deepening the kiss. Lora's body betrayed her—heat racing through her veins, desire igniting.
Her arms locked around his neck—silk falling away in shreds.
For one breathless moment—there was only them.
....