An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Irina awoke with a stutter, her breathing heavy and labored, sweat pouring in rivulets down her body, soaking her sleeping garments with a sweet scent. The discomfort she felt made her shiver in disgust; she felt the need to undress all that she wore, but there were things on her mind that overrode her discomfort.

Her pink sunset ruby-toned skin glistened under the flickering light of the lamps—so beautiful it could drive men to madness. Her curves were on full display, and the discipline that had shaped her body over the years showed clearly in her form and every action she had made so far. Even in a moment of instinctive reaction, she moved with such fluid grace that one might believe she was performing a morbid tale of waking from a nightmare.

She was panicking. That much was clear by the way her body moved, and the eyes, underneath her lids, rotated as though they could catch something that would help out.

The world around her was dark and blurred. The wind that normally helped her perceive her surroundings was gone. She dared not open her eyes; even now the deep-rooted fear from the past had been forged so deep into her soul that, even against instinct, her eyes would always remain closed off to the world. One just had to wonder just how much control was needed for someone not born blind to fight against the basic instincts of survival.

The music that usually comforted her was absent; the notes that once hung gently in the air were now dead and silent. Perhaps this was the most fear she had ever felt. No, even this could not come close to that day...

Her body should have been in agony after the events of the previous day—where she had blacked out—but instead, it felt… still. There was no pain in her flesh, there was no fatigue in her bones, and there was no pounding of her brain in her skull; everything felt normal, as though the beatdown she had suffered at the hands of her sister was nothing more than a dream.

As her thoughts reached this point, her rapidly beating heart slowed, her erratic blood flowed smoothly, and then she heard the notes again. The rhythm of her blood began to sing, like a peaceful river—raging, with hidden undercurrents—deep, unfathomable. And in that beauty, she forgot her panic, realizing instead that she needed to truly listen.

She felt how her heart pounded against the cage that held it—no, not pounding, but beating—the sensation still echoing through her skin. There was something magical about the way this organ moved, accompanying the rhythm of her blood. She felt the way the air caressed her—every tingling note, every vibration, the subtle shift of weight in her bed, and the way her breath disturbed the silence. All of it formed a sort of sonar, helping her perceive the world beyond ordinary senses.

Now that reality had settled and she realized she was in no immediate danger, Irina slowly pushed herself up, resting against the headboard of her bed, seeking something grounding to hold onto amid the storm of thoughts in her mind.

The humiliation.The rage.The sorrow.The pain.The vengeance.The unwillingness.The hate.

All that should have been drowning her mind

But none of it was present. It was as though those emotions weren't truly hers to begin with.

As though they had been summoned—worn like masks—to present a facade to those who sought to take advantage of her.

If Irina were to say that the versions of herself the world had seen weren't real, she would be lying. They were real. But they were not the core of who she was.

For a long time, she had known that beneath the surface of all her feelings, her heart was hollow. A void—an inexplicable blankness. The emotions she expressed were like passing winds, temporary and fleeting, a reminder that she was alive. Otherwise, no one would be able to tell if she truly was a living being at all.

Even as she settled into the state, she seemed to realize that there was something intrinsic with the way she referred to the wind. She felt that there was something she was missing.

No one knew of her peculiar state—and she intended to keep it that way.

Her rhythm steadied. She returned to the version of herself she liked best. But just as comfort began to settle, something rippled in her vision.

A shadow.

She couldn't quite see it—but she knew what it was. And instead of panicking, her hand instinctively moved to clutch a ring that hung around her neck—a ring she had worn for as long as she could remember. A gift from their mother.

It was black, laced with almost imperceptible flakes of gold.

Her sisters had similar rings, though whether they chose to wear them or not was their decision. According to the Duchess, these rings were the crystallized remains of their fathers'—and were to be kept on at all times. A rule more ceremonial than enforced.

She had seen some of her sisters discard theirs—well, not like they could, but the subtle differences were all she needed to understand that she alone gave any respect to the memory of the man that had given her life. Irina had always kept hers.

Why?

Even she wasn't sure.

So how did this phantom shadow connect to the ring she clutched?

Well…

"Father..."The wind stirred, rattling the curtains as a soft breeze filled the room.

Irina had not spoken—not with her mouth. She had given the wind her intention, and it had spoken on her behalf. And yet, that voice carried such profound truth of nature, clarity, and wit that it was almost a miracle a mortal could do something so extraordinary—feats even those deep in the ancient paths of power often found impossible. Irina could not understand just how deep the waters of this world were, and if anyone worth noting ever paid attention to the way she could manipulate the wind as a mortal, there would be problems that may not only come from the outside world, but even the wolves in her own home would be most likely to tear her apart.

But Irina had never questioned it. It had always come so naturally.

Her emotions swelled as she gazed at the shadow, which remained silent. Nothing about its features could be recognized. To even call it a being felt too generous. It was a presence, shaped like a person to give it form, but clearly whoever had done so did not put much thought into it.

Now, she knew how she had returned to her bed. How her wounds had healed.

It was this shadow that brought her back.Certainly not anyone in the house. The servants, perhaps—but they were not even allowed to breathe the same air as those of the Duchess's bloodline.

Another one of the Duchess's strange rules.

Irina had expected to bleed on the cold floor until she awoke and dragged herself back—but it seemed Mother had shown mercy, rewarding her for surviving the ordeal.

A gift. A glimpse of the shadow of her dead father—if it could be called a gift.

But like any true shadow, it said nothing.

So she simply 'looked' at it once, studying the silhouette that gave no hint as to what her father might have looked like in life. But it was enough. Some say that these were echoes of the past of their fathers, given form, but she could not be bothered to look so deeply into those mysteries.

Not that she had ever truly cared for him in the first place. Just the feeling of knowing was enough.

And so, she 'looked' away, her 'gaze' now fixed on the silvery light of the great pillar filtering through the window, bathing the room in a soft, surreal glow. Her eyes remained closed, but she could hear the notes shifting and interacting with the light, playing a different note for everything they touched. It all felt so surreal that she wondered why anyone would rather look at the ugliness of the world than bear witness to this wonderful sight.

The night of Astrea.

She had a lot to think about. And though she had failed to awaken, she wasn't so blind as to ignore the unusual attention her mother had started to give her.

She knew there was nothing she could do about it… She would just have to accept it; at least she had the confidence to escape the long grasp that their mother had over them.

As she sat there, watching and feeling the way the notes played around the different nodes, in reality, and interacted with the different subtleties, she could not fight off the sudden urge she had to sing...