An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

It wasn't long before Istrabell saw the outline of a familiar manor. The journey here seemingly passing by as a blur, with no one baring witness to the mark in history that she had left. She would return to her life as a Lady of the House.

And life would return to normal....atleast that what she tried to tell herself, but deep down she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

Built to resemble ice and silver, the manor shimmered in the light of the waning nighg like something out of a fantasy world.

It held a solemnity that spoke of the ancient struggles of those who carried the weight of power with depth and sanctity.

It was neither taller nor grander than other buildings in the province—it lacked the flamboyant splendor of noble castles, or what one would simply expect from the rulers of a province.

This manor had been constructed with humility and subtlety, the kind only possessed by those whose foundations and confidence in their authority could not be shaken.

To the Silverflames, the need to display their strength flamboyantly was unnecessary.

They commanded respect through their deeds alone, and their power—though veiled in restraint—was not to be mocked or trifled with.

They did not rule with an iron fist, nor did they always walk among their people.

It was an innate arrogance—one the people of the province referred to as:

Humble pride.

Yet none could question how highly they stood in the eyes of those they ruled.

The people did not fear them, nor did they feel the urge to defy the laws that held their society in fragile order.

It was simply a necessary measure everyone had, as long as they lived in this province to toe the line between personal interests and personal safety.

The knowledge that House Silverflame would always fight for their protection was all the reassurance the people ever needed. That alone was enough for them to be willing to maintain whatever superficial balance was in place.

But Istrabell?

She had only one thought as she gazed at the quiet beauty of the manor she once called home—before it was all ripped away by the very people she called her own blood.

She wanted to see that house burn to the ground. For the betrayal to her hopes and dreams, to the world of happiness she had thought to build off their backs.

The resentment flames within her stirred at her agitation, licking at her skin, tasting her desire to destroy what once was her home.

They breathed in the hate blooming in her heart.

They poked and prodded at her thoughts.

They searched.

They searched for the sweetest kernel buried deep in her heart—hidden from even herself.

Sifting through years of memories and emotions like farmers winnowing wheat, the deeper they delved, the more ecstatic they became.

Because they could feel it.

Something precious. Something ripe.

They ignored memories that could grant power to any who dared uncover them—ignored even secrets that would tempt mortals.

And finally, they found it.

Buried at the bottom of her heart, in the wounds of her soul, in the cracks that ate her mind, in the dark recesses she never ventured:

It sang to them like honey to flies. A siren's call.

Black and inky. Sweet and sour. Foul and justified. Ripe yet raw.

A little bud that stank of aged ale—thick with pain and bitterness.

The flames could tell how fragile it was—immature, almost laughably so, for whatever had caused this resentment clearly hadn't merited such depth.

But they couldn't allow that.

This kernel was their one-way ticket into the soul of someone like her—a powerful vessel perfect for their needs.

If nurtured right, this could make them intrinsic to her being—so deeply entwined that she would never dare to sever them, even if she one day had no use for them.

A time that may not as well come, but things were never set in stone....

And with this seed… much could be done.

Like wolves among sheep, the flames surged and swelled, unnoticed by Istrabell. Lost in her own stupor, she failed to react in time when a sharp, ephemeral pain struck her heart.

All that escaped her lips was a soft moan—unheard by others but deeply felt.

She doubled over in silent agony, unsure of what had just happened.

She panicked, and fear overwhelmed her mind if not for the shortest of instances, she needed to find out hat had happened exactly, Was there something wrong with barrier? Had there been something she had missed in her mental scape?

But she would never get the chance to...

She hadn't expected a person to suddenly appear by her side.

"Are you alright, miss?" a cracked, aged voice asked as a wrinkled hand steadied .

She looked at the hand—veiny, skeletal, pale as moonstone.

It looked like something out of a nightmare.

And yet there was strength in those aged hands that should not be there. There was a depth to the voice also that reminded her of a particular figure.

Straightening up to orient herself, she realized the pain now felt dreamlike, almost unreal, it was gone, so suddenly.

Her mind screamed at her to check what had happened, but she could not.

She had seen those hands somewhere before and the strength behind them also reminded her of someone she was terrified of in the past. And while she had not made the connection instantly.

With how sharp she had become she could not leave it up to coincidence, she had to confirm for herself, and if it was right then she could not afford to be careless at any one moment.

The woman before her, if she was the kne she suspected then demanded her full attention. The situation with someone with as deep roots as her could not be taken lightly.

And unfortunately, Istrabell had missed her most opportune moment to understand what had just happened in her body.

Even if she tried to search again in the future, she would find nothing.

She would never realize the danger she was now in. If not down the line in the future to come.

But considering the vow she intended to fulfill… surely something like this wouldn't be a problem.

…Right?

It might even be an opportunity.

...right?

The flames had begun building a network of roots—feeding off the bud they had found in the depths of her heart, nurturing this kernel of resentment that should not have existed, at least not like this.

It was ever supposed to just be fleeting feeling or something intangible, never to be given form and yet, her act of taking in those flames had spiraled things way out of control.

But it was too late now.

Things had already evolved.

A symbiotic loop had begun between flame and bud.

What this meant in the long run... remained unclear.

Istrabell looked into the horrifyingly familiar milky-gray eyes staring at her with kindness. The woman's face, lined with age, held a vibrancy in her gaze that flared Istrabell's perception wide open.

She had never liked this woman. And among those she had expected to meet after she returned, this woman was the last on the long list of those that she would have rather died than meet again.

There had always been something off about her—too gentle, too sweet, too grandmotherly.

A kindness that felt like a trap.

And now, that suspicion had never been clearer.

Still, Istrabell offered a polite smile—not that the woman could see it. It was a reflex.

Knowing her face wasn't visible did little to ease the anxiety burning in her chest.

She could never have been happier to have her face obstructed from the world than today.

Yet she still found the energy to reply.

"I'm alright. Thank you, Vaesanere… for the gesture. I missed hearing your voice—still sweet and youthful as ever."

Vaesanere.

The most long-lived servant of Silverflame Manor.

Older than anyone could remember.

She had raised and buried many of Istrabell's great ancestors. Having been the head of all servants of th manor along the years, and yet there was none who could outlast her.

Though she looked like she had one foot in the grave, she had outlived nearly all of her former masters.

And the weight she carried in her hands, despite being a mere servant, was unsettling.

Even Istrabell's parents treated her like an elder—an ancestor.

And perhaps… in some twisted way, she was.

But for a servant to wield so much silent power?

Istrabell knew she had to be careful.

Especially now.

She chose to ignore the earlier pain—the potential rot in her mental scape, or the possibility that the flames had acted.

She couldn't afford distractions.

Not with Vaesanere here.

If there was anything that could be used against her, anything this woman could twist or exploit—that took precedence.

As for the rest…

She would look into it later.

The voice in her head told her she still had time.

And for now, that was enough.