Eryshae

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Vael

The Drowned Heron Inn

The stables loomed through the fog, half-swallowed by shadow, their old beams slouched under the weight of time and rain. The wind carried the sharp scent of damp straw and manure, tinged with the iron trace of horses left too long without care. Vael didn't hesitate.

Her boots splashed through the mud, skirts catching the dew-soaked brambles as she reached the wooden doors. One hung half-open, swaying gently on a rusted hinge. "Micah?" she called, voice low but clear.

A figure moved near the far stall. The stable boy turned. Small, wiry, no older than twelve, eyes too wide, too knowing. He had hay tangled in his dark curls and a scratch across his cheek that looked recent. A pitchfork leaned against the wall beside him, abandoned. "Lady Vael?" he asked, voice uncertain. Relief flickered through her chest. He was safe.

She crossed to him quickly, placing both hands on his shoulders and stooping to meet his eyes. "Listen to me. You need to stay out here, do you understand? Do not go into the house. Not the halls. Not the kitchen." His brows furrowed. "Is it my mum? I, I saw people running, " Vael's jaw tightened. "Don't ask. Not yet. Just stay here. With the horses. Hide if you must."

"But, "She pulled him into a sudden embrace, brief but firm. "I'll come back for you. I swear it." Micah stood frozen as she pulled away, confusion written in every line of his face, but he nodded. Brave, because he didn't know what else to be.

Vael turned back toward the house. And somewhere, faintly, beneath the rush of wind and the groan of the stables, she thought she heard something else.

Something was wrong. The moment Vael stepped out of the stables, the air shifted, too quiet, too still. Even the insects seemed to hold their breath. A chill swept her spine, brittle and sharp. She turned back toward the manor at a dead sprint, heart hammering. Micah was safe, tucked into the hay with his back to the stall wall, confused but comforted. She'd promised him she'd return. She had to.

The doors to the manor were ajar. She hit the threshold hard, boots echoing as she tore through the halls. Down the corridor, past the cellar door, open again. Her pulse surged. She burst into the kitchen, expecting more blood, more horror, Malrick crouched by the cook's body, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, fingers gloved and stained. He looked up as she entered, not startled. Expectant.

"She's dead," he said grimly. "Neck snapped. Fast. Brutal." Vael slowed, breath catching. "And the wrists?" He nodded toward the blood-streaked floor. "Post-mortem. Clean slice, too clean. Made to look like a suicide, maybe. But the heart was already stopped when the cuts were made. Blood didn't pump."

Vael stepped closer, her mouth dry. "Whoever did this was covering their tracks," Malrick went on. "There's bruising around the jaw. Look, here." He gently turned the cook's head. Finger-shaped shadows bloomed beneath the skin.

"She was held," he murmured. "And then, just like that, snapped. Efficient. Not rage. Precision." Vael's eyes narrowed. "So this wasn't spontaneous."

"No. This was planned." The world tilted slightly under her feet. Sam. She straightened, her breath a sharp intake through her teeth. "Where's Sam?" Malrick blinked. "I haven't seen him since you left for the stables."

No.

She didn't wait to hear more. She was already moving, out the kitchen, into the corridor, past the shattered cellar door. The sense of wrongness curled tighter around her with every step. The house was shifting. Something was hiding in the skin of the familiar. And Sam was in danger.

Vael tore up the staircase, her hands skimming the railing only to propel her faster, two steps at a time. The manor stretched around her like a living thing, too quiet, too clean. At the top of the stairs, light poured from a half-open door.

The Yellow Room.

She hesitated. Just for a breath. Then pushed the door wide. Sam was there. He sat in a high-backed chair near the window, head tilted slightly to one side, as if caught in the gentle drift between sleep and thought. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of rest. Sunlight spilled through the window, washing over him in honeyed gold.

Nothing was broken. Nothing was bleeding. Just Sam. Sleeping. Vael's heart pounded as she stepped into the room. Slowly. Carefully. Her eyes scanned the space, the pristine bed with its yellow-embroidered coverlet, the delicate curtains, the faint scent of beeswax and linen. The mirror on the vanity reflected nothing out of place.

Too perfect. Too still. "Sam?" she called softly. He didn't stir. A thread of dread tightened in her chest. Something was wrong. Not in what she saw, but in what she didn't.

She crossed the room and reached for his shoulder, The door creaked softly behind her. Vael turned. Mrs. Winthrop stood in the threshold, framed by the golden light that spilled in from the hallway. Her expression was mild, composed. Perhaps a little pale, but given the shock she'd endured… understandable.

"Hello, dear," the older woman said gently, folding her hands before her as she stepped into the room. "Your Samael Faeloc helped me to bed earlier. Such a kind young man. Stayed with me for a bit while I settled from the shock." Her voice was warm, even. Comforting.

"He must've nodded off not long after, poor thing," she added, glancing toward Sam with a small, doting smile. "I didn't have the heart to wake him. He's been through so much." Vael searched her eyes. The woman's manner was calm. Her step, measured. Her dress, immaculate. No sign of blood. No scent of rot. Just the smell of lavender soap and faintly singed chamomile.

Still… something in Vael's instincts twitched. She turned back to Sam. His breathing was shallow. Too shallow. "Hmm?" Mrs. Winthrop said behind her. "Is something the matter, dear?"

Vael stepped closer to Sam, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist. Warm. Too warm. His skin, though flush with color, lacked its usual tension, like he was caught somewhere too deep in sleep. His breath came and went, barely there, and his lashes didn't even flutter at her touch.

A nap, maybe. But Sam didn't nap like this. She looked up at Mrs. Winthrop, who now stood near the foot of the bed, her hands gently folded over one another like a patient matron watching over her charges.

But,

There.

A flicker.

Barely perceptible beneath the skin of her neck, just above the collarbone, something moved. A shimmer, quick and thin, like mercury racing beneath parchment. Veins… but not red. Not blue. Silver. Vael blinked, then looked again.

Gone.

Her pulse kicked. Just a trick of the light. That had to be it. The stress, the blood, the stench of old death still in her senses. She hadn't slept since… She shook her head. No. Focus. "I… thought I saw something," she said quietly, almost to herself.

Mrs. Winthrop tilted her head, the smile never leaving her face. "Oh, dear. You must be exhausted. Everything's quite alright now. Why don't you sit with him for a bit? I'll fetch some tea. The kind with the honey you liked." Vael didn't answer right away. Her hand lingered on Sam's arm, and beneath her palm, she felt something… pulse.

Not a heartbeat. Something else. Something wrong. Vael didn't move from Sam's side. Her fingers still rested on his arm, light but tense, as she looked up at the woman smiling pleasantly at the foot of the bed. "Tea sounds nice," Vael said slowly. "But… I thought you didn't take honey."

Mrs. Winthrop blinked. "Pardon?" Vael tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You said so earlier in the kitchen, remember? That honey always upset your stomach. Said you only took blackberry jam with your tea. I thought it was odd. Most people love honey." A pause. Just a beat too long.

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Then the woman laughed, a little too brightly. "Oh, dear me. Did I say that? Must've been confused. These old bones, you know how the mind slips…" Vael nodded slowly. Too slowly. "I remember exactly how you said it," she continued. "You were very firm. Said honey was for bees and fools, I believe." Her tone was gentle, almost playful, but her eyes stayed sharp.

Mrs. Winthrop's smile didn't falter. But something in it changed. Subtly. Hollow at the edges, like paint cracking under heat. "Did I?" she murmured. "Well. Perhaps I'm just getting sentimental in my old age."

Vael stood, her body a careful coil of poised motion. "Perhaps." The tension in the room shifted, thin as a wire, invisible and taut. Something was wrong. Vael felt it in the air, in Sam's stillness, in the wrongness that pulsed from the walls. And in the woman who wore Mrs. Winthrop's smile like a mask that no longer quite fit.

Vael's breath caught in her throat, a chill crawling down her spine like icy fingers. Her voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Toya! We need help!" There was a heartbeat of stillness. Then Mrs. Winthrop smiled. Only, it wasn't just a smile. It spread.

Too wide. Too slow. A stretch of lips that creaked at the corners, pulling back over teeth that looked just a little too long. The skin around her mouth strained unnaturally, like leather stretched over bone. "Oh, Toya," she cooed, voice syrup-thick and amused. "Such a bony little thing. I always wondered how much of her was bark… and how much was bite."

Vael stepped in front of Sam instinctively, hand drifting toward her belt. Her eyes didn't leave the woman at the door, this thing wearing Mrs. Winthrop's face. "That's not her voice," Vael said, quiet. Steady. "And that's not her smile." The smile grew even wider. Too wide. A fissure of shadow split at the edge of Mrs. Winthrop's cheek, as if her face could no longer contain what simmered beneath.

"Isn't it?" she whispered, taking a single, elegant step forward. "I wear it so well." Mrs. Winthrop tilted her head, as if studying Vael in a new light. Her eyes gleamed, not with warmth, but with hunger.

"I believe," she said, voice as smooth as oil, "that I'll wear your face even better than this old, brittle thing. You will be… mine" Her fingers rose, trailing along her own cheekbone like she was already peeling it off. The skin around her eyes shimmered faintly with the pulse of those not-quite-imaginary silver veins.

"Those long, luscious locks of emerald..." Her voice dipped into something reverent, almost lustful. "So rare. So regal." She took another step forward. "I think they'll look divine hanging next to Toya's crimson ones."

Vael didn't flinch. Not yet. But her stomach turned. That smile didn't belong to anything human. And she knew now, they weren't alone. Not anymore.

Vael shifted her stance. Her hand moved instinctively to the hilt at her side, quiet, fluid, practiced. Steel whispered free of its sheath, the rune-etched blade catching the faint yellow light of the room as if it too had been waiting for this moment.

Mrs. Winthrop's smile widened, no longer warm, no longer human. With a subtle twitch of her fingers, her nails extended. Not like claws, not quite, but sharpened, silvered points gleaming with an unnatural sheen. They shimmered in the air like forged moonlight, curved and deadly. "Now, now," the thing wearing Winthrop said, her voice soft with amusement. "Let's not be dramatic, dearie. You can't possibly think you'll stop me."

Vael didn't answer. She didn't blink. She moved. A pivot of her feet, sword up, guarding Sam's unconscious form with her body. The breath in her lungs went quiet and low. "You won't touch him," she said, voice low. "And you won't wear my face."

The thing laughed. But it was no longer Winthrop's laugh. It was older. Hungrier. The thing lunged. It moved with inhuman speed, silver-veined limbs jerking in motions too sharp, too sudden, like a marionette whose strings had been yanked by a cruel god. Her claws lashed out, blurring in the air, aiming for Vael's throat.

Steel met silver.

Vael's blade caught the strike in a shower of sparks, the force jarring her wrist. She stepped into the blow, twisted, and drove her elbow into Winthrop's side. The body staggered but didn't fall, only laughed. "You move well," it hissed. "Better than the last one. She just screamed."

Vael didn't answer. She pressed the attack. The sword danced in her hands, arcing, slashing, forcing the creature back from the bed. Each strike was precise, controlled. She aimed not just to injure, but to herd, to draw the thing away from Sam's still form. Winthrop's puppet-body snarled and leapt for her again.

They collided, steel flashing, claws raking. One cut grazed Vael's shoulder, slicing clean through her sleeve and drawing blood. But her counterstrike was faster: she spun low and swept the creature's legs from under her. The body hit the floor hard, cracking tile.

For a moment, it twitched, like a puppet dropped from its strings. Then its limbs spasmed and twisted, cracking unnaturally as it crawled backward on hands and knees, neck craned at an impossible angle, grinning up at her. The silver shimmered brighter beneath its skin.

"Such a lovely emerald mane," it whispered, licking cracked lips. "Do you think it will curl when I take your scalp off?" Vael gritted her teeth and surged forward, blade raised. "I'd like to see you try."

Vael stepped in for the killing blow. But her knees buckled. It was sudden, like a cord had been cut. Her limbs trembled, her sword felt heavier, her balance skewed. She staggered, catching herself on the corner of the dresser with a clatter of broken porcelain.

Her vision blurred for a heartbeat. The wound on her shoulder burned. She glanced down, and her breath caught. The blood seeping from the shallow slash shimmered faintly… silver. Not her color. Not her blood. Something shimmered within it like living mercury, threading through her veins.

A curse. A poison. "No," she muttered, forcing herself upright. But the creature was already on its feet, head tilted, smile growing wider by the second. "Ah. There it is," it cooed. "My little kiss. You felt it, didn't you? It doesn't take much. Just a scratch. Just a taste." Vael's heart pounded, her breath ragged. Her blade wavered, but she kept it raised, her stance shifting defensively in front of Sam.

"I'll still gut you," she hissed. The thing stepped closer, silver claws gleaming. "Perhaps," it whispered. "But how long can you dance with your blood trying to kill you?" And then it lunged again.

The creature lunged, silver claws slashing. Vael met it mid-swing, steel ringing out as her blade parried the first strike. She pivoted, dodged the second, but her movements were slower now, strained. The silver burning through her blood dragged at her limbs like lead. Her vision narrowed, every heartbeat thudding too loud, too fast.

Then came the third strike. Claws caught the hilt of her sword, not with force, but with precision. A twist, unnatural in its grace, and Vael's grip faltered. Her blade spun from her fingers, clattering across the floor. She barely had time to register the loss before the creature struck again.

A single, brutal backhand. The impact lifted her off her feet. She slammed into the wall opposite Sam with a sickening crack, air exploding from her lungs. Plaster rained down around her as she crumpled to the floor, dazed, blood from her shoulder painting a red smear on the yellow wallpaper.

The thing turned slowly, claws flexing, eyes gleaming silver as it approached. Behind it, Sam remained slumped in the chair.

Unmoving.

Unknowing.

The creature stalked forward with slow, deliberate steps. Its claws gleamed with that same merciless silver light, now slick with Vael's blood. Vael coughed, her limbs sluggish, her vision swimming in and out of focus. She tried to move, to crawl, to reach for her blade, but her body no longer obeyed. Everything ached. Her shoulder throbbed in time with her pulse. Hot blood trickled down her arm.

The creature loomed over her, shadow swallowing its face. "Such a waste," it whispered, voice no longer bothering to mimic Mrs. Winthrop's. It was deeper now. Hungrier. "But your face… your face will wear beautifully." It raised its claws. Vael turned her head, just slightly, toward Sam. He still sat slumped in the chair, unmoving, his face soft in the amber light, as if only dreaming.

And then, light. The flower behind her ear, the one Sam had tucked there in the cellar, pulsed once like a heartbeat… and flared. A searing beam of golden light erupted from it, hot, focused, blinding. It struck the creature full in the chest, piercing straight through.

The thing screamed, not in pain, but in fury, high and inhuman, its voice crackling like dry branches snapping. Its body convulsed as light tore through it, smoke curling from the wound, sizzling as if something deep inside it rejected the touch of sunlight. Some of the beam arced outward, stray rays splashing across Sam's body. Where it touched him, the vines curled tighter across his chest.

The amber glow beneath his ribs flared once, then again, brighter. Vael gasped, watching as the creature staggered backward. It looked down at the gaping wound now burning in its chest, smoke rising from the hole, the light still glowing faintly there. It snarled. And Sam began to stir.

The creature shrieked, the light still burning through its chest, smoke billowing in great, angry waves. But it wasn't finished. Not yet. It lunged for Vael, claws flashing, mouth splitting into a too-wide grin filled with teeth that hadn't belonged to Mrs. Winthrop at all. Vael's body screamed in protest, but she reached, groping blindly across the floor, through blood and broken glass and scattered debris. Her fingers closed around something cool and metal. The ornate hand mirror. She swung it upward with everything she had left.

Crack.

The mirror shattered against the creature's cheek, spiderwebbing across its surface, shards of silver and glass slicing into its skin. The creature reeled, more in surprise than pain, shrieking in rage as it staggered back a step.

That's when Sam roared.

It wasn't a human sound.

It wasn't even animal.

It was ancient. Elemental. A voice that belonged to the marrow of the earth itself.

His head snapped upward as if pulled by some unseen thread, the amber in his chest now blazing like the heart of the sun. Vines exploded from his shoulders and spine, his skin turning hard, bark and moss and curling green armor overtaking flesh in the span of a heartbeat.

He moved faster than breath, bounding forward with impossible force. The creature turned, too slow. Sam's fist punched straight through its chest. A gurgling cry tore from its throat as his hand buried deep inside. His other arm rose like a hammer and ripped.

The creature tore in two, silver veins snapping like stretched wires, spraying mercury-like blood that steamed and hissed on contact with the light still radiating from the flower. Its scream died halfway into a wet, shuddering gasp as both halves crumpled to the floor, twitching once, then going still.

The mirror rolled across the floor, cracked but whole. Vael lay panting, her eyes wide. Sam turned to her, breathing hard, the glow of the amber heart dimming slightly but still pulsing, alive, aware.

He reached for her as she fell unconscious.

"Mine."