Chapter Three: Ghosts of the Vale

The forests surrounding Blackthorn Vale whispered secrets older than bloodlines. A land long buried in myth and shadow, now awakened by footsteps that didn’t belong.

Aria Vale stood at the edge of the ravine, the wind tugging at the edges of her cloak. Mist curled around her boots like fingers trying to drag her back. But she didn’t move.

This was where it began.

Where her family had fallen.

Where House Vale had been betrayed.

Behind her, the abandoned manor loomed, a cracked shell of what once was noble elegance. Twisted vines snaked up its columns, and shattered windows stared like hollow eyes.

And deep within its walls, the truth remained.

Aria took a breath, steadying her heartbeat. She wasn’t here for memories. She was here for evidence.

The whispers of her parents’ deaths had never made sense. Labeled as traitors. Executed without trial. Their names blackened. Their allies scattered or killed. The Vale bloodline destroyed—except for her.

Smuggled out by a dying loyalist, raised under shadows and different names, she had spent her life training, learning, waiting.

And now, she was back.

Not as the daughter of the Vales but as Valencia.

The ghost in silk.

She pushed open the rusted door, its groan echoing like a warning. Dust clung to every surface inside. Old portraits hung crooked on the walls, some slashed, others defaced with sigils of House Voss. A deliberate erasure.

Her jaw tightened. Damien Voss’s empire had begun here. On the ashes of her blood.

She moved through the manor, careful not to disturb anything that looked unstable. Her fingers traced a groove in the wall behind the fireplace. Exactly where the old steward had told her.

A hidden latch.

With a click, a panel slid open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

Aria lit the lantern she brought with her and stepped into the cold below. The air was heavier here—damp and bitter with age. Dust motes danced in her light, floating like restless spirits.

At the end of the passage was a locked door. She knelt beside it, pulling a thin dagger from her boot and sliding it into the mechanism. It took seconds. A soft click, and the door creaked open.

Inside were shelves of scrolls, ledgers, and boxes marked with the Vale crest. Protected. Preserved.

She exhaled. They never found this.

She sifted through the boxes until she found it: a sealed letter with her father’s name scrawled across it and an unfinished journal beside it. Flipping through the first few pages, her stomach dropped.

“They know. The Voss heir is already moving. We were fools to trust the council. The betrayal runs deeper than we feared…”

Another entry:

“If anything happens to us, Aria must be protected. The key to unraveling the Blood Empire is tied to the Voss bloodline itself. To Damien. He doesn’t know the truth either…”

Her blood ran cold.

He doesn’t know?

Could it be? Was Damien—ruthless, calculating Damien Voss—as much a pawn in this as she had once been?

She clutched the letter to her chest, her mind racing. There was more at play. Her parents hadn’t just been executed—they’d been silenced. And Damien’s rise hadn’t just been strategy—it had been orchestrated.

By who, though?

The ground above her suddenly creaked.

She stiffened, eyes snapping to the passage behind her. Heavy footsteps. Too deliberate to be a beast.

Someone was here.

She quickly tucked the journal and letter into her satchel, doused the lantern, and slipped back through the tunnel.

The manor was no longer empty.

She could hear it now—two men, speaking in low voices.

“…Check the eastern wing. Voss doesn’t want any surprises before the Ascension.”

Voss.

Aria slipped through a broken window and into the trees, her heart pounding as the pieces twisted into a new, dangerous picture.

Damien was preparing for the Ascension ceremony—the moment he’d take full control of the Empire.

And someone didn’t want her anywhere near the truth when that happened.

But it was too late.

She knew now.

This wasn’t just revenge anymore.

This was war.

Aria didn’t stop running until the scent of moss and rain drowned out the dust of the manor. She crouched behind the thick roots of a twisted elm, her breath fogging the cool night air.

The two men had been mercenaries—she’d recognized the sigils on their armor. Hired blades loyal only to coin, not blood. But if they were working for Damien Voss, then the Ascension wasn’t just a ceremony.

It was a purge.

And she was officially on the list.

Her hands trembled as she pulled the letter from her satchel again. Her father’s handwriting was still strong, still defiant even in the face of death.

“My dearest Aria,

If this letter has found you, then our worst fears came true.

Damien Voss is not your enemy, not truly. He, too, has been marked—marked by the Council’s ancient oath, the one forged in blood to preserve their rule at any cost.

They used us both, our Houses, our bloodlines… and now they’ll try to erase what they cannot control.

Trust no one but the fire in your bones. And if you find Damien before they do… make him remember who he was before they turned him into their weapon”.

Aria’s pulse echoed in her ears.

The Council.

The ancient ruling order of the Empire. Hidden behind titles and ceremonies, operating through heirs and political marriages. She had always believed Damien had seized power through ambition and brutality alone—but what if he was never given a choice?

Her mind reeled.

Somewhere, deep in the capital’s gilded towers, Damien Voss sat in a throne built from her family’s bones. But was he king… or prisoner?

Aria folded the letter with care and slid it back into her satchel. She had to leave Blackthorn Vale. Now. Before the Empire’s hounds caught her scent.

She needed allies.

Not revolutionaries or rebels—they were too loud, too obvious.

She needed someone inside.

Someone like… him.

Her eyes narrowed, her resolve hardening.

She would infiltrate the Ascension.

Not as an enemy. Not as a ghost.

But as a player.

She would get close to Damien Voss.

And make him bleed—if she had to.

Meanwhile, in the Voss Citadel, Damien stood before a mirrored wall, unmoving as his tailor adjusted the silver embroidery on his ceremonial jacket.

Behind him, his advisor paced.

“Your spies reported movement in Blackthorn Vale. An old name resurfaced.”

Damien’s jaw tensed. “Whose?”

“Vale.”

Silence.

The name hit him like a thunderclap beneath his skin. He hadn’t heard it in years—had tried to forget it. But it lingered, like smoke after fire.

“Dead,” Damien said flatly. “They were all declared dead.”

“Apparently, not all.”

He dismissed the tailor with a gesture and turned toward the window, the golden city sprawling beneath the citadel like a sleeping beast.

The past had returned.

And with it, danger.

But even he didn’t know the truth buried beneath the blood.

Not yet.