Chapter 3: Delphine

Mira knocked twice before entering my room, a courtesy I hadn’t expected in a vampire castle—especially one that seemed intent on subtly terrifying everyone within its walls. Most people assumed witches preferred dramatic entrances or spontaneous combustion. They weren’t entirely wrong, but I still appreciated manners.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a petite young woman with curly dark hair tucked messily into a twist and a linen apron streaked with dark stains. Ink, herbs, maybe blood—a perfectly respectable working combination.

“You must be Mira,” I said, smiling gently to put her at ease. “Lady Valesa mentioned you.”

Mira nodded quickly, offering a shy but genuine smile in return. “Yes, miss. I’ll be your steward during your stay. If you need anything—tea, herbs, magical supplies—I can get it for you.”

“Magical supplies?” I arched an eyebrow playfully. “Either you're exceptionally good at your job, or you've worked with witches before.”

“My aunt was a hedgewitch from Fenmere,” she admitted quietly, eyes sparking with pride and mischief. “They chased her out of town after she turned a councilman's prize stallion blue.”

I laughed, immediately warming to her. “I think your aunt and I would get along.”

Her tension visibly eased, and she set the tray she was carrying down carefully on the small table by the hearth. It held tea, delicate almond cakes, and a thick, aged book bound in worn leather. Mira tapped its cover with gentle reverence.

“This came from the archives,” she said softly. “Lady Valesa said you might need it. It’s the castle’s ward ledger—old, forgotten, and likely quite useless. But still…”

“But still fascinating?” I finished for her.

Mira’s eyes shone with quiet excitement. “Exactly.”

I flipped the ledger open, immediately drawn in by faded glyphs and layers of intricate handwriting. The pages practically hummed beneath my fingertips, remnants of powerful spells and wards struggling valiantly against decay.

“This is solid wardcraft,” I murmured, running a finger over a series of intricate runes. “Northern sigils with blood seals layered over echo-locks. Messy, but effective once upon a time.”

“It hasn't been updated in decades,” Mira explained hesitantly, as though embarrassed by the neglect. “The last person who worked on the wards…well, they didn’t finish.”

I glanced up sharply. “Define ‘didn’t finish.’”

Mira shifted uneasily, lowering her voice as if afraid of being overheard. “Valesa says he simply left. Others say he ran screaming into the river.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Encouraging.”

She looked sheepish. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You seem…stronger.”

“I certainly scream less,” I teased, softening my voice reassuringly. “But seriously—what’s your sense of this place? Staff usually notice things witches might miss at first.”

Mira glanced nervously toward the window, then lowered her voice even further. “This castle breathes, Miss Ashwood. It watches. Doors open when they shouldn’t, ink bottles bleed, and sometimes you hear whispers where there shouldn’t be any. It’s not just old magic—it’s awake.”

I let her words settle around us, heavier than either of us liked. “You said ‘awake,’ not ‘cursed.’”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes. Not cursed. Waiting.”

I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. “Waiting for what?”

Mira hesitated, eyes widening slightly as if she'd said too much. “I—I shouldn't speak of it.”

“Shouldn’t or can’t?” I gently pressed.

“Both,” she admitted quietly.

I exhaled, letting her off the hook with a warm smile. “Well, Mira, if any more ink bottles start bleeding or the walls try chatting you up again, come find me.”

She looked relieved, offering a shy curtsy before quickly excusing herself, leaving me alone with tea, cakes, and a castle full of unsettling mysteries.

With Mira gone, I turned back to the ledger, sipping tea as I paged through it. The glyphs shimmered gently under the firelight, whispering magic that once protected these halls. It was clear these wards had held for decades—perhaps centuries—but now they were frayed and fading like fabric stretched too thin.

And Mira was right. Something was stirring.

A tiny notation scrawled in hurried handwriting at the ledger’s edge caught my attention. The words were almost illegible, smudged by time and possibly fear:

It watches her.

My heartbeat quickened. Not just a warning—but a message, a clue written for someone like me. Not vague. Specific. Her.

Me.

A faint chill whispered along my spine. I closed the ledger and set it aside, suddenly restless. Sitting still had never been my strength, especially when mysteries pressed close.

I stood, pulling my cloak around me and grabbing a satchel of magical essentials—chalk, salt beads, and my favorite silver blade—because curiosity without caution was idiocy. At least that’s what my mentor always said before she tossed me into a magical maelstrom.

It was time to see what exactly Castle Thorne was hiding.

---

Moonlight spilled gently through tall, narrow windows as I stepped into the corridor. The castle felt quieter now, watchful, like it was deciding whether I was friend, foe, or food.

I moved deliberately, trailing fingers lightly along stone walls that vibrated softly beneath my touch. The sensation was strange—almost welcoming. Old places, especially enchanted ones, typically resisted strangers. This castle seemed…curious.

The path to the West Tower revealed itself gradually. Doors that should have remained locked eased open at my approach, corridors lengthened or shortened as if the castle itself were guiding me, testing me.

Finally, I stood before the door to the West Tower—tall, ancient wood carved with a single elaborate sigil: a stylized fang wrapped in thorny vines. But behind that royal vampire sigil, almost hidden, was another—delicate circles and crescent moons entwined together.

The Ashwood crest.

My pulse quickened. My family’s magic didn’t belong on a vampire lord’s locked vault door. Yet, there it was.

Instinctively, I pressed my palm flat against the symbol, allowing just a whisper of my magic to brush its edges.

The door sighed open immediately—just a crack, breathing out ancient air scented with copper, herbs, and something darker. Something older than the castle itself.

Heart racing, I stepped through into darkness, guided by a subtle compulsion.

Spiraling stairs descended into the heart of the castle, air growing heavier, magic thicker, pulsing around me with growing urgency. At the bottom lay a massive circular seal etched directly into the stone floor, its glyphs corrupted, twisted, and radiating hunger.

In the center stood a pedestal, crowned by what appeared to be a mirror—but it reflected nothing. Instead, it shimmered gently, like dark water captured behind glass.

I stepped closer, mesmerized by its shifting surface. Before I could touch it, the mirror changed—showing not my reflection, but the image of a man standing elsewhere in the castle, watching intently.

Theron Valemont.

Our eyes locked through the strange mirror, a jolt of recognition snapping between us—cold, charged, and unmistakable.

Without thinking, I spun around and fled back up the stairs, heart hammering, magic buzzing chaotically beneath my skin.

Not because I was frightened—but because some reckless part of me had desperately wanted to stay.

And deep beneath the castle, something smiled.

Because it knew that too.