جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 140

The smoke thickened, curling up around Camela's legs like chains of cold breath. Vincent pulled her back, his arms wrapped tight around her waist. His whisper was urgent and shaky. “Don’t listen. It’s a trick.” But the voice from the dark door was not faint; it was clear and familiar—It was her own voice:“Camela. Don’t be scared. I know your footsteps. I know your nights. You've walked here before.” The stairs trembled beneath their feet, and the red light dimmed. Silence lingered everywhere around them, heavy and endless. And then—there were footsteps. It was a slow and steady sound of bare feet moving on the stone floor, emerging from the darkness beyond the iron door.Camela's breath caught in her throat. Though she couldn't see, her blind eyes felt a strong pressure, as if they could see without sight. "She’s…walking closer to me," she whispered.Vincent growled, pulling her closer and tightening his grip around her. “If she takes one more step, I'll burn this whole stairw

The floor ripped apart like thin paper. Camela screamed as the stones beneath her crumbled. Vincent pulled her tightly against himself, wrapping his arm around her waist. They fell into darkness, shards of broken mirrors falling around them like sharp beams of light. The voice of the shadow trailed after them down as they fell, heavy, patient, and endless: “You smiled. You thought it was freedom. But I have been waiting…waiting for your footsteps and days. And now you count them for me.” The words echoed until they formed a rhythm, like a drumbeat in Camela’s head: Counting steps. Counting days. Counting steps. Counting days.She held onto Vincent tightly as they fell, whispering through her shaking lips, “Don’t let go. Don’t let go.” His voice thundered back against the void, “Never!” he shouted.Then their fall suddenly stopped. They crashed onto a surface—not stone or grass, but wood. The air was filled with dust, candle smoke, and something old like an ancient scent. Camela

The fountain flowed with water that sounded gentle and peaceful, with thick roses along the edges of the garden and their scents lingering in the air like a heavy chain. The laughter of unseen children surrounded them, echoing through the hedges until it felt as if dozens of voices were mocking them. And there—standing at the center of the fountain—was the bride.Not just any bride. Her. Camela’s blind eyes still saw nothing but darkness, yet she sensed a presence that felt like it was burning into her skin and pressing against her chest. The atmosphere grew tense, and she tightened her grip on Vincent’s hand. “Vincent,” she whispered, shaking with fear. “Please tell me I’m mistaken. Tell me it’s not me.” Vincent’s jaw tightened. She could feel his hand twitching in hers. His voice was low and shaky. He replied, “It is you, Camela. Smiling. Waiting at the fountain. Dressed as a bride.” Her breath hitched in her throat as she asked. “What do you mean smiling?” “Like you’ve been

The maid kept her finger pointed at Vincent as the rain fell hard and the sound grew louder, hitting the broken glass around them like sharp knives. Camela gripped Vincent’s arm, shaking with fear. “What does she mean? Vincent…what does she mean you’re drowning?” she asked.Vincent spoke in a calm but low voice, though Camela could feel his chest quiver with panic. “She’s lying. Please don’t pay any attention to her,” he replied.The maid’s veil fluttered slightly in the stormy wind. Her voice slipped out softly yet cruelly:“His veins are already on fire. His lungs are filling up. You can feel his warmth, can’t you? That’s not love…it’s fire.” Camela froze still, her hands gripping Vincent's shirt tightly. His skin felt hotter than usual—an unnatural heat like flames burned beneath his flesh. “Vincent…” Her voice faltered. “You’re burning.” The maid moved closer, her feet made no sound against the wet stone. “You broke the window and invited the storm inside. Now the fire hidden

The fall seemed endless.Camela held onto Vincent’s arm tightly, her knuckles turning white as if letting go would mean death itself. The wind howled in her ears, whipping through her hair. The chains that had erupted from the ground whirled past them, their red-hot links glowing like veins of fire. She could feel the heat of the blazing chains against her skin. She screamed, but her voice got lost in the chaos. Vincent shouted her name, yet his words vanished into the storm of fire. Then—without warning—the fall came to an abrupt halt. They crashed into solid stone. Camela gasped and rolled onto her side. The floor beneath her was black and slippery, shining faintly as if coated in oil. Firelight flickered along the cracks, pulsing red as though the entire place was breathing. The air was thick with the smell of iron and smoke. Vincent groaned, struggling to pull himself upright on shaky arms, with blood trickling from his lip. He turned toward her and immediately reached for he