Bathory Under The Sign Of The Black Mark 소설 & 이야기

“You want me to stop? No! To you traitorous humans; I am your Daymare and your Nightmare. I am the Punishment of both God and Devil. If you all hadn't committed this great sin, I would not have brought this punishment unto you. I am... BLACK HEART”

His dark eyes seemed to bore into her very soul, and his presence filled the room with an almost palpable aura of danger. "What... what is that mark?" Olivia asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Azazel's symbol, a black sigil that seemed to writhe and twist on his skin, was etched onto her own flesh. She couldn't believe that she was now bound to him, no matter what.

**SEAL Captain (comms, calm):** “Storm Queen, grid locked. Black ops on flanks. Lances hot—waiting your mark.” I nod. Crown spins max. But I need more than human forces. Blood summons. I slice my palm deep—blood welling violet-gold, dripping to the corrupted ground where it hisses and burns clean patches. Speak the name—voice carrying power. **Celeste:** “Julian Bathory. By ancient blood oath between storm and night, I call you and yours.” The ground splits—red mist rising thick, smelling of iron and old wine. Julian emerges first—pale, elegant in tailored black, fangs gleaming, eyes crimson with hunger.

He remembered standing on burning plains, tasting sorcery in the rain, feeling the sky itself crackle with power; this was that same taste, condensed into a single mortal body. He dragged another slow, involuntary lick up the curve of her neck. A tremor tore through his hands. His mark flared violently along his arm, lines of black ink twisting under his skin like they were trying to crawl free. The burn of it tore a hiss from his throat. The sigils shifted, rearranging into shapes he hadn’t seen since the Pact was first branded—patterns meant only for equals, not offerings.

The same mark that appeared in old prophecies. The same mark I had spent years hearing whispers about. A weapon of the Goddess and a threat to the Underworld. “The one destined to stop me.” I said “Yes.” Interesting. I paced slowly around the altar. “And if I kill them?” The darkness pulsed. “Their heart blood opens the Gate.” I stopped, to he the heart blood means it had to be a ritual. “The mark contains divine power.” “That power unlocks the seal.” “Kill the bearer.” “Take the heart blood.”

The entire wing went black. Not the comfortable, deep black of night, but a sudden, blinding void. I gasped, pushing myself up from the map table. The darkness was total. But the darkness didn't matter. In that instant, the silence where the Lycan magic usually hummed was replaced by the terrifying, deafening roar of the Mate Bond.

“Not with whom, Lord Blackwell... but what. An ancient force that lurks beneath this manor’s foundations, long before it was built. It sleeps beneath the stone and waits to be fed.” --- The contract was written in blood. A relic from New Albion, composed in a forgotten tongue and meant to be read only under the new moon. Alaric signed with a slash across his palm. Malachai mixed the blood with nard oil and charred bone ash, then drew a sigil-laced circle on the floor of the manor’s hidden catacombs. “The contract is nearly complete,” Malachai said as he lit sulfur-scented candles around them. “But to seal it… you must offer something sacred. Something born of your blood.”

“Curses this deep cannot be undone so easily, Your Highness. It will take time… and blood.” Behind me, the guards dragged Mark’s mangled corpse into the chamber, laying him on the floor. Gasps filled the air. Whispers turned into hisses. “He’s supposed to be dead.” “Wasn’t he buried?” “How did he come back?” The questions spread like wildfire, thick with panic. My claws itched to silence them all. “Quiet!” I roared, my voice shaking the walls. The chamber fell into terrified silence. I crouched beside Mark’s body. His face was shredded beyond recognition, but the mark carved into his chest wasn’t just from claws—it was deliberate. A sigil. My stomach churned. Dark magic, etched in blood.

She sighed, then glanced to the left, where another portrait was hanging on the wall. In this portrait, a woman stood there. Her left hand raised in the air at an angle. And her right seemed to hold a book. On her head she wore a hat, which had a point at the top. Her head was tilted to the left, where you could only see the left side of her face. And her hair was a dark brown, that looked like it flowed endlessly behind her. There were colorful colors that could be seen over her left hand, as if portraying something. Blues, greens, purples, and pinks colliding together at the top forming a colorful ball above the streaks underneath. On the tree to the right, a broom lay against it, with a c

I glanced around, searching for him, but he was nowhere in sight. “E-Ezekiel? Are you here?” My voice came out shaky as I pushed myself up. I moved carefully, my hands instinctively cradling my lower abdomen. I had to be extra careful for the baby. Taking a deep breath, I turned on the lights. The moment the room illuminated, my breath caught in my throat. My eyes widened in horror. Drag marks. Dark, disturbing stains smeared across the living room floor, forming a trail that led deeper into the mansion. My stomach twisted painfully.