Gothic Lines Novels & Stories

“Odium perdet Endymionis primogenitum sanguine. Hora mortis eius non cognoscetur donec amor deiectus ex cinere non resurgat et radicem eius frangat, sanguis odii sanguinem quaerit et manu amoris ductus effunditur.” Those words echoed when I woke up with a headache breaking my skull in half. What were those freaky words that rang through my mind on repeat? Even the language they are chanted on does not seem even distantly intelligible. What does that mean? Where am I? Oribus seemed like a joyride in a park of azaleas compared to this. The putrid smell of demise, piss, puss, blood, soil and blood wafted my nose, and I almost retched. What the heck is wrong with me and vomiting at everything?

A pot of incense was burning in the center of the thrones and the skulls of different animals hung on every side of the walls as fresh blood seemed to be coming out of their mouths. The burning candles were Black. Brown. And white... In that order. But for all the candles that were burning, the white had the dimmest light. Alice turned around frantically again and she saw letters, drawings, and carvings on every side of the wall. The drawing was of wolves, men, and a queen while the carving was of objects like the moon, stars, fangs, birds, triangles, and stars. The letters on the walls were ancient Gothic. It reads...

A pot of incense was burning in the center of the thrones and the skulls of different animals hung on every side of the walls as fresh blood seemed to be coming out of their mouths. The burning candles were Black. Brown. And white... In that order. But for all the candles that were burning, the white had the dimmest light. Alice turned around frantically again and she saw letters, drawings, and carvings on every side of the wall. The drawing was of wolves, men, and a queen while the carving was of objects like the moon, stars, fangs, birds, triangles, and stars. The letters on the walls were ancient Gothic. It reads...

Astrid smirked, her amber eyes flaring bright. Using the screaming, stampeding crowd as a cover, they slipped through a hidden servant's door behind the orchestra stage. The door led into a labyrinth of narrow, unlit stone corridors deep within the mansion's interior walls. Here, away from the emergency lights, the darkness was absolute, save for the intense, contrasting bioluminescence of their own eyes—Astrid's burning gold and Carmilla’s piercing red cutting through the gloom. They moved at a supernatural sprint, their boots clicking in a synchronized rhythm against the cold stone. But as they reached a heavy, iron-reinforced security gate deep in the lower basement, the sound of heavy gu

The parchment felt comforting beneath my fingers, grounding me in something tangible while the shadows outside the windows seemed to pulse and stretch, threatening to reach inside. The room itself was older than I could have imagined. Gothic arches rose overhead, carved with faint runes that shimmered as if alive. The windows were tall and narrow, letting in slivers of moonlight still lingering from dawn. The air smelled faintly of candle wax, parchment, and a whisper of something… metallic. Something alive. I ignored it, setting my jaw and trying to focus on the task at hand.

As he carved, he spoke, his voice a low, hypnotic chant. “This curve… is for the defiance I broke in you… This line… is for the tears you shed into the gesso… This hook… is for the way your body accepted me, even as your soul fought… This is not my name on you. This is your history, written by my hand.” Blood, a rich, shocking crimson, welled up in the carved channel, beading along the intricate lines of the letter. It did not drip. It pooled, filling the grooves, making the signature gleam wet and vital against the glossy, painted landscape of her back.

“An ancient kind. One that hasn’t been used in generations.” She kneels beside me. “Show me.” I press my palm to the mark and the thread above flickers, and then the loom responds. The threads part like curtains, revealing an underlay of woven text. Not written in ink. Not carved. Stitched. I read aloud slowly. “Three bloodlines. One weave. The choice of power, the choice of control, and the choice of cost.” Signe pales. “Scarlett,” she whispers, “Victoria… and my Erik.”

As though something had shaped this space from the inside out. Ronan kept close to Aria, his hand never far from her. “You feel it stronger now?” he asked quietly. She nodded. “Yes.” A pause. “It’s everywhere here.” Marcus frowned. “What is?” Aria hesitated. “The threads.” They moved further down. And then Marcus saw it. Faint silver lines embedded in the stone walls like veins. He stopped abruptly. “Tell me I’m not seeing that.” Garrick stepped closer, his expression tightening. “You are.”

At six forty-five in the morning, the headquarters of Linéa Cosmetics stood like a polished monument against the Tokyo skyline,forty-two floors of glass and pale stone reflecting a city that never truly slept. Jerome Lin preferred it this way. Before the assistants arrived. Before the board members rehearsed their compliments. Before the building filled with perfume and ambition. The lobby doors parted at his approach. “Good morning, Mr. Lin,” the security director said immediately, bowing just enough to be respectful without appearing outdated.

Not in any way that she understood. They did not rest upon his skin as wounds that might be soothed or contained. They dwelled beneath, etched in dark, intricate sigils that glimmered ember-bright at their edges, as if some ancient hand had carved scripture in fire across unwilling flesh, and the flesh, though unconsenting, could not deny its new gospel. The lines shifted as she watched, subtle yet inexorable, the marks crawling outward from his palms, threading along the sinews of his wrists, climbing higher with a slow, relentless purpose that forbade her to look away.