The tunnel's damp stone clawed at Gloria's ragged dress, its tatters snagging her skin as she stumbled through the castle's veins, the east wing's echo fading like a wound. Rebecca's taunts husk, barren sank into her bones, but Tristan's voice, kind, raw, urging her to rise, flickered, a light she couldn't trust. Her boots skidded on slick rock, the sapphire heavy in her sleeve, its purple cloud a ghost from her hideaway. Victor's growl lingered, tying her to her rats, but the shadows whispered louder, their voice a cold thread: "Learn. Wait." At 14, a noble disgrace, the castle's darkness was her only refuge, its tunnels her pulse.
She hurried, the passages twisting—left to the armory's rusted spears, right to the kitchens' grease-stained walls, down to her ledge where the air thickened with iron from the mountain mines. The torchlight from her last visit had died, leaving only the faint violet glow of the sealed crack, a secret older than her mother's scorn. Her foot snagged a jutting stone, and she pitched forward, her head cracking against the wall. Pain seared, white-hot, and she crumpled, blood pooling in her hair, the tunnel spinning into black. The woman's scream, cloaked, lost to stone, chased her down.
Darkness swallowed her, not the tunnel's damp gloom but a void, vast and alive. She stood or drifted in the heart of a crystal, its facets pulsing purple, caging her like frost on glass. Shadows writhed beyond, clawing the edges, their hunger a weight on her chest. A figure emerged, a lady in black, her cloak swirling like spilled ink, her face veiled but eyes burning, twin pits of sorrow. Gloria's throat locked—no scream, no sound, her voice stolen. The lady's whisper cut like bone. "The shadows choose you, girl, but they're ravenous. They'll consume you if you let them win." Her hands reached, cold as stone, brushing Gloria's face, and the crystal tightened, purple clouds choking the air. "You're weak—unready. Fight them, or you're hers—lost, like me." The lady's scream tore through, the same from the sealed crack, and the shadows surged, shredding Gloria's skin, pulling her into the dark. She thrashed, silent, the crystal's pulse a drum, her body sinking. "Wake up," the lady hissed, her violet eyes flaring, and the void cracked.
Gloria jolted awake, gasping, her rats' tongues rough on her cheeks—Victor's broad muzzle pressing her jaw, Nubs' frantic licks stinging her cuts, Scratch's hesitant nudge, Laura's trembling warmth against her neck. The tunnel's stone was ice beneath her, her head throbbing, blood matting her hair, sticky and warm. The sapphire lay beside her, dim, its purple gone, a mute witness. How long had she been out? Hours? A day? The rats huddled close, Victor's yellow eyes steady, his limping bulk a guard. She touched her scalp, wincing at the raw gash, and stood, legs buckling, the tunnel's walls tilting. The shadows were silent, but their warning—consume you—sank into her marrow, heavier than the blood.
Her boots dragged as she moved, the tunnel's chill seeping through her rags. The crack she'd widened since six loomed ahead, the dungeon's mouth a faint glow beyond. She squeezed through, stone scraping her shoulders, and froze. Helga sat at a small oak table just outside, a single candle dripping wax, a porcelain teacup steaming in her hand. Her blue dress was pristine, her pale hair pinned tight, her eyes glinting like frost—a Countess carved from cruelty. The dungeon stairs stretched behind, empty, but Edgar's absence was a noose tightening. Gloria's stomach lurched—Helga, here, waiting, her tea's spice sharp in the air.
"Sit," Helga said, her voice smooth, a blade dipped in honey. Gloria obeyed, her dress scraping the chair, the gash on her head pulsing, the rats' warmth a fading shield. The candle's flame wavered, casting Helga's shadow long and sharp, a specter on the stone. She sipped her tea, the cup clinking, her gaze raking Gloria's filth-streaked face, her bloodied hair. "Being a Countess isn't a child's game," she began, her tone weaving scorn like thread. "I was younger than you, thrown to Edgar—his wine, his fists, his bastards. Noble blood meant nothing; I carved my place, bled for it." She paused, sipping, her lips curling. "You've four years, girl four years to learn a house, a castle, a name. You're a disgrace now, skulking in muck, unfit for any hall. You'll learn, or you'll shatter."
Gloria's hands clenched, nails biting her palms, the lady's warning—consume you—ringing in her skull. The table's grain blurred under her stare, the candle's wax pooling like tears. Helga's cup clinked again, deliberately. "You'll bear an heir," she continued, her voice ice, insults stitching every word. "A boy, holding the Eldeholt name, to hold these lands—your duty to the Filmore boy. If you fail, what's the point? No man stays with a barren wife when tavern whores or brothel beds call louder." She leaned forward, her breath sharp with tea's bite. "You're untaught, unready barely a woman, a noble who'd shame us. I'll bring teachers women to drill you in duty, in pleasing a husband, in holding his seed. You'll not fail us, not again."
Gloria's throat burned, her head throbbing, the shadows' whisper faint but alive wait. She stared at the table, the wax now a hardened pool, unable to meet Helga's eyes. Rebecca's taunts, Tristan's hope, the lady's scream, now this it was too much, a weight crushing her chest. The dungeon's damp seeped into her bones, the candle's flicker mocking her. She forced words out, small, raw, her voice a thread. "Was being Countess… what you wanted?"
Helga's laugh was sharp, a splinter of glass, her teacup pausing mid-air. "Wanted?" she echoed, her voice a lash, eyes glinting with something raw, almost pain. "It was the last thing I wanted was Edgar, this crumbling heap, the chains of it. I had no choice, girl, and neither do you." She sipped, her sneer returning, colder. "You're nothing without this, Gloria—nothing but dirt and rats."
Gloria's chest tightened, her voice a whisper. "What happens… if you and Father die?"
Helga's laugh returned, darker, her gaze locking on Gloria's, as if reading murder in her eyes. She sipped her tea, slow, deliberate, her voice ice. "You get nothing, girl. Your brother, Julius, that soaring brat, becomes Count, all of it his. Same if you marry and bear no heir, Julius takes it, every village, every stone. Understand this, Gloria: you marry, you birth a titled heir, or you're whatever your brother makes you." Her lips curled, a mockery of a smile. "And knowing you, skulking, filthy, you'd hate that—his pawn, his shadow, nothing more."
Gloria's hands shook, the lady's warning fight them, clashing with Helga's truth. The shadows stirred in the candle's flicker, their voice a breath: "Learn." She couldn't bear more not tonight, not after the crystal's cage, the scream, the blood crusting her scalp. Helga sipped again, the cup's clink a final barb, her eyes unyielding, a wall no daughter could breach. "Go upstairs," Helga said, setting her cup down, her voice flat, dismissive. "Get ready for bed. You're done here."
Gloria stood, her chair scraping, and stumbled back to the tunnel, Victor's eyes waiting in the gloom. The dungeon faded, Helga's words nothing, shadow cutting deeper than the gash on her head. Four years to learn, to bear, to rise or lose everything. The shadows knew her, but so did Helga, and the castle's stone held both their truths.