Cassius lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Though the curtains were drawn tight to block out the sun, he could still hear the daytime creatures outside—singing in their strange, synchronized harmony.
He used to lie here simply to reflect, to sift through his thoughts in solitude. But in recent days, something peculiar had begun to happen. He found himself slipping into something akin to sleep—a sensation unfamiliar, unnatural for a vampire.
He shut his eyes and listened.
Grasshoppers. Flies. Butterflies. Bees. Birds.
Each sound distinct. His hearing allowed him to identify the flapping of wings by size and rhythm—he didn't need to see them to know.
From memory, he pictured the castle gardens: rose bushes blooming beside untamed wildflowers, meadows stretching lazily into tree-lined edges. At the very end of the garden stood a wall—except for one part where it bled into a dense thicket. Impenetrable to anything larger than a mouse, that thicket marked the start of the forest.
The Pandomurus.
It grew from there and extended far beyond the horizon, encircling Ironwood like an ancient sentinel.
But tonight, something felt different.
He stepped closer to the forest. Darkness loomed within—too dark, too thick. It wasn't shadow. It was something else. Movement flickered at the edge of sight. Insects? No—worse. A swarm of something oily, living. The darkness itself was crawling, expanding like tar spilled across the earth.
It slithered out from the forest's edge, washing over the garden like a living tide. The flowers wilted instantly beneath it. The grass shriveled to ash. The world beneath the darkness turned to dust.
Cassius stood frozen.
Paralysed.
Then—panic.
He turned and bolted, feet thudding against the ground as he ran. He needed to get away.
He saw her near the castle—Lilian. She stood, unmoving, her face painted with fear.
"Lilian!" he shouted. He reached her, grabbed her hand, and pulled her into motion. "Run!"
"Cassius…" Her voice trembled, soft but close—too close. He didn't stop, "Cassius," she repeated, her voice cracking now.
Something in her tone made him glance back.
She wasn't looking at him.
She was looking at their joined hands.
Her gaze was wide with horror.
Cassius followed it—
—watched as darkness crept across her forearm, curling over her skin like ink in water. It wasn't chasing them. It was coming from him.
"No… No, no—" he stammered. His voice broke. "That's not—this isn't—"
It was his curse. His darkness. His touch.
Lilian's skin began to pale. Her veins darkened beneath it, branching like twisted roots.
"It's okay," she said softly, almost with defiance. "It can't destroy me." Her smile was faint but resolute. "I can help you…" she whispered, squeezing his hand.
"Nooo!" Cassius screamed, watching the woman he loved wither before him, her body fading into shadow and dust.
His scream tore through the illusion—
—and he woke.
Cassius bolted upright in bed, gasping. His chest heaved, though he didn't need to breathe. Every muscle was tense, his body curled inwards. Cold sweat clung to his skin. He had never dreamed before. Not like this.
Not a nightmare.
He sat at the edge of his bed, still reeling from the nightmare. The echo of Lilian's voice—"I can help you…"—still clung to him like mist. His hands trembled slightly as he ran them over his face.
A sharp knock broke the silence.
"Dinner is served, sire," a voice called from beyond the door.
Cassius blinked, disoriented. It was evening. He'd been asleep—truly asleep—for hours.
"I'll be there shortly," he replied hoarsely.
He rose, washed, and dressed—his movements sluggish, haunted.
By the time he entered the dining room, the storm behind his eyes was poorly hidden.
Lilian noticed at once.
Her eager gaze faltered as she caught the shadows in his. Something was wrong.
And even though he tried to mask it, she knew.
While Cassius twisted in the grip of his nightmare, Lilian moved silently through the halls of Ironwood Castle. The sunlight caught in her hair as she slipped past the slumbering chambers and quiet corridors, careful not to alert the servants. She had learned their routines by now—when the guards changed post, when Penelope retired, when the castle was at its most unaware, during mid morning as life paused for a brief moment.
She padded barefoot into the study—the hidden one, nestled in the centre of the castle—where she'd spent secret hours weeks before. The navy book that once captivated her now lay gently in her grasp. She returned it to its rightful place on the shelf, having read every tale, every parable it held. The stories lingered in her mind, ghost-like, whispering truths in the guise of fiction.
Alone in the study, she allowed her eyes to wander. Papers blanketed the large oak desk, and a fine layer of dust told her no one had been here in quite some time. She brushed it aside and uncovered an aged map—its edges curled, its ink faded but still legible.
Elderwood and Willowell were familiar; she traced them with delicate fingers, nostalgia and discomfort blending in her chest. But Ironwood… Ironwood had always been a blank on every map she'd seen. Known of, whispered about, but never drawn in full.
The Pandomurus—the ancient forest—was missing. Its vast, living presence erased, or perhaps never acknowledged.
Her gaze fell to the pawns set atop the map. Wooden markers carved with care, each one symbolizing military positions. Her brows furrowed as she leaned closer. The distribution was stark: Willowell's pieces encircled Ironwood like a tightening noose, their numbers overwhelming. Ten to one, maybe more. Ironwood's markers were fewer, spread thin, like the last desperate lines of a fractured defense.
She reached for the letters beneath the map, her hands trembling slightly. One by one she read them, her eyes scanning each faded line. They spoke of loss. Of blood and retreat. Of desperation.
One letter stopped her breath—it was signed by Julius.
His words were broken, raw. Pleading. He described the aftermath of a battle barely survived, the few knights that had escaped with him. The tone wasn't of pride or glory—it was of collapse. And surrender.
Lilian stared down at the date. A decade ago.
Her heart pounded as the pieces connected. The stories from the navy book echoed in her mind—the tale of the cursed king, the forest that grew overnight to shield a dying kingdom, the blood sacrifice for peace. She had memorised them without knowing why. Now she understood.
The curse wasn't punishment.
It was salvation.
Her eyes stung, but she didn't cry. Instead, she clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. The pain was grounding. It kept her steady as the weight of Ironwood's past settled onto her shoulders.
Cassius—he hadn't been born a monster. He had become one to protect his people.
And no one had told her.
She gently refolded the letters, repositioned the pawns, and returned the study to the way she'd found it—untouched, unbroken, buried beneath dust and secrets. She took one last look at the navy book on the shelf and shut the door behind her.
When she reappeared in the more public wing of the castle, she let herself be seen, ensuring that no suspicion would follow her.
But inside, something had changed.
And as always, she was watching everything closely, observing that which was shown to her openly and that which lingered in shadows.
Lilian spend the afternoon in one of the drawing rooms. The tea in Lilian's cup had long gone cold. She sat curled in one of the tall-backed chairs near the hearth, staring into the fire though she wasn't seeing it. The soft murmur of servants tidying nearby grounded her in the moment, but her mind was elsewhere—still in that study, still reading those letters, still standing at the edge of a kingdom born of sacrifice.
She shifted slightly, tucking her feet beneath her skirt. The warmth of the fire was comforting, yet her heart still felt like ice.
The castle no longer seemed like a beautiful mystery to her—it felt like a mausoleum. Every stone held stories of a war she'd never been taught.
And Cassius…
Her thoughts faltered every time she reached his name.
If she was right, he had taken on the curse to save his people who had no other hope.
She looked down at her hands, pale and delicate. Something was changing in her. She could feel it like a whisper in her bones. The naivety she had clung to was falling away, and what remained was sharp and silent. Her own truth was clawing to escape.
She no longer wanted to ask Cassius questions just to satisfy curiosity. She wanted to understand. To see the full truth, even if it hurt. Even if it changed everything.
Penelope entered quietly, as if sensing the weight in the room. "Would you like fresh tea, my lady?" she asked softly.
Lilian blinked and offered a small smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "No, thank you. This one's still perfect."
The maid hesitated, clearly sensing something in Lilian's expression, but said nothing and went about her tasks.
Lilian looked out the nearby window. The gardens were fading into twilight, the light soft and gold over the edges of the world. Soon dinner would be served.
Still, she would play her part for now. She would wear the right dresses, say the right things, ask the annoying questions, omitting the heavy truth that Cassius was trying to conceal.
But her mind was already working in quiet rebellion, piecing together the truth behind the veil.
Her eyes lingered on the edge of the garden where the forest met the world. The Pandomurus. It didn't seem as silent as it once had. It felt like it was watching. Waiting. It stirred something deep inside her.
Once the time came, Lilian walked into the dining room, her steps composed though her heart had been restless all day. The air held a peculiar stillness, as though the castle itself sensed something stirring just beneath its surface. She sat at the long table, hands folded in her lap, her eyes flicking toward the entrance with growing expectation. Cassius was late.
It wasn't unusual for him to be consumed by duty, but tonight felt different. The silence that surrounded her was heavier than before.
She didn't touch the goblet of wine beside her plate. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the forest, on Cassius, on the feeling that something was shifting.
When he finally entered, Lilian straightened instinctively, her gaze locking on him at once.
Cassius looked… unwell.
His shoulders were tense, his posture stiff, and there was a deep crease between his brows that hadn't been there before. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, darkened not just by fatigue but something heavier. His steps were too precise, too deliberate—as though he were walking through some invisible resistance.
He offered a quiet greeting as he took his seat across from her.
Lilian's heart constricted. There was no warmth in his gaze tonight, only a flicker of unease that vanished before she could catch it fully. His fingers hovered over the cutlery, but he didn't eat.
She watched him closely, noting the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, the way he stared blankly at the plate as though it were a thousand miles away.
"Are you alright?" she asked gently, not wanting to provoke him, but unable to hold back the question.
Cassius glanced at her, his eyes searching hers for a moment—then retreating.
"I'm fine," he said, the words clipped, final. But he wasn't.
Lilian felt the distance between them.
He didn't trust her enough to share whatever weighed him down. And she didn't press him. She was merely his pet and amusement. She shouldn't expect his trust.
So she sat in silence with him, two souls bound by something powerful and ancient.