The manor was silent, though silence did not mean peace. The corridors still smelled faintly of burned wood, and the walls carried scars that would never heal.
Charred streaks crept up the stone like dark veins, reminders of the fire that had nearly swallowed Alderidge Manor whole. The portraits that once lined the hallways in pride now hung in ghostly disarray, their painted eyes dulled beneath soot and smoke.m
Adrian Alderidge stood before a tall, cracked mirror in his chamber, its fractured surface cutting his reflection into shards.
He barely recognized the man staring back at him. His face still bore the shape of nobility... strong jaw, high cheekbones, the features of an heir raised to command... yet something fundamental had changed. His skin no longer held its old warmth; it looked pale, almost translucent. Beneath the surface, faint gold shimmered, pulsing softly in rhythm with his heartbeat. His eyes, once the deep gray of a storm over the sea, now gleamed faintly beneath the shadows of his lashes.
The physicians had called his survival a miracle. They said the flames should have consumed him, that no human body could have endured the inferno that had devoured his home. Adrian knew the truth. Mercy had not saved him that night. The thing that had kept him alive was far older and far crueler than mercy.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her.
Elara… her voice piercing through the chaos, calling his name as fire danced around them. He could still picture her running through the collapsing halls, her dark hair streaked with ash and her hands reaching toward him. Then came the creature... that shadow made flesh... tearing through the flames as if they were mist, seizing her before he could reach her. The sound of her scream still echoed in his skull, louder than the crackling of burning timber.
A knock broke through his thoughts… soft, hesitant, and trembling. Adrian did not turn immediately. His reflection stared back, eyes glowing faintly gold beneath the dim candlelight.
"Yes?" he said at last, his voice steady but low.
The door creaked open. His butler, Thomas, stepped in, his face pale as parchment. The poor man had aged twenty years since the fire. "My lord," he said, his voice quivering, "the priest has arrived."
Adrian adjusted the collar of his black coat, smoothing the fabric as if preparing for a ceremony. "Send him in," he replied.
Thomas hesitated for a fraction of a moment, as though the air itself resisted his movement, then bowed and withdrew.
When the door opened again, the man who entered did not bring the sense of peace one might expect from a servant of the Church.
Father Marcellus moved like a shadow given human shape. His robes were white, yet they did little to conceal the unease that clung to him. His hair was silver, his skin pale, and his eyes… cold, colorless gray… seemed to look through everything they beheld. There was a faint smile on his lips, one that seemed to know too much.
"Father Marcellus," Adrian greeted, turning to face him fully.
"Lord Alderidge," the priest replied in a voice smooth as polished stone. "You summoned me in haste… and, I am told, in anger. I hope your reason is as grave as your tone."
Adrian's hands clenched behind his back. "You serve the Order of Saint Solis, do you not? You and your kind hunt the unholy. You destroy things that feed on the living."
Marcellus inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"That is the sacred duty of our Order. But tell me, my lord... what makes you think your grief requires the Church's sword?"
"Because it isn't just grief," Adrian said sharply. His voice cracked like a whip.
"He slaughtered my men, burned my home, and took her from me."
"Ah," the priest murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "The girl."
The mention of her name without reverence struck Adrian like a blow. He turned away, pacing the length of the room. His boots echoed against the cracked marble floor.
"He corrupted her," Adrian said through clenched teeth. "I know he did. She would never have gone with him otherwise. I want him found… and destroyed."
Father Marcellus folded his hands behind his back and studied Adrian as though weighing the worth of his soul.
"You speak as one who seeks vengeance," he said softly.
"Yet what you truly need is purification. And purification, Lord Alderidge, is never without cost."
Adrian stopped pacing. His voice hardened. "What kind of cost?"
The priest stepped forward until only the flickering candlelight separated them. He placed a small black case upon the table. Its surface was carved with the insignia of Saint Solis…a sunburst surrounded by thorns.
When Marcellus unlatched it, the air in the room seemed to change. A cold wind stirred though the windows were sealed. Inside the case lay a shard of metal, no larger than a man's hand, glowing with faint golden light that pulsed like a living heart.
"This," Marcellus said, his voice low and reverent, "is the Shard of Solis. It was forged from sunlight captured in holy flame, quenched in the blood of saints. Its power burns through unholy flesh, no matter how ancient or strong."
Adrian's eyes widened as he stared at the relic. "Then give it to me."
The priest did not move. "It is not a gift freely given," he said. "The Shard does not serve without choosing. Once you claim it, it's light will bind itself to your blood. You will no longer be entirely mortal. And the longer you carry it, the more it will feed on your essence… until it consumes what remains of your soul."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "If it kills him, then it can take whatever it wants from me."
Marcellus regarded him for a long moment, as though searching for doubt in his eyes. When he found none, that faint smile returned.
"Such devotion," he murmured. "Very well."
He lifted the relic from the case. The light brightened, flaring like a captive sun. Then he extended it toward Adrian.
The moment Adrian's fingers closed around it, pain shot through him…white-hot and merciless. The metal seared into his palm, burning deep through flesh and bone. He gasped but did not release it. The light surged up his arm, racing along his veins in streams of fire. His knees trembled, his vision blurred, but he held on until the burning became part of him.
Marcellus began to whisper words in Latin, the syllables old and powerful, each one striking the air like a chime. The room trembled faintly. The relic's glow intensified, pouring through Adrian's body until it felt as if his heart itself had caught fire.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the light dimmed. The pain receded, leaving behind a strange stillness. Adrian looked down at his hand. His skin bore no wound, no scar, yet something within him was forever altered. Beneath the surface of his palm, a faint golden pulse throbbed in rhythm with his heart.
"The shard has chosen," Marcellus said softly. "You are its bearer now. But remember, Lord Alderidge… power without restraint will devour you as surely as the darkness you seek to destroy."
Adrian closed his fist, feeling the relic's warmth hum beneath his skin. "Then let it devour me," he said coldly. "As long as it takes him first."
The priest's expression did not change, but his eyes flickered with something that might have been pity… or perhaps satisfaction. "Your path is set, then," he said. "May Saint Solis watch over your soul."
He gathered his case and departed in silence, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps. When the door closed, the manor felt emptier than before. The candlelight flickered weakly, throwing long shadows against the walls.
Adrian stood alone in the dim chamber.
The faint glow beneath his hand cast ripples of gold across the mirror, splitting his reflection into two faces…one human, one something far less so. He could feel the shard's power thrumming in his blood, whispering promises he dared not listen to.
He turned toward the window. Outside, the world lay beneath a crimson moon.
The light bled across the fields and forests like spilled wine. Somewhere out there, the creature still lived... and so did Elara, bound to it by whatever dark enchantment had taken her.
Adrian lifted his hand, watching the golden pulse beneath his skin illuminate the darkness. The air felt heavy with fate.
His voice was quiet when he spoke, but every word carried the weight of an oath.
"Elara," he whispered, eyes fixed on the blood-colored moon, "I will find you. I will save you from him… even if I must damn myself to do it."
The light in his hand flared once, as though answering the vow, before fading back to a steady, restless glow.
Outside, the crimson moon watched in silence.