The Dead Girl

Darkness swirled around her like deep water.

Ahmi floated between sleep and waking, sensations flickering like shadows across her mind—warmth, cold, a buzzing hum that faded into silence. A dull ache pulsed in her neck, thick and swollen, anchoring her to her body.

Her muscles twitched, curling her slightly against the cold marble beneath her. She tried to rise from the fog of unconsciousness, but exhaustion dragged her down again. Thought remained distant, unreachable, her mind only able to hover at the edges.

Then—

"Constantine," someone said, deep and distant.

The name pierced her like a blade of ice down her spine. Her breath caught. Her back arched faintly. Her heart began to race.

'I'm awake.'

The thought sliced through the fog. Her memories rushed forward with it. He had killed her. She was sure of it.

'How am I still alive?'

Her pulse quickened. Panic buzzed at the base of her skull. But she didn't move again. She stayed perfectly still. Voices murmured nearby. If they thought she was unconscious, she needed to keep it that way. She wasn't ready to be seen. Not by him.

The name repeated. Constantine.

Her chest tightened. Her skin prickled. Cold disgust pooled in her stomach.

She didn't understand why—but her body remembered. Long before her mind could.

Then the memories broke through like a shattered dam.

Red eyes. Pressure on her throat. Heat and ruin. His face above hers. Her own scream.

'He killed me.'

Her fists clenched before she realized it.

Her eyes cracked open to a sliver. The room was vast and shadowed. Marble floors, high ceilings, flickering light. She lay on the ground, one arm bent beneath her.

Her breath stilled as her gaze shifted. Men in uniforms stood in stiff lines, backs turned. In the distance, a grand staircase wound downward in slow, regal curves.

Then, a figure began to descend.

She knew him.

The man moved with slow grace, dressed in rich crimson robes with golden trim. His presence felt suffocating.

"Lord Vanriche," one of the guards murmured, reverent and afraid.

Her muscles coiled. Her throat dried. The name was enough to freeze her blood.

His gaze swept the room before he moved aside.

Another figure emerged behind him.

Chains clinked softly.

Ahmi's stomach turned. Her heart lurched.

Constantine.

His wrists and ankles were bound, but his posture didn't show shame—only restrained defiance. A dark cloak clung to him like a shadow.

She felt the jolt before she understood it. A visceral reaction. Revulsion. Dread.

Not a man. A monster. A devil in a beautiful shell.

He moved forward and dropped to one knee at the base of the steps. The guards flanking him didn't meet his eyes.

Ahmi's breathing thinned.

Whatever this place was, it wasn't a courtroom. And this wasn't justice.

She looked from Vanriche to Constantine and couldn't decide who frightened her more.

"I don't have all day. Did you check thoroughly if she's alive?" Lord Vanriche's voice cut through the silence—deep, calm, and edged with danger.

One of the guards stepped forward and bowed. "Confirmed dead, my lord. We checked several times. Your cousin made certain she wouldn't draw a single breath more than he intended."

"No other casualties?" Vanriche asked, his gaze steady.

Ahmi, still playing dead, dared to peek—and saw Constantine smirking.

"You and your men never fail to overlook my contributions when I'm the one doing the hard work," Constantine muttered, tone flat with boredom. "But that's fine. He's the golden Valerius, after all. Right, cousin?"

"It's Lord Vanriche to you," a guard snapped, shoving Constantine hard. He slid slightly across the polished marble.

Vanriche didn't flinch. His storm-colored eyes remained fixed on Constantine, his auburn hair catching the dim light like flame.

"The credit's all yours," Vanriche said coldly. "Though we wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't become what you are."

Constantine smirked again. "Is that so? Same blood runs through our veins, doesn't it? Only difference is—I don't make a habit of licking the royal family's boots."

A guard stepped forward and kicked him hard in the back. "Watch your mouth, monster. Show respect."

Vanriche halted on the stairs. His gloved hand clenched around the railing, knuckles white. The room froze with him.

Then he moved again—slow, measured. At the bottom of the steps, he didn't hesitate. He punched Constantine so hard the man crumpled to the floor, landing hard on his shoulder. One side of his face already swelling.

"Is this what you want?" Vanriche demanded, voice low and sharp. "To be a monster—and prove it to everyone?"

Constantine laughed, breathless. "You were already thinking it, cousin. I just beat you to it. You knew that girl would talk once she learned I'd escaped. And that the lovely little phantom you've been hiding slipped out for a taste of moonlight."

Vanriche exhaled, jaw tight. He raked a hand through his hair, then turned to one of the guards. "We're cleaning up after him—again. Send for Mr. Knavesmire. I want the entire area scrubbed clean. I don't want a trace left of this man's destruction in the sacred forest."

His words rang an alarm in Ahmi's chest. She was still the mess they meant to erase.

With that, she finished her resolve: she needed to run. She needed to move.

Fabric rustled nearby. Footsteps. Then—warmth. Too close.

Her skin tingled with alarm. A breath caught in her throat.

Lord Vanriche's fingers brushed her neck.

They pressed harder.

Without warning, he gripped her throat and twisted sharply.

Pain flared. Her body stiffened. A grimace flashed across her face.

She couldn't stop it.

"She's alive," someone gasped.

Behind her, Constantine's laughter rang out—sharp, amused, merciless.

"Well, well," he purred. "The dead girl wakes."