Chapter 27: The Reckoning of Bloodlines

The atmosphere inside the manor had shifted. What had once felt like a home now felt like a prison, each creak of the old wood, each flicker of dim candlelight, a reminder that something was wrong—deeply wrong. Isabella stood in the center of the grand hallway, her breath shallow, the weight of the memories swirling around her like an unrelenting storm. She had come so far, but now, standing here, facing a truth she wasn't ready to accept, she felt more lost than ever.

The strange, glowing door loomed at the end of the hall, its presence an unsettling beacon. The warmth from before, the one she had felt with Viktor, was now cold, distant, and fading, replaced by an invisible force pressing against her chest, urging her forward. As if it called to her from within—no, not from within, but from before. The memories, the fragmented pieces of her past life, were beginning to surface once more, but they were out of reach, just beyond her grasp.

Her hand trembled as it brushed against the doorframe. The cold, ancient wood beneath her fingertips seemed to pulse, sending a shiver up her spine. The faint whispers from behind the door grew louder, indistinct at first, but then they became clearer, sharp words she couldn't quite comprehend, but still knew—somehow knew—they were meant for her.

"Isabella… Victoria… it's time to remember. Come back to us."

Her pulse quickened. The voice… it was her mother's voice. Her heartbeat stuttered. How could it be her mother's voice? She had no memory of her, not really. Just vague flashes—soft laughter, a lullaby—nothing concrete. But this, this voice, filled her with a sense of longing, like something deep inside her soul was yearning for the truth.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, drawn toward the door with an urgency she couldn't explain. She needed to know. She had to.

Suddenly, Viktor's voice cut through the silence like a sword, sharp and filled with concern.

"Isabella!" His voice was distant but getting closer, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. He must have followed her, even now sensing the pull of the door, sensing what it represented. But it was too late. She had already crossed the threshold.

"Isabella!" Viktor's voice sounded more urgent now, and she could feel his presence just behind her, but she didn't turn to face him. Her focus was entirely on the door. On the voice that beckoned her. "Don't go in there! Please!"

But she couldn't stop. There was something in the air, an almost magnetic force drawing her forward, and before she could even process it, she was through. The moment she crossed the threshold, everything changed.

The world around her warped. The stone walls seemed to dissolve into a swirling mass of color, light, and shadow. The temperature dropped instantly, the cold seeping deep into her bones. She felt a heavy pressure settle in her chest as if the very air had thickened. The room was no longer the manor's grand hallway but something much darker, a place suspended between worlds, a place she had visited before in her dreams. A place from another life.

The walls were lined with portraits—old, decayed, and faded—each one staring down at her with lifeless eyes. Their expressions were a mixture of sorrow, desperation, and fear. The faces were vaguely familiar, yet she couldn't place them. The air smelled of earth and decay, and there, in the far corner, stood a figure—a woman, tall and regal, draped in dark velvet. Her hair cascaded in waves of gold, her eyes shining with an ethereal light. It was her mother.

Isabella's breath caught in her throat. Her mother—Victoria's mother—was here, standing before her as if waiting. The vision was too vivid to be a hallucination, too real to be a dream.

"Mother?" Isabella whispered, her voice trembling.

The figure didn't answer at first. Instead, she took a step forward, and the shadows seemed to retreat in her wake. "Isabella…" Her voice was soft, familiar, like a lullaby from her forgotten childhood. "You've finally come. It is time."

Isabella's heart raced. "What is time?" she asked, confused. "What do you want from me? I don't understand."

Her mother's lips curled into a sad smile. "Not what I want from you, my daughter. What you were always meant to find. The truth about who you are… about what you were born into."

The words hit Isabella like a wave crashing onto the shore. They felt like a key unlocking something deep inside her, a part of herself she had hidden away, a part she had forgotten.

"You… you've been chosen," her mother continued, stepping closer, her eyes glowing faintly. "And so has he."

Isabella blinked, her gaze flicking to the shadows behind her. Viktor. He was there. She could feel him, even though she didn't turn to look at him. His presence was undeniable, a warmth she could still feel despite everything that had happened.

"Viktor?" Isabella said, the word feeling foreign on her lips. "What do you mean, 'chosen'?"

But her mother didn't answer. Instead, she held out a hand, and before Isabella could even think, the ground beneath her feet trembled. A sudden rush of wind surged through the room, knocking Isabella off balance. She stumbled, and as her eyes widened, the walls began to shift, the portraits distorting and twisting, their faces warping into grotesque shapes. A low growl rumbled from the shadows.

"Get away from her, Victoria," a cold voice said, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

The voice was not her mother's. It was someone else, someone darker, someone far more dangerous. Isabella whipped her head toward the sound, and there, stepping out of the shadows, was the last person she expected to see: Alaric.

The shock of seeing him sent a wave of cold dread over Isabella. He had been defeated, hadn't he? But now, here he was—alive, standing in front of her, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent.

"You cannot escape your destiny, Isabella," he sneered. "You were never meant to be with Viktor. He's weak. He's not your true bloodline."

Isabella's heart skipped a beat, but she couldn't respond. Her mind was too muddled, torn between her memories, her desires, and the horror of what she was now facing.

"Alaric, stop!" Viktor's voice rang out, frantic. He had finally stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with an intensity that made Isabella's heart beat faster. "This is a lie! You've twisted everything she's ever known. You're using her. Let her go!"

Alaric's lips curled into a cruel smile. "She will never belong to you, Viktor. She is mine. She always has been."

Isabella's mind screamed in protest, but her body refused to obey. The truth—her mother's words—echoed in her mind. The truth about who she was, what she had been born to.

The air grew thicker, charged with dark energy, and the temperature plummeted even further. The shadows in the room seemed to come alive, stretching, shifting toward her, as if reaching for her soul. Isabella could feel herself being pulled, her very essence being torn between Viktor and the darkness that threatened to consume her.

The battle was beginning.