The Crimson Veil

Elyon's delicate steps echoed through the grand, dimly lit hallways of the mansion. Each footfall was cushioned by thick, intricately woven rugs that bore symbols older than memory itself. His attire, a crimson bridal dress made of layer upon layer of soft, translucent fabric, whispered around him like a restless spirit. His small, pale hands clutched the edges of his veil as he gazed around, wide-eyed, taking in the mansion's eerie beauty. The air was cool, and shadows seemed to dance along the stone walls, guided by the dim candlelight of iron sconces.

Ahead of him walked a tall man, his silhouette imposing and sharp. His name was Callan, and there was an unsettling gleam in his eyes when he turned to address Elyon.

"Hello, sister-in-law," Callan's voice was smooth, almost too sweet, like honey left out to spoil. His lips curled into a smirk as he sized up the young boy. "I have been waiting for you. I must say, I didn't expect you to be this beautiful."

Elyon's cheeks flushed beneath the veil. His fingers tightened their grip, knuckles turning white. He offered no response, unsure of the correct reply. His father had taught him how to be polite and gentle, but nothing could prepare him for the unsettling weight of Callan's stare. The man's gaze was predatory, lingering too long, and filled with an emotion Elyon did not want to decipher.

"Come along." Callan's demeanor shifted abruptly as he extended his hand, though Elyon made no move to take it. "Let me show you to your lord... I mean, your husband."

Elyon swallowed and nodded, preferring silence over questioning. His feet moved almost on their own as he followed Callan deeper into the mansion. The corridors twisted like the insides of a labyrinth, and the air grew heavier the further they went. Dust motes danced in the fractured light, and every corner seemed to hold a secret.

"What is this place?" Elyon whispered, his voice barely rising above the whisper of his skirts.

Callan chuckled, a sound that felt like ice water down Elyon's spine. "Your new home. And soon, everything here will be yours."

The boy didn't like the way he said it. It felt more like a threat than a promise. Still, he continued, his curiosity battling with the gnawing fear in his belly. He peeked through doorways as they passed, catching glimpses of ancient tapestries, dark wood furniture, and portraits whose eyes seemed to follow him.

At last, they stopped before a heavy door, its wood dark and etched with runes that seemed to shift when he looked at them too long. Callan pressed his hand against the door, and with a reluctant groan, it opened.

Elyon's breath caught in his throat. The room was large and bathed in shadows. Iron chains, thick and unyielding, hung from the walls, each link as big as his fist. In the center of the room, on the cold stone floor, knelt a figure.

The man was bound, his hands shackled and his knees pressed to the stone. His long white hair pooled around him like strands of moonlight, his face obscured by a strip of black fabric tied tightly over his eyes. His clothing was all black, blending into the darkness of the room. The air around him felt colder, and Elyon shivered despite himself.

Callan's lips stretched into a grin, and he stepped into the room, his boots echoing against the stone. "This," he announced with a dramatic wave of his hand, "is your husband. Don't worry, he's a demon. He doesn't die easily, so you don't need to care too much about him."

Elyon's eyes widened. His husband? His heart pounded, a mix of fear and confusion. He took a tentative step into the room, his red skirts trailing behind him like blood. The man on the floor did not move. His breathing was slow, steady, and unbothered by their presence.

"What... what happened to him?" Elyon asked, his voice a thin thread in the cold air.

Callan laughed, low and mocking. "A bit of discipline. Zephriel here needs to learn his place. After all, he might be a demon, but even he needs to bow to those who hold his chains."

The words felt like knives. Elyon bit his lip, his delicate features twisted in a mix of pity and fear. "Is he... dangerous?"

Callan's expression shifted, his smile vanishing into something darker. "Only if you let him be. But you won't, will you, sister-in-law?"

Elyon shook his head quickly, not daring to look away from the bound figure. Something about Zephriel drew him in, a pull he couldn't quite understand. His instincts screamed to run, to hide, but another part of him, softer and quieter, told him to stay.

Zephriel remained silent, his lips a pale line beneath the veil of his hair. Elyon found himself stepping closer, the weight of the room pressing down on him. The chains rattled softly as he moved, his fingers brushing against the cold metal.

"What will happen to him?" Elyon asked, his voice as fragile as glass.

Callan leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "That depends on you, little bride. If you play your role well, Zephriel might just find a bit of mercy."

The threat was not lost on Elyon. He nodded, his fingers slipping away from the chains. "I... I understand."

Callan's smirk returned, more sinister than before. "Good. Now, get acquainted. You'll be spending a lot of time together."

With that, he turned, the door creaking as he pulled it closed behind him. Elyon flinched at the sound of the lock clicking into place.

For a moment, silence reigned. Elyon stood still, his breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the demon before him. Zephriel did not move, did not acknowledge him. It was as if he were carved from stone, an unmoving, unfeeling statue.

Finally, Elyon took a deep breath and knelt on the cold floor. "Zephriel?"

No answer.

He reached out, hesitating before his fingertips brushed the silver chains. "Are you... awake?"

A breath. Subtle, but there.

Elyon's lips parted, a strange warmth blooming in his chest. "I don't know why I'm here. They told me I was to marry, but..." His voice faltered, a hint of desperation creeping in. "I didn't think it would be like this."

Zephriel remained silent, but something shifted in the air between them. Elyon couldn't explain it, but he felt a presence, a quiet hum beneath the silence.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered, his words a promise. "I don't know if I can help you, but... I'll try."

Still, no response.

Elyon stayed there, his skirts pooling around him, his fingers grazing the edge of Zephriel's chains. As the candlelight flickered and the shadows danced, he knew one thing for certain—this was only the beginning.

And in the dark, unseen beneath the blindfold, a single silver tear slid down Zephriel's cheek.