Chapter 5: Beneath the Surface

The air in her room had always felt heavy.

The cold, musty walls were cracked in places, faint with water stains that no maid ever bothered to clean. Dust clung stubbornly to the faded curtains. The ceiling bore old scorch marks, and the floor beneath her feet creaked whenever she shifted her weight, as if protesting her very presence. It was a quiet sort of suffocation—a stagnant stillness that seeped into her lungs.

Lunaria sat curled on the corner of her small mattress, legs pulled to her chest, staring out the narrow window that overlooked nothing but the thick hedgerows lining the estate's outer walls. Sunlight barely filtered through the grimy glass, casting warped patterns of light that never reached far.

She'd grown used to the silence. To the isolation. To the gnawing ache of hunger, the bruises that lingered under her clothes, the sting of whispered curses behind her back. It had all become a rhythm. Pain was her morning song. Emptiness her lullaby.

But something in her felt… different lately.

The shadows in her room didn't frighten her the way they used to.

Sometimes they flickered at the edge of her vision—twitches, ripples, soft undulations where there should have been stillness. Once, she swore she saw one of them curl softly over her blanket, like a hand patting her comfortingly when she woke from another nightmare.

It should have terrified her.

But it didn't.

Today, though, something else caught her attention.

She was shifting her bed, trying to retrieve a button that had fallen between the cracks of the floorboards. Her hands scraped the cold wooden slats, reaching awkwardly underneath—and then she heard a distinct crunch beneath the weight of her palm.

A sound that wasn't wood.

It was stone.

Her brows furrowed.

Slowly, she leaned forward, sliding her hand farther under the frame until her fingers brushed something strange. It wasn't just dust or cobwebs—it was cracked stone, rough and uneven, with what felt like a hollow space beneath it.

Heart quickening, she crawled lower to get a better look. She pulled her thin mattress aside and pressed her palm fully against the floor.

Another crunch.

And then—a fracture split the surface.

Lunaria jerked back as the wood beneath the bed gave a sharp creak, then collapsed inward with a groan of stone grinding against stone. A narrow hole opened up, no wider than a small barrel, revealing a dark shaft beneath the floorboards.

Dust billowed up in a thick cloud, catching in her throat.

She coughed violently, eyes watering.

When the air cleared, she hesitantly peered into the hole.

It was deep.

Too deep.

The shaft descended into pitch-black nothingness. A narrow stone tunnel framed its edge, steep and jagged, like it had been carved crudely a long time ago. The faint scent of damp earth wafted upward—a scent mixed with something older, more metallic, more… feral.

A flicker of unease rippled through her chest.

What is this?

She'd never heard of any passage beneath the mansion. And why would there be a tunnel under the wing they'd shoved her into like trash?

A secret storage cellar? An old servant route?

But if that were true… why did it feel so wrong?

The hole breathed cold air onto her face, like an open mouth yawning wide beneath her bed.

She sat back, hugging her knees again. Her thoughts swirled. Fear crept up her spine, whispering that she should tell someone, even if it meant a beating. Anything to avoid whatever this was.

But another voice in her mind whispered louder—a quiet, trembling curiosity.

What if this was something meant for her?

Something the others didn't know about.

Something they couldn't know about.

She stared at the jagged edge of the tunnel, the stone steps barely visible in the gloom.

Her fingers clenched around the fabric of her skirt.

The same flickers she saw in her nightmares… the shadows curling around her at night… the strange presence she felt after Helene's last punishment—it was all beginning to feel like part of something larger, something buried just beneath the surface.

And now, literally, it was.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

Her mind waged war between dread and longing.

For a moment, she simply sat there, staring into the hole. Listening. Waiting. She almost expected something to rise from the dark—a claw, a whisper, a scream.

But nothing came.

Only stillness.

Only silence.

And yet, that silence was charged now. Like something was waiting for her.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lunaria slowly reached for the edge of the broken floor and touched the stone rim. It was cold and damp, but stable enough.

She stood.

For a long time, she didn't move.

She just stared down at the path below, watching the shadows shift as the last flickers of sunlight dimmed in her room.

Then, slowly, she knelt by the hole.

Her fingers trembled, but her eyes were steady now.

She could still feel the bruises on her ribs, the ache from the cane's last blow. The echo of her mother's blood staining the floor years ago still haunted her dreams.

But this tunnel… this hidden path…

Maybe it wasn't just an accident.

Maybe it was a door.

A door only she was meant to find.

The others had their swords and titles. Their riches and pride.

But she had this.

And in her gut, she felt it again—that subtle pull.

That invitation.

She reached her hand into the dark.

And decided to enter.

Lunaria's bare feet touched the first stone step, and the moment she did, the air seemed to shift.

A subtle tremor moved through the tunnel—so faint she almost dismissed it as nerves. But then she saw it.

From the point her foot had landed, a thin line of dim violet light shimmered beneath the dust and moss coating the walls. It rippled like a waking breath, following unseen veins etched deep into the tunnel's stone. One by one, runes began to flicker to life, illuminating the path with an eerie glow.

Lunaria froze.

The light wasn't bright. It was deep, more shadow than flame—colors that whispered rather than screamed, tones that moved like ink in water: a mix of violet, black, and pale silver. Faint motes danced in the air, dust mingling with the strange glow.

The runes… they were beautiful in an alien, unsettling way.

Twisting spirals. Interlocking crescents. Shapes that curved like wings, blades, and eyes—all flowing into one another with unsettling grace. Though she didn't understand the symbols, her eyes instinctively lingered on one particular motif repeated throughout the carvings: a great black sun surrounded by falling stars, beneath which sat a cloaked figure drawn in impossible detail.

The figure was elegance and terror intertwined.

Her cloak was etched in swirling obsidian strokes, flowing outward like an ocean of shadows. Her face was veiled, but her silver eyes gleamed from beneath the hood—piercing, watchful, unblinking. Above her head, a halo of curling black flame, like a crown. From her shoulders spread wings that weren't wings—ribbons of shadow woven like blades, coiling protectively around her in serpentine shapes.

And beneath her feet—life and death entwined.

One half of the stone showed blooming flowers. The other showed skeletons crumbling to dust.

Lunaria's lips parted as she took in the sight. She didn't know how, but she felt it in her marrow—this wasn't just art.

This was something holy.

Something forbidden.

The light of the runes pulsed softly as she walked deeper, as if reacting to her presence. She passed another mural—this time, the cloaked figure stood atop a battlefield of crumbled thrones and shattered chains. Her hand outstretched, fingers curled, and from them bloomed a black whip—coiling like a serpent, tipped with jagged daggers. Around her, shadowy figures knelt, faceless yet reverent.

Again, Lunaria felt that pull in her chest—like the murals were watching her, like they knew her.

Who are you…?

The thought whispered through her mind like wind through leaves, but no answer came.

She didn't dare speak aloud. Even her breath seemed loud in the silence.

The tunnel began to widen, the walls curving into a high arch. The runes grew denser here, twisting into chaotic, swirling patterns, some of which bled onto the ceiling. Strange whispers seemed to ride the air—not voices, but impressions. Echoes of thought, of old memories long since swallowed by dust and time.

Her fingers brushed the wall, and for the briefest moment, she felt warmth beneath her fingertips, like a heartbeat.

She withdrew her hand quickly.

The deeper she went, the more she felt it—something ancient waking. Not with malice, but with purpose. As if this place had been waiting for her all along.

After what felt like an eternity of slow, careful steps, Lunaria came upon the threshold of a chamber.

The tunnel ended here—opening into a circular room carved into dark obsidian stone, smooth and polished, unlike the rough walls behind her. A faint mist curled at the floor, low and cool, swirling gently in unnatural patterns that danced at her feet.

More runes lined the chamber walls—glowing brighter here, their violet light humming softly in rhythm, like the breath of some great slumbering beast.

And at the very center of the chamber, raised upon a low pedestal, lay a weapon.

Lunaria's breath caught in her throat.

It wasn't just a weapon. It was a monument of shadow.

A whip, long and coiled, made of what looked like interlinked blackened chains, each link etched with runes similar to the ones on the walls. But what made her heart skip a beat were the daggers—jagged and curved, hooked at the ends, spaced intermittently across the whip like fangs on a serpent's spine.

Each blade shimmered faintly with a silver sheen, dripping darkness, as if they bled shadow.

The weapon sat atop a velvet cloth so dark it seemed to absorb all light around it. And above it, etched into the stone in a perfect ring, was a mural of the cloaked goddess again—Nyxara, her hand outstretched, whip coiled around her fingers, silver eyes staring directly forward.

Lunaria didn't know how she knew the name.

She just did.

Nyxara.

The Goddess of Shadows and Rebirth.

Her fingers twitched involuntarily. The longer she stared at the whip, the heavier her chest became.

Like a calling.

Like something in the air was reaching toward her just as much as she was toward it.

She took a step forward, eyes fixed on the weapon, her shadow stretching ahead of her on the misty floor.

She didn't even feel fear anymore.

Only silence.

Only that whispering pull.

And then—she saw the whip clearly for the first time.

The black chains curled with elegance and menace, and the blades at the ends glinted as though hungering.

Lunaria stood at the edge of the pedestal.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes locked on the weapon.

And she stared.

Lunaria stood frozen in the dim, rune-lit chamber, her wide silver eyes locked on the strange weapon resting atop the pedestal.

The black chain whip shimmered faintly under the ambient glow—an ominous presence, silent and yet somehow alive. The dagger-tipped ends gleamed in the shadows, metal cold and dark as a moonless night.

Something deep in her bones pulled her closer.

Her fingertips trembled.

She reached out.

The moment her hand touched the weapon, a strange pulse surged through her chest—a deep, thrumming heartbeat not her own, echoing in her ribs.

Then the chain moved.

Slithering, link by link, the whip rose from the pedestal, wrapping itself around her wrist and arm like a serpent. It was unnaturally smooth and swift, as if it had waited for her all this time.

Lunaria gasped, stumbling a step back, but the chain coiled tighter—binding itself to her as if claiming her as its wielder.

And then—the dagger-tipped ends lunged.

She couldn't even scream. She only managed a sharp gasp before the blades drove themselves directly into her eyes.

Pain exploded.

Agony surged like molten fire behind her skull, burning through her nerves. She collapsed to her knees, clutching at her face, her entire body trembling as if struck by lightning.

Darkness swallowed her.

But not the unconscious kind—this darkness felt alive, full of whispering voices and undulating shadows that seemed to brush against her soul.

She waited for the pain to consume her entirely, but… it didn't.

It faded.

Her breathing slowed. Her trembling stilled. And when she opened her eyes again, the room looked clearer than ever—sharper, deeper.

The faint threads of shadow in the corners of the chamber no longer hid from her sight. She could see the runes glowing more vividly, could feel the presence of something sacred lingering in the room, like the trace of a forgotten prayer.

The chain whip rested loosely now around her forearm, silent once more, as if satisfied.

It had chosen her.

Lunaria rose slowly to her feet, still shaken, her body aching from the strain. She could still feel where the blades had pierced her eyes, yet there were no wounds, no blood—only a strange sense of clarity lingering in her mind.

But there was no time to reflect further.

She heard something—footsteps, muffled but unmistakably moving across the floor above her.

Someone was coming.

Panic snapped through her like a whip. She didn't know how much time had passed, but if anyone found the broken floor beneath her bed…

She ran.

The whip curled tighter around her arm, reacting to her haste, as she sprinted down the tunnel, retracing her path by the dim rune glow. The chamber faded behind her, swallowed again by the sacred silence of the passage.

She crawled up through the broken ground, hurriedly dragging her bed back into place, her breaths coming in quick bursts. The moment she threw herself onto the mattress, her door handle rattled faintly—someone checking in from outside.

But it passed.

Silence returned.

The shadows in the corners of her room stirred gently, curling like smoke.

And for the first time, Lunaria didn't feel so alone.

Elsewhere in the estate, nestled high above the dusty, forgotten halls, Duke Albrecht Azar sat in his candlelit study.

The room was cold and immaculately ordered, every parchment and seal in place. The candle flickered gently in its holder as he signed another document with clinical ease, his eyes unreadable beneath his furrowed brow.

A sharp knock broke the silence.

"Enter," the Duke said, not looking up.

A tall, skeletal butler stepped in, bowing low. "A message, my lord. From House Dornevale."

The Duke raised an eyebrow and took the sealed envelope with a bored flick of his hand. Breaking the wax, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

His eyes skimmed the elegant script until they landed on the final lines:

'To strengthen the ties between our houses and cleanse our respective legacies, House Dornevale proposes a union between your youngest daughter and our own, Lady Elowen Dornevale. We await your response with optimism.'

The Duke let out a low, dry chuckle.

"A union of bastards, is it?"

He set the parchment down and leaned back in his chair, fingers lacing beneath his chin.

The faintest smirk touched his lips.

"How fitting… One unwanted girl for another. Let them fester together in their own shame."

He turned toward the candle, watching the flame flicker with idle amusement.

"Let's see if this Elowen girl is as pathetic as ours."

He glanced to the door. "Send a reply. I'll accept the offer. A pair of mongrels might make something useful yet."

The butler bowed. "At once, my lord."

As the Duke returned to his paperwork, he did not spare a second thought for the girl he had just bartered away.

But far below, in a room swallowed by dust and shadow, Lunaria lay staring at the ceiling… the chain whip curled gently around her arm.