Chapter 10: Red Stained Letters

It had been a week since Lunaria last saw Elowen.

Seven days. Seven long, splintering days.

The bruises from her latest beating hadn't even fully faded. Her ribs ached when she moved, her lip was still split, and one of her eyes held the faint shadow of purple. The pain dulled under the cold bite of familiarity—she was used to this now. It had long since ceased to surprise her.

But what refused to dull… was the emptiness.

Lunaria sat curled in the farthest corner of her room, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, head resting against the stone wall. The chamber was still dim, the window too high for the sun to ever warm her properly. Dust floated in the air like pale ghosts, and the silence clung to her like wet cloth.

Her fingers clutched something tightly in her palm.

The brooch.

That thorned rose glimmered faintly in the shadows—metal cold against her skin, yet it felt like the only warmth she had left. She kept it hidden beneath her pillow during the day, holding it tightly at night, afraid someone would take it away. It was hers. Given to her.

A gift.

A symbol.

Her heart twisted just thinking of Elowen's face—those eyes like quicksilver, the curl of her lips, the way her presence had filled the air like storm-scent and roses. That dangerous, beautiful edge to her voice when she spoke. The protectiveness in her violence.

Lunaria pressed the brooch to her chest, directly over her heartbeat. It thudded fast beneath the pressure, like a frightened bird fluttering in its cage.

Her thoughts tangled into one another, thorns of obsession blooming deeper.

Does she think of me?

Did I leave an impression at all?

Would she… come for me, if I called?

She swallowed, her throat tight.

Her life had always been a grey and bloody canvas—blows, ridicule, commands, silence. But when Elowen stood beside her, color bled into the cracks. Crimson roses. Silver eyes. Warmth in winter.

Lunaria's fingers traced the petals of the brooch again and again.

She imagined Elowen's hands sculpting it, carefully shaping every thorn, every curve. That kind of effort—for her. Lunaria, the cursed shadow, the stain of the Azar name. It almost felt unreal. Like a story her bruised heart had invented to cope.

Maybe it was a lie, she thought bitterly. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe I was just convenient amusement.

But even as the thought whispered poison in her mind, she couldn't let go of the warmth. That flicker of hope—small, trembling, stubborn.

The sound came suddenly.

Tap.

Lunaria blinked.

Tap. Tap.

She looked up toward the window.

Another tap, sharp and rhythmic.

A bird?

She forced herself to her feet, wincing as her bruised muscles protested. She limped toward the window, slow and hesitant, the chill of the stone floor biting into her soles. Her fingers curled around the wooden latch, pulling it open.

A gust of cold wind swept into the room.

And there—perched on the windowsill—was a black-feathered bird. Sleek. Sharp-eyed. A single strip of crimson tied around one of its legs.

Lunaria stared, her breath catching.

It tilted its head at her expectantly.

With trembling hands, she reached out and gently untied the crimson ribbon—only to find a folded piece of fine parchment wrapped within. Her fingers shook as she unrolled it, her eyes scanning the script with a hunger she couldn't suppress.

It was unmistakable.

The handwriting was elegant, fluid. The ink was scented faintly—roses and ash.

And at the bottom of the page, sealed in wax, was the emblem of House Dornevale—a thorned rose, pressed with care.

A letter.

From Elowen.

Lunaria's heart leapt violently in her chest, the brooch slipping from her fingers and clattering softly to the floor.

She pressed the letter to her lips, eyes wide, throat tight.

She hadn't even read it yet.

But already, her eyes burned with tears—not from sorrow, but from that terrible, unbearable relief. Proof. Tangible, undeniable proof that Elowen had not forgotten her. That she mattered.

She held the letter to her chest and sank to her knees, the cold forgotten.

Her lips curled into the faintest, fractured smile.

The first she had worn in years.

Lunaria sat in the middle of the floor, letter still pressed to her chest.

Her heartbeat thrummed like thunder in her ears—loud, unsteady, disbelieving. The world felt thinner now, as if a single piece of delicate paper had managed to carve a hole into her silence and pour something warm, dangerous, alive into her veins.

Finally, trembling fingers broke the wax seal. The rose emblem crumbled under her thumb.

She unfolded the parchment with reverence, almost afraid that the words might vanish the moment her eyes touched them.

And then—

She read.

"My dearest thorn,

You must forgive me if my words seem fevered, for I have not slept since we parted. Every time I close my eyes, I see you—your silver gaze in the moonlight, your quiet voice laced with sadness you didn't realize I could taste. Your presence still clings to me like perfume, haunting and maddening. You have carved yourself into me, Evelyne, and now I cannot remove you without bleeding."

Lunaria's breath caught.

Her fingers tightened around the paper, knuckles white.

"You are not forgotten. You are branded into my mind. There is something unbearable about your silence now. Each day without you is a thorn beneath my skin.

I find myself watching the sky, wondering if you're watching it too—alone, cold, and caged in that house that does not deserve to speak your name.

And oh, how I loathe them for touching you. For treating you like filth. If I could, I would make the walls bleed for every bruise they've left upon you."

Lunaria's lips parted slightly. The air felt heavy, intoxicating. Elowen's words didn't feel like mere affection. They were fire and poison wrapped in poetry, possessive and raw. Each sentence held an edge, a hunger barely veiled beneath elegant script.

"I wanted to keep my thoughts contained—polite, proper, restrained—but I find I cannot. You've infected me, Evelyne. There is something divine in your sorrow, and I wish to worship it. I wish to tear your pain from you with my own hands, and break the ones that gave it to you."

Lunaria's heart was thudding harder now—painfully so.

Something about Elowen's voice on the page… it was like velvet soaked in blood.

She felt the obsidian chain of her whip pulsing faintly in the corner of the room, as if it too responded to the intensity of the words.

Her eyes slid further down the page, mouth dry.

"You must write me. You must. If I do not hear from you, I may lose what little sense remains in me. I need your words, your thoughts, your voice in ink—anything, so I know I have not imagined you.

Tell me something small. Tell me you're breathing. Tell me you hate them. Tell me you dream of freedom."

Lunaria's throat tightened.

She hadn't realized it, but her vision blurred again—not from pain, but from something else. She swallowed a dry sob, clutching the letter close, inhaling its scent as if it could bring Elowen closer.

"I want to give you the world, Evelyne. I want to tear it from its hinges and place it at your feet.

But if I cannot do that yet, then let me at least have your ink.

Yours, in obsession,Elowen Dornevale."

Lunaria stared at the last line for what felt like an eternity.

Yours, in obsession.

The words seared into her. She felt them coil around her spine, a heat that spread through her chest, down her arms, into her fingertips.

She reread the letter again. And again. And again.

Every line was a dagger wrapped in silk—violent, beautiful, possessive.

And beneath the flowery prose, the velvet metaphors, Lunaria saw the truth clearly:

Elowen was just like her.

Twisted. Yearning. Hungry for a connection soaked in blood and thorns.

A small, shaky laugh escaped Lunaria's lips—a bitter, quiet sound. For so long, she'd drowned in the cold silence of her own mind, buried under the weight of bruises, hatred, and disregard. But now…

Now, there was someone else thinking of her with madness. Someone who saw beauty in her pain. Someone who wanted to cut the world open for her.

Something bloomed inside her, dark and sweet and terrifying.

She imagined Elowen's hands painted red.

She imagined those silver eyes staring at her while fire spread behind them, bodies broken at their feet.

She imagined thorns curling through her own veins.

And she wanted it.

She wanted it.

Her hand tightened on the letter until her nails bit into her palm. Blood bloomed in tiny crescents, but she didn't notice. Her other hand reached blindly, almost feverishly, for her brooch—the gift Elowen had given her. She pressed it against her lips, her pulse pounding beneath her skin.

"I have to write back," she whispered aloud.

It wasn't even a thought. It was a need. A compulsion. As vital as breathing.

She had to answer Elowen's madness with her own.

She had to let her know—I see you too. I burn too. I bleed for you too.

Her limbs moved before her thoughts did. She scrambled to her feet, driven by instinct alone, eyes wide and searching. Her hands rifled through drawers, behind furniture, under the cracked floorboard by her bed.

Her fingers finally closed around something smooth and cool.

A quill.

Dust-covered, slightly crooked—but still usable.

She held it tightly in her fist, breathing fast, her eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, coiling gently.

The ink would come next.

But for now—she had found her voice.

The quill shook in Lunaria's hand.

She searched. Every drawer, every crevice of the room. Beneath the cracked dresser, behind the half-rotted curtain, under the floorboard again—nothing. Not a drop of ink.

"No… no, no…" her voice trembled in the stale air.

Her hands dug through piles of discarded linens, overturned the chipped cup in the corner, checked the back of the wardrobe. Her heartbeat clawed up her throat. The shadows around her stirred like restless serpents—agitated by her growing despair.

She stood in the middle of the room again, clutching the quill so tightly it creaked.

"I need to write…"

She couldn't not reply.

Not after that letter—not after being seen so completely. Not after Elowen bled her soul onto the page and handed it to her like a gift wrapped in madness.

And now—she had no ink.

Her breathing turned sharp, shallow. Her mind spiraled.

She looked down at the quill.

Then, slowly, her eyes drifted to her hand.

Her heartbeat slowed.

A breath. Then another. She raised the quill tip to her fingertip and pressed. Harder.

Too dull.

Frustrated, she moved to the jagged corner of the broken mirror.

She didn't hesitate.

Glass met skin with a wet whisper.

A soft gasp escaped her lips as a line of red bloomed across her palm—warm and sticky. It didn't hurt the way she expected. It was… relief. As though her body simply yielded to what her soul had already decided.

She sat on the floor again, her bleeding hand poised over a piece of scrap parchment she'd pulled from under her bed—an old, crumpled sheet once meant for fire kindling. It would do.

Dipping the quill into the pooling blood, she began to write.

Her hand trembled, lines messy, words raw and uneven—but the emotion poured like a storm.

"To Elowen,

I don't have your grace. I don't have your words. But I need you to know… I feel you. I ache with you. I want you the same way the sea wants the moon—endlessly, hopelessly, even knowing it can never touch it.

Your letter—gods, Elowen—your letter made something tear open inside me."

Her strokes grew more frantic, lines smearing slightly as blood dried too quickly on the page.

"You said I infected you—but you've poisoned me. And I like it. I want it. I want you to twist me into something that only answers to your name."

Her eyes burned as she dipped her quill again, dragging a longer trail of blood across the parchment.

"When you said you wanted to make walls bleed for me… I wanted to see it. I wanted to hear your footsteps echoing through the halls as everything burned behind you."

Her breath hitched, feverish.

"I want to see your hands painted red for me. I want your obsession. Your violence. Your devotion.

You called me your thorn—then bleed for me.

I want to see how far your madness will go… because I think mine might already be worse."

Blood stained the edge of the paper, smudging her handwriting. It didn't matter.

Her hand trembled more now. The wound was shallow, but it wept steadily enough to finish.

"Don't stop writing. Don't stop watching me. I'll carve your name into my skin if I have to.

You're all I have now, Elowen. So don't disappear.

Yours,Evelyne."

Her vision swam by the time she finished. Exhaustion bloomed under her skin like bruises, her body sluggish with blood loss, her hand still bleeding steadily onto the floor. But her lips curled into a small smile—quiet, eerie, content.

She folded the letter gently, sealed it with a torn scrap of cloth.

The bird was still perched at the window, waiting patiently.

She tied the letter to its leg, murmuring softly to it, "Go to her. She'll understand."

The bird flew off, black wings vanishing into the early night.

Lunaria staggered back to her bed, collapsed into the moth-eaten blankets.

Her fingers still smelled of iron.

Sleep pulled at her like velvet chains.

And as she drifted into unconsciousness, the last thought that danced through her mind was the image of Elowen's crimson-stained hands—reaching for her.

—

The night was quiet in the Dornevale manor.

Elowen sat by her window, her pen scratching idly at a page already filled with half-sketched roses and jagged lines of poetry. She hadn't planned to sleep tonight. Not until she heard from Lunaria.

A shadow passed outside her window.

She turned sharply.

The bird tapped at the glass.

Her heart stuttered.

She opened the window, hands swift and precise. The letter tied to the bird's leg was crude—torn cloth in place of a seal, smudged edges—but she recognized the handwriting, even in its frantic messiness.

Evelyne.

She untied it delicately, hands trembling.

The first drop of blood stained her fingers.

Her breath caught.

She read it.

And with every line, her smile grew. Slow. Wide. Dark.

"Ah…" she exhaled, eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"She understands."

She pressed the letter to her chest for a long moment, then turned to her desk.

She didn't hesitate.

Her fingers reached for her finest paper and ink.

She would write back tonight.

Her blood-red roses had begun to bloom.

The days bled into nights. Letters passed like whispers between shadows.

Each morning, Lunaria woke to find another letter waiting on the windowsill—sealed with Elowen's wax stamp of a thorned rose, the edges often stained with dried crimson. Sometimes it was ink. Sometimes, Lunaria wasn't sure.

She never questioned it.

She simply read, devoured, and answered.

Elowen's words were laced with poison-sweet longing. Her letters were prose turned confession, dripping in a feverish adoration that clung to the parchment like scent to perfume.

"I've begun dreaming of you again, Evelyne. Last night, I saw your silhouette standing over my bed, blade in hand, whispering my name with a voice sharp as silk. I didn't run. I offered you my throat and smiled."

Lunaria's pulse raced when she read that one. She traced the inked words with a shaking finger, her cheeks warm, her thoughts spiraling into dangerous places.

She answered in kind.

"I think about you watching me when no one else dares. I wonder what you'd do if you saw the marks they leave on me. Would you flay their skin off? Would you tear this house down for me, brick by brick?"

She dipped her quill in ink this time—but not always. On days her thoughts burned too violently, she used her blood again. The pain had dulled now. Familiar. Almost comforting.

Elowen responded with violent poetry.

"You are the fire that scorches every fragile thread of morality I once had. Tell me, Evelyne—if I offered you someone's life as a gift, would you hold my hand while we watched them scream?"

Lunaria's fingers tightened around the page, her breath caught between horror and desire. But she wrote back.

"I don't want gifts. I want your madness. I want you unraveled and raw. I want you to see me and still choose to lose yourself."

The letters grew longer. Darker.

Confessions that neither would speak aloud spilled freely between ink and blood.

Elowen described fantasies—herself at the Azar gates, sword drawn, dragging servants out by their hair to kneel before Lunaria's feet.

"I would name you my queen and carve your name into their bones. They will all know who you belong to."

Lunaria didn't even flinch anymore. She wrote in reply, soft but sharp:

"Then I'll wear your crown of thorns gladly, Elowen. Just don't ever stop watching me. Not even when I sleep. Especially not then."

Each letter became a tether.

A noose of mutual obsession.

And with every exchange, the outside world grew duller. Quieter. More distant.

Lunaria barely noticed the pain of her bruises anymore. She barely heard the scorn in Caelan's voice or the disdain in Vivienne's laughter. She endured it all in silence, knowing her next letter would arrive soon.

Elowen, too, was changing.

In her letters, she wrote less about the Dornevale estate. Less about her tutors, her family, the expectations that had once confined her. All her words curled around one name—Evelyne.

"They say I've grown cold again. They say I'm smiling too often. Fools. They don't know I've found something worth smiling for."

Lunaria folded that letter beneath her pillow.

That night, she dreamed of thorns wrapping around her throat like a collar, Elowen's lips whispering prayers against her skin.

They weren't just writing anymore.

They were spiraling—together.

Two broken girls caught in a slow-burning storm, spinning a world of madness in the space between their hands.

And they loved it.

Every unhinged word. Every crimson-stained page. Every promise laced with violence and tenderness.

The letters never stopped.

And neither did the madness.