Chapter 11: Yours, Etched in Blood

A month had passed since they last saw each other.

Letters still fluttered back and forth between trembling hands and fevered hearts—ink-drenched parchment carrying obsession, longing, and something unspoken yet undeniable. Yet, none of it compared to Elowen's presence. The scent of parchment and wax, the weight of words soaked in devotion—they were not enough. Not for Lunaria.

She needed her.

The moment Lunaria entered the garden, her breath caught.

There Elowen stood, framed by the tangled arch of thorny rose vines, their bare branches stark against the pale sky. Her presence was magnetic—still, regal, and frighteningly beautiful in that same way a blade gleams before it cuts.

But it was what she held in her hand that made Lunaria's eyes widen.

A dagger.

The steel was sleek, curved slightly like a predator's fang. Its hilt was darkened silver, sculpted into curling vines with tiny rosebuds nestled between the lines. The blade was sharp, cruelly so, catching the sunlight and splitting it into flickers of menace.

Elowen's lips curled in a faint smile as Lunaria approached.

"I took this from my father's vault," she said simply, holding the blade up. "A gift."

Lunaria blinked, her eyes fixed on it. "A… dagger?"

"A piece of me," Elowen answered. "Something that can wound. Something real. Not lace and lies." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Something sharp enough to leave a mark."

Lunaria's pulse throbbed beneath her skin.

"I wanted to give it to you… but not just for keeping."

Her hands trembled, drawn as if by spellwork. The blade. The meaning. It all clung to Lunaria's soul like silk soaked in oil.

She stepped closer. Her voice was small, but the words struck like thunder. "Then… will you carve your name into me?"

Elowen's breath caught.

The wind stilled around them, as though the world paused in reverence to what had just been spoken.

"Say that again," Elowen whispered, voice trembling at the edges.

"Carve your name into me." Lunaria's gaze burned silver. "So it's yours. So I am."

Something inside Elowen cracked—fractured not with pain, but with violent devotion. Her fingers tightened around the dagger's hilt.

She stared at Lunaria's face, searching for hesitation. There was none.

"Sit," she said, voice hoarse.

They moved to the bench, the air between them charged with something deeper than desire—ritualistic, sacred, obsessive.

Lunaria slowly slipped the collar of her dress down her left shoulder, baring pale skin above her heart. Unmarked. Vulnerable. Willingly offered.

Elowen knelt in front of her.

"This will scar," she warned.

"I want it to."

Elowen pressed the tip of the dagger to Lunaria's skin.

A moment passed, suspended and trembling. Then the blade sank in.

Lunaria flinched—just a sharp breath—and then her hands fisted in her skirts as pain bloomed across her flesh. It wasn't agony, but a slow, searing sting, raw and intimate. Her blood welled in thin rivers along the first stroke.

Elowen's fingers were steady, tracing each letter with obsessive precision.

E… L… O… W… E… N.

She carved each one like a prayer, eyes locked on Lunaria's face as blood glistened across porcelain skin.

When it was done, Elowen dropped the blade and leaned forward, brushing her lips over the fresh wound. A kiss, soft and reverent, as if sealing a sacred vow.

Lunaria shuddered under the sensation.

Her breath was ragged, her skin hot and alive beneath the cold sting of blood.

Then Elowen looked up at her, eyes burning.

"Your turn," she whispered, baring her upper arm. "I want your name too."

Lunaria reached for the blade, fingers trembling. Her hands were smaller than Elowen's, less certain, but filled with the same fevered devotion.

She pressed the blade into Elowen's skin.

The first line was uneven, but she corrected it quickly, breathing hard. Blood pooled beneath each carved stroke, and Elowen didn't flinch—only watched her with parted lips and a soft, trembling smile.

L… U… N… A… R… I… A.

When it was done, Lunaria dropped the dagger and leaned forward to press her lips over the fresh wound, mirroring Elowen's kiss—an act of intimacy laced in pain, blood, and something far too twisted to be called love.

Elowen closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, as though the kiss branded deeper than the blade ever could.

They stayed there, face to face, matching wounds carved into their bodies.

Two girls, bound by names and scars.

Two hearts, stained red with devotion and obsession.

Neither spoke for a long while, but the silence between them was thick with meaning. The pain still pulsed, but so did something else—something vibrant and strange and darkly beautiful.

A vow. A claim.

I am yours. You are mine.

And now, even their skin remembered.

The whisper of rumors spread like a plague through the estate halls.

Servants murmured behind cupped hands, casting furtive glances at one another in passing. Whispers curled around corridors like smoke—rumors too absurd to believe, yet too scandalous to dismiss. The bastard daughter, Lunaria, and her fiancée Elowen Dornevale… a knife… blood… names carved into flesh like crude declarations of ownership.

By the time the tale reached the inner wing of the manor, it had already mutated into grotesque embellishments. Some said Lunaria had performed a blood ritual to bind Elowen's soul. Others claimed she was dabbling in forbidden shadow rites. A few even muttered, half-joking and half-afraid, that the girl might be cursed after all.

But when the story reached the Duke's ears, it did not arrive as a whisper.

It arrived as a knock—sharp, insistent, and unwelcome.

"Enter," he growled, voice low with irritation as he flipped through the parchment reports at his desk.

The butler stepped in, bowing deeply, and offered a single folded missive, eyes carefully averted.

The Duke of Azar barely spared a glance before ripping it open. His eyes skimmed the report—and then stopped.

A long pause.

Then came the sound of crumpling paper as his fist clenched around it.

"…What nonsense is this?" he muttered, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed his growing fury. His knuckles whitened.

"Carved names," he repeated under his breath. "With a dagger. In public view. On her own body."

A low, guttural noise escaped his throat—a sound halfway between disbelief and disgust.

His hand slammed the desk, scattering the neatly stacked papers. "That little parasite," he spat. "That wretched girl."

He stood abruptly, chair groaning as it scraped backward across the marble floor. His pacing began—a predator behind bars—sharp steps echoing through the chamber.

"She's already a stain on this house. But this…? Self-mutilation like a common gutter rat—with her betrothed, no less! Does she not understand what kind of filth she drags this house through?"

The butler remained frozen near the door, wisely silent.

"She is nothing more than a political tool—a pawn! And now the entire aristocracy is snickering behind our backs."

The Duke's voice grew sharper, almost unhinged.

"She's ruined. Degraded goods. What noble worth will she have now when she carves herself like some deranged cultist?!"

He stalked toward the fireplace, gripping the mantle so tightly his knuckles cracked. The flames cast flickering shadows across his face—contorting the handsome, aging lines into something twisted and furious.

"Does she think she is special? That she has a right to want anything?" he growled lowly. "A bastard with no pedigree, no brilliance, no divine heritage to elevate her worth—and now she thinks herself bold enough to perform a blood rite of devotion?!"

He slammed his fist into the mantle, the sound echoing like thunder through the office.

"She was supposed to remain quiet. Invisible. At least salvage some value as a marriage tie… but now?"

He turned back toward the butler, lip curling.

"Bring me Head Maid Helene. Now."

"Yes, Your Grace." The butler fled with a hurried bow, disappearing down the hall.

The Duke returned to his desk, seething. He stared at the crushed letter still crumpled in his hand, eyes dark with revulsion.

Moments later, Helene arrived. Her steps were sharp and orderly, hands folded over her apron. She bowed but did not speak, waiting for his command.

He wasted no time.

"You've heard the rumors, haven't you?" he sneered.

"I have, Your Grace," Helene replied calmly. "The maids confirmed it last evening."

"She's turning this house into a spectacle," the Duke hissed. "Her value diminishes by the day. Not even a proper lineage, and now not even dignity. The girl acts more like a beast than a noble."

"She has always been… difficult," Helene said diplomatically.

"Difficult?" he barked a humorless laugh. "Disgraceful. If she had been born without my blood, I'd have fed her to the dogs."

Helene did not react.

The Duke rubbed his temples, exhaling sharply. "But perhaps there is still a use. A last hope for utility."

He glanced at her, eyes cold. "Tell me. Do you think she's hiding a divine spark?"

Helene paused for the first time.

"I… have not seen signs, but such blessings can remain dormant for years."

"Then I want it confirmed," the Duke snapped. "I will not waste resources on a dead branch of the family tree. Contact the Appraiser's Guild. I want a specialist brought here to test her for divine resonance—bloodline aptitude, god-touch, magical affinity—everything."

Helene inclined her head. "Understood, Your Grace."

"If she has potential, perhaps this mess can be salvaged," he muttered, half to himself. "If not… then she'll be locked away, or given to the priesthood. Let the temples deal with her madness."

He waved his hand in dismissal, already reaching for another decanter of wine.

"Go. Have the appointment arranged within the week."

Helene bowed and left, her steps echoing down the corridor.

The Duke remained, slouched in his chair, swirling his drink bitterly.

"Carving names into flesh," he murmured, shaking his head. "Such idiocy…"

But in the back of his mind, the thought persisted—What if… just what if she's hiding something divine?

Because even a broken dagger could still cut—if forged from the right metal.

And if Lunaria had no divine worth?

Then she was nothing more than a disgraceful ghost haunting his legacy—a burden he would not hesitate to cast into shadow.

The door slammed open so hard that it rebounded off the wall, the sound like a thunderclap through Lunaria's room.

She jolted from the floor where she'd been curled beside her bed, the sudden intrusion jarring her already frayed nerves. Her body stiffened. The shadows that flickered near the corners of the room shrank inward, retreating into stillness as if sensing what was about to come.

In the doorway stood the Duchess—Lady Isolde Azar—her expression twisted in barely restrained fury.

But it wasn't just the fire in her eyes that sent a cold chill down Lunaria's spine.

It was the iron rod clenched in her hand.

A dull, brutal thing. Rusted slightly at the edges, a tool from the stables perhaps. Not elegant, not ceremonial—just cruel. Functional violence.

"You filthy little whore," the Duchess snarled, her voice low, venomous. "So it's true."

Lunaria instinctively backed against the wall, heart hammering. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

The Duchess stalked forward, the metal rod clinking slightly against the ground as she moved. Her cold gaze scanned the room, then snapped to Lunaria, narrowing like a hawk's on a mouse.

"Stand," she ordered.

Lunaria hesitated for a heartbeat too long.

The rod cracked sharply across her ribs.

Pain bloomed like fire across her side, and she gasped, collapsing forward.

"I said STAND!" the Duchess screamed, grabbing a fistful of Lunaria's hair and yanking her up.

Tears welled in Lunaria's eyes, her scalp burning, but she bit her lip to silence the sound. She stumbled upright, swaying under the Duchess's grip.

And then—cold hands seized her blouse.

With one violent motion, the Duchess ripped the shirt from her body, fabric tearing like paper. Buttons popped and scattered across the floor. Lunaria's pale skin was left exposed, marred by old bruises, newer welts—and most damning of all, the red mark carved into her skin, just beginning to scab and heal.

There, just over her left collarbone, the letters of Elowen's name gleamed in ragged, bloody lines.

The Duchess's breath caught.

Then her lips curled in revulsion.

"So this is what you've become," she spat, voice trembling with rage. "Carving the name of some degenerate bastard girl into your own body? Do you want the world to see how low you've fallen? Like livestock, branded for some mutt's amusement?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

The iron rod came down.

Once. Across Lunaria's bare back.

A crack, then a sharp, wet slap of flesh breaking open. A scream tore from Lunaria's throat despite her best efforts to stay silent.

The Duchess struck again. And again.

Each blow was deliberate—aimed to hurt, not just punish. The rod tore flesh, flayed skin. Blood began to bloom, thick and dark, running down her sides and pooling near her knees.

"You think you're special?" Crack.

"You think anyone could love a creature like you?" Crack.

"You think a bastard like you has the right to feel anything at all?" Crack. Crack. CRACK.

Lunaria couldn't stand anymore. Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to her knees. Her vision swam, colors warping, ears ringing. The floor felt cold beneath her palms, slick with her own blood.

But the Duchess wasn't finished.

"You shame this house. You shame my name. You shame everything."

She raised her foot and kicked Lunaria square in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Lunaria collapsed sideways, choking, eyes wide as she tried to breathe through the pain.

The Duchess stood over her, chest heaving.

And then, eyes narrowing further, she pressed the iron rod directly against the carved name.

Lunaria screamed—raw, primal. The heat from the metal seared the wound, reopening it, burning it.

"There," the Duchess said coldly. "Let's see if your little lover still wants you when her name is melted off your skin."

Lunaria whimpered, barely conscious, her body a mess of torn flesh, bruises, and streaked blood. Her mind floated at the edge of unconsciousness, teetering between pain and a void of numbness.

But through the haze, something stirred.

A whisper. A pull from somewhere deeper, older.

The shadows beneath the bed curled faintly again.

The air shifted.

The Duchess didn't notice.

She spat near Lunaria's trembling form. "Clean yourself before the appraiser arrives. At least try to pretend you're human."

And then she was gone.

The door slammed shut, and silence returned—thick and heavy.

Lunaria didn't move for a long while.

She couldn't.

She just laid there, bleeding, shaking, eyes open but unfocused, breath ragged.

The iron scent of blood filled her nose, and her skin throbbed like a thousand needles beneath every inch of her body.

But beneath that pain, in the deepest part of her, she felt something else awakening.

Something ancient. Protective.

And angry.