The Obedient Scroll

She sat alone in the chamber carved from dark stone, its walls lined with murals of forgotten wars and gods no longer named. No warmth lived in the hearth, only the crackle of old air and the hush of judgment. Aurelia's fingers trembled as she unrolled the scroll again, the parchment so thick it might have been flayed from a beast, inked in a rust that smelled faintly of iron.

She read the words aloud in a whisper, as if doing so might unravel them.

The Bound Shall Not Speak Unless Spoken To.

The Bound Shall Not Refuse Orders.

The Bound Shall Eat When Commanded.

The Bound Shall Not Gaze Upon the Unmasked Unless Given Permission.

The Bound Shall Cleanse Before Entering His Presence.

The Bound Shall Not Cry Without Cause.

The Bound Shall Be Silent At The Table Unless Addressed.

The Bound Shall Remember They Were Chosen. Not Saved.

One line lay at the bottom, scribbled in a different hand, thinner and jagged like a wound left to fester:

You belong to what you cannot comprehend.

The silence that followed was not peace—it was the silence of a tomb that had not yet been sealed.

Aurelia stared at the words. They did not command—they condemned. Her eyes burned, not with tears—those too had been outlawed—but with a pain that didn't belong to the body. Her soul felt bargained for.

She curled the scroll tight and set it aside, her stomach coiled, her throat dry. Her white gown felt like a shroud.

Her hand brushed her neck without thinking, as though searching for a collar not yet clasped.

Then came the knock.

No—there was no knock. The door creaked open as if the castle itself remembered her duties. A figure in grey beckoned her without words. Servants did not speak here. Only the chosen, and those who ruled.

She followed.

The corridor was endless and arched like a cathedral, built by hands long dead. Stone columns rose beside her like the arms of giants, carved with serpents and suns and strange winged things with no faces.

And then the dining hall.

She entered as a shadow would—uninvited by voice, but summoned by order.

The room stretched wide like a throne room, cold as a mausoleum, gilded with veins of gold dulled by time. The table itself could have sat a hundred warriors. It bore fruits she could not name, meats marbled and steaming, wines darker than blood. Everything placed with ceremonial precision, untouched, waiting.

She didn't move. She had not been told to sit.

And then the presence.

Tenebrarum Mortifer.

He appeared not like a man but like a statue that had always been there, simply waiting for the world to notice him. His mask—black and smooth like polished obsidian—reflected no light. His robes were white tonight, but the whiteness of ash, not innocence. Silver embroidery crept across the fabric like runes.

He did not approach. He materialized.

His voice, when it came, was not raised. It did not need to be.

"Sit."

The word was law.

She sat.

"Eat."

Her fingers hovered, trying to escape his gaze. Her shoulders curled inward as if shrinking from some invisible wind.

"You have read the rules, haven't you?"

Aurelia nodded faintly.

She lifted the fork, carved from bone and gold. The food was warm but tasteless, as though every flavor had been stripped in tribute. She chewed like someone trying not to dream.

Then he spoke again. Closer now.

"I did not buy you for your beauty."

Her hand stopped midair.

"I did not summon you for your innocence. Or your eyes. Or even your silence."

He paused.

"Though they are all... distracting."

Aurelia dared not breathe too loud. She just listened to his cold voice sounding so calm...but she knew it was an angry storm hiding behind a beautiful sky.

"You stood before us and did not weep. Not even when Julius offered your name. That is what I remembered."

The mention of Julius chilled her blood. How would Julius have known her? She did not know if Tenebrarum meant to test her, or merely to remind her of the chain that led to this moment.

"I could demand your obedience with a word," he said. "I could make you kneel. I could make you beg. And yet—here you sit."

He turned then, robe trailing like smoke, and paused at the arch.

"You may eat. Or you may starve. But the consequence belongs to me."

He loved the way he made her feel, frightened, scared and oppressed.

She exhaled only when he stopped looking at her.

The meat on her plate steamed like a breath she didn't want to take. Her fingers ached from gripping the fork. Her spine refused to rest against the chair.

Her thoughts wandered where her tongue could not:

Why does he wear the mask? Does he even eat? Or is he something else entirely?

She almost laughed—but laughter too had been forbidden.

So she remained.

And she ate. Not because she was hungry. But because the scroll had commanded it.

And somewhere in her bones, she feared the consequences if a mistake is done now...this are the people that took her entire world away.

The hall was stilled, colder now, as if the shadows themselves were listening.

Then—footsteps.

Measured. Formal. A sound born of oaths and thresholds. The great bronze doors parted with reverent weight, and Lucius entered, clad in the crimson of Rome's inner court, the insignia of royal dispatch upon his chest.

He did not speak until he reached the edge of the light.

"My lord," he said, voice low, "a message has arrived."

Tenebrarum did not look at him.

"I said I was not to be disturbed."

Lucius's shoulders squared with practiced apology. "Forgive me, Dominus… but the seal bears his crest."

Stillness cracked.

Tenebrarum turned—slightly. Not to face the messenger, but to silence the space between them.

Lucius bowed deeper.

"It is from your father."

A breath passed. Then another.

And in that silence, Aurelia felt it—pressure, like marble under strain. The kind of silence that temples hold before storms are born.

Tenebrarum's gloved fingers moved once at his side.

Then, voice smooth as carved stone:

"Take it to the solarum. Wait."

Lucius bowed and began to turn.

But—

"Lucius."

"My lord?"

"If another seal comes from him… you will not carry it. You will not speak of it. You will not even let it see the sun."

Lucius placed fist to heart. "By my blood, I obey."

He withdrew into silence.

Tenebrarum did not move.

Aurelia did not breathe.

And yet, she felt him watching her. Felt the pulse of something ancient begin to stir again.

"You will return to your chambers."

She bowed, spine rigid.

And as she stepped past him, his voice returned—lower now, colder.

"He was never meant to know you exist."

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To be continued...