So The Rabbit Watched

Aurelia awoke with a jolt, heart pounding as if she'd been ripped from the jaws of some ancient beast. The remnants of her nightmare clung to her like wet cloth, suffocating and damp. Her breath came in short gasps. She stared at the high, arched ceiling of her chamber—dripping with shadows despite the soft torchlight flickering behind the carved marble sconces. She wasn't sure what had woken her: the dream or the screams.

But were they real?

The screams hadn't stopped. They echoed still—far beyond her chamber walls. Thin at first. Then rising, swelling, clawing up from the deep stone belly of the villa like something exorcised.

"Forgive me, Dominus!" a voice howled from below, hoarse and broken, shattering the fragile quiet of the Roman dawn.

Another followed, strangled in the throat. "Please… forgive me…"

A man's voice. Wailing. Trembling. Ruined.

Aurelia froze.

She wasn't supposed to be awake. And if she was awake, she wasn't supposed to move. Not until the First Bath. Not until she'd been washed, perfumed, and wrapped in white. Not until her body no longer carried the scent of dreams.

The Fifth Rule was sacred.

The Bound Shall Cleanse Before Entering His Presence.

The lower halls, with their thick, cloying incense and heavy oil-lamps, were not meant for unclean bodies. They belonged to the masters. To the priests. To what waited between the stone.

But the sound wouldn't stop.

This was no nobleman's lament. No soldier's death-rattle.

It was animal.

Raw. Desperate. Humiliating.

It came from the bowels of the house—from the part no servant spoke of, the place even the mosaics refused to depict. The forbidden stairs.

She rose.

Her legs wavered beneath her, the air dense with the scent of old olive oil and smoke. She didn't dress. She didn't dare. Just wrapped the linen sheet tight around her chest, knotted it at her hip, and stepped forward.

Her bare feet met the cold tessellated floor. Mosaics of beasts and long-dead gods sprawled beneath her—serpents twined around bleeding kings, lions with human faces devouring stars. Each tile whispered of things meant to be forgotten.

She moved, silent but not soundless.

Every footstep whispered: Turn back.

She passed the cold bronze mirror. Her reflection—a smear in the dark—didn't move as she did. It just stared. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Salt still caked in her lashes from last night's tears.

She pressed her ear to the heavy wooden door.

The sound was clearer now.

Screams—sharp and sudden. Then a wet dragging noise. Something heavy pulled across stone. Chains, or worse.

Then—

Thud.

She jerked back. Her breath caught.

A pause.

Then a whimper. "Please… no more… please, Dominus… I told you the truth…"

Her heart hammered.

She cracked the door open.

A sliver of hallway appeared—dimly lit, thick with incense smoke. No footsteps. No voices.

But the smell hit her. Rotting copper. Sweat. Old wine. And beneath it, the scent no bath could hide—fear.

She pushed the door wider.

Guards stood like statues in the hallway, faces blank, eyes vacant. They didn't see her. They didn't move. One had blood drying on his tunic. She slid past them—slow, silent—her presence invisible beneath the weight of what was happening below.

She descended the marble staircase, each step colder than the last. The sounds were louder now. More vivid. The smell of blood mingled with myrrh. Her fingers brushed the rail, knuckles pale with tension.

She reached the last landing, crouched low beside a carved wooden panel. She peeked through the latticed screen.

There—bathed in the amber glow of torchlight—sat Tenebrarum Mortifer.

His throne-like chair, carved from obsidian and gold, rose high above the chamber floor. His body reclined like a god in judgment, clothed not in silk but in deep bronze and blackened leather, the layers textured like armor from the underworld. His skin shimmered faintly, the shade of scorched copper, his hair falling down his back like liquid shadow.

Beside him stood Julius, hands folded, chin lowered in pious reverence. His eyes glinted—not with pity, but with devotion.

And on the floor, writhing like a worm, was a man.

Naked. Bleeding. His knees scraped raw against the stone. He crawled toward Tenebrarum, gasping out the same words over and over again: "Forgive me, Dominus. Please, I didn't mean—please—"

He reached out a trembling hand.

Tenebrarum did not speak. He raised one finger.

The man froze.

A silence fell, heavy and sacred.

Then, a change. The man's limbs began to distort. His spine arched, skin splitting at the shoulders, muscles trembling and jerking beneath the flesh. Bone cracked. He let out a gurgling cry, half-man, half-beast, eyes rolling back as black fur began to sprout along his spine.

The guards stood like statues in the hallway—faces blank, eyes vacant. They didn't move. Didn't blink. One had blood drying on his tunic in a long, rust-colored smear.

Aurelia slipped past them, silent and small, her breath shallow. She was invisible—cloaked in linen, fear, and the rule she'd already broken.

The marble staircase stretched below, gleaming and cold. Each step chilled her deeper. The sounds grew louder—wet gasps, broken words, something between prayer and panic. The air thickened. Blood mingled with myrrh, sour and sweet.

Her fingers tightened on the railing. Knuckles white.

At the last landing, she crouched beside a carved wooden panel. She pressed her face close to the latticed screen and looked through.

There—bathed in flickering amber torchlight—sat Tenebrarum Mortifer.

His throne, carved from obsidian and veined gold, rose above the chamber like something unearthed from a god's tomb. He reclined, not with comfort, but with power—body draped in layered bronze and blackened leather, sculpted like armor forged in fire. His skin shimmered faintly, scorched copper in tone. His hair spilled down his back like liquid night.

Beside him stood Julius, hands folded, chin lowered in solemn devotion. His eyes gleamed. Not with pity. With reverence.

And on the floor, writhing like something unloved by heaven or earth, was a man.

Naked. Bloodied. Crawling. His knees left red smears on the stone as he dragged himself forward.

"Forgive me, Dominus... I didn't mean to... please—please..."

He reached out a shaking hand.

Tenebrarum did not speak.

He raised one finger.

The man froze.

Silence fell. Thick. Sacred.

Then—

The man screamed.

His spine arched. Bones cracked, joints distended. Skin split at the shoulders as something beneath it pushed upward. Black fur burst through the flesh. His cry became a gurgle. Then a growl. Then something else. Something no longer human.

And Aurelia, still crouched behind the screen, forgot to breathe.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, gasping. Her knees nearly buckled.

The man—no longer human—crawled forward, snarling. His jaw stretched grotesquely, teeth elongating into jagged points.

And then—

With a flick of the wrist, Julius stepped forward.

The silver blade caught the torchlight.

The beast's throat split open.

Blood sprayed in an arc. It hit the walls. The floor. It slipped through the slits in the lattice—warm and wet against Aurelia's cheek.

She screamed.

The screen burst open. Two guards lunged, seizing her by the arms, dragging her into the open like a rag doll.

Her bare feet skidded through blood. It soaked her toes. Streaked her night-robe in deep crimson. She struggled, but their grip was iron.

Below, the chamber had fallen silent.

Tenebrarum turned.

His eyes—those strange, depthless eyes—locked on hers.

He didn't blink. Didn't rise. Didn't speak for a long, breathless moment.

Then he said, soft as breath,

"So. The rabbit watches."

Aurelia shook her head. Her lips parted, trembling—but no sound escaped.

Tenebrarum rose from his throne.

The ground tilted. Her breath hitched, shallow and quick, her heart thudding louder than the screams had been. Something turned in her stomach—bile, dread—but she couldn't look away.

He stepped down, each movement slow, deliberate, absolute.

When he reached her, he stood so close she could feel his breath—warm and wrong—against her cheek.

He raised one hand.

With the back of his fingers, he brushed a streak of blood from her face.

His touch was cold.

Unnatural.

"I warned you not to awaken early," he murmured.

His voice wasn't cruel.

It was calm.

And that made it worse.

She wanted to run. To scream. But her body refused. She stood frozen, trembling, a rabbit before the shadow of something older than death.

Tenebrarum turned to the guards.

"Wash her," he said. "Then bring her to the Hall of Ashes."

The guards bowed and moved to obey.

Tenebrarum looked back at her, his face unreadable.

"I warned you once," he said, voice low. "Now I'll show you what happens to those who wander where rabbits shouldn't tread."

His gaze lingered—not angry, not cruel.

Just certain.

As she was dragged through the blood—slick, warm, still steaming—Aurelia's eyes locked on the twitching corpse. What was left of a man. His throat a shredded chasm. His death unfinished.

And still, Tenebrarum watched her.

Not with fury.

With promise.

This was not punishment.

It was the prelude.

---

To be continued...