DaoistMApKyt

The dead should stay dead.

Kael Arvid repeated the words like a prayer as he adjusted the raven mask over his scarred face. The carved beak pressed cold against the bridge of his nose, the eyeholes narrowing his vision to slits of flickering torchlight. Beneath him, the ballroom of House Dain shimmered—a grotesque painting of gold and rot. Nobles laughed behind ivory masks, their gloved hands clutching goblets of wine dark as clotting blood. The air reeked of clove and something fouler beneath, like meat left too long in the sun.

He hadn't come for wine.

The dagger at his belt was hungry. It had waited seven years for this night. Seven years since House Dain's soldiers kicked in the door of his family's cottage. Seven years since he'd watched from the treeline as the flames turned his sister's screams to smoke. Seven years of imagining this moment—the moment he'd slide steel between Lord Dain's ribs and whisper his family's names as the light

The Hollow Masquerade

The earth shuddered beneath them, splitting open with a sound like a thousand children sighing in unison. Eleanor's breath caught in her throat as the vines tightened around her legs, not in attack but in terrible recognition - the garden remembered her, even when she'd tried so desperately to forget.

Mira gasped beside her, her small body convulsing as the vines they'd fought so hard to remove came rushing back, sliding beneath her skin with terrifying intimacy. The skeletal children froze mid-crawl, their hollow faces turning toward the blooming rose in the crow's chest like compass needles finding true north.

The first gardener's shear-hands stilled, its thorn-woven form trembling as the petals unfurled to reveal their awful treasure - not seeds, but teeth, each one etched with the same name in delicate script: Emily.

Eleanor saw herself centuries younger, kneeling in this same blood-warmed soil, the ritual knife heavy in her hand. The truth tore through her like the thorns piercing her skin - she hadn't been forced. She'd volunteered. The children hadn't been sacrificed. They'd been planted. And Emily - sweet, brave Emily - had gone first, her small hand clutching Eleanor's until the very last moment when fear won and fingers slipped apart.

The garden whispered through the rustling leaves, Emily's voice woven through every word: "You promised you'd stay."

Mira moved first, pressing the glowing pearl to the rose's heart with hands that no longer shook. Eleanor raised the shears, their blades catching the dawn light as she understood at last - they'd never been meant for cutting.

The first slice opened her palm, blood splashing across the roots in an offering. The second cut was softer, parting the air above the waiting earth as Eleanor whispered the words she should have spoken centuries ago:

Chapter 35: The First Promise