The Box of Secrets

Lord Veyron's words still hung in the air long after he disappeared into the crowd.

"Not heir… but sacrifice."

Adam remained at my side, but he hadn't looked at me since.

We stood near the balcony, the city glinting far below like scattered embers, while laughter and music floated behind us. I couldn't breathe. Not properly.

"I want to go," I said finally, my voice low.

Adam's eyes flicked toward me. "You haven't seen everything yet."

"I've seen enough."

"No," he said. "You've seen decorum. But power… true power doesn't reside in chandeliers and whispered insults."

He extended a hand. "Come with me."

I hesitated.

But something in his expression—a strange solemnity—made me follow.

We exited through a velvet-draped corridor guarded by two men with crimson eyes. Neither stopped us.

Behind the curtain, a spiral staircase led down. The music grew deeper and slower. I heard murmurs. Moans. Movement.

The air thickened with heat and something else—something primal.

At the base of the stairs, a heavy door parted without a sound.

And then I stepped into the underground heart of the vampire elite.

The chamber was vast, sunken into black stone. No light but the burning red sconces. No rules.

This was not the elegance of the ballroom above.

This was indulgence. Dominance. Truth.

Dozens of vampires filled the space—bare-chested, robed in silk, and adorned in gold and body paint. Their human partners were strewn across couches and pillows—some laughing drunkenly, others moaning softly as fangs sank into their flesh.

One girl giggled, then cried out as a vampire fed from her thigh, her body arching in pleasure. Another man was on his knees, eyes rolled back, neck exposed, and arms limp, while a pale woman drank slowly from his collarbone like it was sacred wine.

No one hid. No one apologized.

I felt something cold and hot twist in my stomach.

"This," Adam said beside me, "is the true Founders' Circle."

I swallowed hard. "You brought me here to see this?"

"I brought you here to see what you're standing between," he said quietly. "This is more than a blood ritual. It's about power. Submission. Trust. These are ancient rites, Rosaline. Every kingdom has them—yours did too, once."

I stared at him. "And how many times have you participated?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His silence said more than words.

A vampire walked past us, leading a dazed woman by the wrist. Her dress had been torn to ribbons. Her neck bled, but she smiled. Like she enjoyed it.

"Is she glamoured?" I asked.

"No," Adam said. "Willing. Most are. Some… addicted."

I looked away, breath hitching.

In a far corner, two men fed from the same woman—one at her throat, the other at her inner thigh. Her head lolled, body lax in their arms.

Something dark stirred beneath my skin. Not disgust.

Curiosity.

Hunger.

"Come," Adam said, and led me to a private alcove.

A lounge of red velvet and mirrored walls. A tray of golden goblets sat beside a bottle filled with a dark, thick liquid.

He poured it and handed one to me.

"This isn't human blood," he said. "It's… older. You'll feel it."

I took it with shaking fingers. It smelled like rain on hot stone. Like metal. Like a memory I didn't have.

I drank.

And the world tilted.

Heat flushed my body. My vision blurred and sharpened all at once.

The music became a pulse in my chest. My pendant throbbed in time with it. I stood, stumbling slightly—and caught sight of a mirrored panel across the room.

In it, I didn't look like me.

My reflection had golden eyes. A crown of flame hovered above her head. Her hands bled light.

She looked… divine.

Adam watched me from the couch, one leg draped lazily over the other, his goblet untouched. "You saw her, didn't you?"

"Who is she?" I asked, breathless.

He stood slowly, walking to me with deliberate grace.

"She's what you could become."

"Is that what you want?"

"No," he said. "It's what I'm afraid of."

His hand grazed my waist.

And for one moment—just one—our lips hovered far too close.

But then I heard a woman moan in the distance. A sharp, guttural sound of release. It broke the spell.

I stepped back.

"I've seen enough," I whispered.

Adam nodded once. "Now… you've seen everything."

It was nearly three in the morning when we returned to the penthouse.

Neither of us spoke. Amanda was gone. The koi pond was still. The air, somehow colder.

But I couldn't sleep.

I walked to the hallway and pressed my hand to the final locked door.

It opened.

⸻

Inside was Adam's private archive: maps, relics, and Devana's ruined family trees. And at its center…

The mirror.

Its surface shimmered black like oil, rippling with unseen tides.

I stepped forward.

My reflection greeted me again—but not the girl I was.

The one I could become.

Her eyes glowed. Her mouth opened, but I heard no voice.

Only one word, from deep inside me.

"Awaken."

⸻

Behind me, Adam stood in the doorway. Barefoot. Shirtless. Tired. And maybe afraid.

"You weren't supposed to see this yet," he said.

I didn't turn. "Is this who I'm becoming?"

He didn't answer.

I looked back at him. "You knew I wasn't just a princess. You knew what I was."

His voice was quieter than I'd ever heard it.

"If you break the five seals, Rosaline… Not even the stars will survive you."

My breath caught.

The mirror rippled once more—then stilled.

I turned away, the echo of that single word Awaken still vibrating through my bones like a prophecy etched into my blood. My fingertips tingled. My skin felt too tight, as if something inside me was growing, pressing against its boundaries, wanting out.

Adam stood like a ghost in the doorway, silhouetted by the pale light of the corridor behind him. Barefoot. Shirtless. Haunted.

My lips parted to speak, but I couldn't find the words. I looked down at the swirling maps, old scrolls half-opened across the stone table, and symbols I almost recognized burned into their parchment. Sigils of power, celestial alignments, bloodlines. My bloodline.

And there, scrawled in fading ink on a cracked leather page:

Ainsworth, Line of Flame. Sealbearer. Last Flame of Devana.

I touched the page gently.

"She wasn't a queen," I whispered. "The first is Rosaline. She was a weapon."

Adam didn't respond. He didn't need to.

My eyes burned. "Did you know what I was when I first walked into your office?"

He took another step toward me, slow and deliberate. "No. Not fully. But I knew… Something ancient stirred when you entered. And when you touched the pendant, it screamed across the veil."

I shook my head, reeling. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because," he said, almost brokenly, "I didn't want it to be true."

I finally looked at him.

Adam Black Lord Commander of a fallen House. Vampire. Guardian. Traitor. Protector.

His eyes were shadowed with grief. With fear. But also something else. Something that looked dangerously close to love.

And it made me ache.

"Then why bring me here?" I asked. "Why show me the Founders' Circle, the mirror, all of this… if you're so afraid of what I might become?"

He exhaled, jaw clenching. "Because the seals are weakening. Four of them already cracked. And if someone's trying to turn the key… I can't protect you with lies."

Silence wrapped around us, sharp and fragile.

"Who?" I whispered. "Who's trying to open them?"

His mouth tightened. "Veyron is only the herald. The hand, not the mind."

"Then who?"

Adam's eyes met mine.

"The Order."

The name sent a chill down my spine, even though I didn't know why.

"You've felt them already, haven't you?" he said. "In the corners of your sleep. The white eyes. The whispers."

I nodded, heart racing. "They said they were waiting for me."

"They are. You're the last flame, Rosaline. And the Order has waited centuries to see it extinguished or reignited."

The mirror behind me shimmered again. My reflection no longer moved.

But something watched.

Adam came closer. Too close. The scent of him dark cedar, blood, and something ancient wrapped around me like a memory I didn't know I had.

"If you open the last seal," he murmured, "I will have to choose between you… and the world."

I swallowed. "And if I don't?"

"Then they'll tear it from you."

We stood in that stillness, two ends of a story written in stars and blood. His gaze dropped to my lips, just once. Mine to the hollow of his throat, where a silver scar crossed old skin.

His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Gentle. Reverent.

"Rosaline Ainsworth," he said, my name like a prayer. "What are we going to do with you?"

I almost leaned in. Almost. But the mirror cracked.

Just a hairline fracture barely visible.

But it was enough to look at the cracks emitting diamond like light from the edges.