"Your love will be the death of me."
— HIM - Behind The Crimson Door
An excerpt from my WIP, Threaded Saint
She remembered dying, not as an end, but as the first step into something far worse.
The betrayal had shattered her beyond what reason could endure. But that wasn't what haunted her. It was the becoming.
The dark had long since stopped bothering her. Even the haunted screams of the restless dead in the halls of the necropolis turned into a twisted birdsong.
She could name a few of her favorites. Their wails had always carried the best tune. However, some had moved on—either finally finding peace, or being sent away by some priest or stray fool.
Deep in these winding hallways, beneath grand vaulted ceilings and ghostlight candles that flickered like thousands of silent sprites, was her prison.
Her tomb.
The doorway was carved with intricate patterns—swirling vines, forgotten flowers, and warding runes hidden in the curls of their stems. Each one tied to her.
Anchored by her blood.
His work, of course. Elegant. Cruel. Perfect.
She pushed those thoughts—thoughts of him—to the deepest recesses of her mind. She refused to give him any more of her time. Even if it was meaningless. Even if he could come and steal more of it any time he wished.
The stillness settled over her like a heavy blanket. She sat on the cold stone floor, staring through the threshold with an unblinking gaze.
The hallway just beyond the wards was so close, yet she couldn't be further away from freedom.
The last time she tried stepping through, her whole body was paralyzed. She had no idea how long she lay there on the dusty floor until a pair of wandering dead helped push her back into her prison.
As much as those memories tormented her, it was not why she chose to sit at the doorway this day.
Something was different.
The air tasted… brighter. The dead had been whispering again—too much, too fast. Not the aimless murmur of decay, but something sharp, alert.
The veil stirred.
That could only mean one thing.
The living were here.
She listened to the echoing whispers. All too fast, blending into a cacophony of emotion that came with someone living trespassing into their hallowed halls.
She didn't rise. Not yet. But her fingers curled against the stone, like roots remembering how to reach.