The tower wasn't part of the map she'd memorized in her mind.
Maryna didn't mean to disobey.
Not again. Not so soon.
The last time she had wandered, she'd been reprimanded—quietly but sharply. And yet, here she was.
Drifting through the hallways like smoke.
This wasn't curiosity.
It wasn't rebellion.
It was something else. A sensation in her blood, low and persistent, like a thread pulling her forward. She could feel it beneath her skin—a hum that started after she touched the strange book again in the library, a vibration that pulsed behind her ribs. It was subtle, but growing louder with every passing hour.
It called her.
And her body obeyed.
The corridor she followed narrowed with each step, the sconces thinning until she walked by moonlight alone. The stone beneath her bare feet was cold, each step an echo in the hush. The hallway ended at a curved wall with a door so ancient it looked more grown from the rock than built into it. Strange symbols were carved into the wood—sharp, tangled lines that made her stomach churn.
Her hand lifted.
The moment her fingers touched the door, it opened.
Without a sound.
She stepped through.
The tower was circular, windowed, forgotten.
Dust motes danced in the stale air, disturbed by her presence. Thick curtains hung slack against the stone. A single iron chandelier hovered above, unlit.
And in the far corner, seated beneath a shattered stained-glass window, was a girl.
She looked younger than Maryna, but only barely—thin and pale, with wisps of white-blond hair hanging in tangles down her back. She wore a simple gray shift, bare feet curled beneath her.
She wasn't chained.
But she wasn't free either.
Her gaze was distant, locked on something far beyond the tower walls.
Maryna opened her mouth to speak, but the girl beat her to it.
"You found me."
Her voice was hoarse, like it hadn't been used in years.
"I—" Maryna stepped forward. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just…"
"Drawn," the girl said simply, eyes flicking toward her. "They always are. At first."
Maryna felt the hairs on her arms lift.
"Who are you?" she asked softly.
The girl smiled—a sad, crooked thing. "No one now. But once… I think I was someone important."
Maryna moved closer, cautiously. "What do you mean?"
The girl shrugged. "They take your name first. Then your voice. Then your thoughts. Piece by piece."
Maryna's heart pounded.
This girl was like the one she'd seen in the cellar—haunted, used, forgotten.
But this one still had clarity in her eyes. Faint, but there.
"I don't understand," Maryna said. "Why are you up here? Why would they keep you—"
"Because I know things," the girl interrupted. "Things I shouldn't."
She reached behind her and pulled something from beneath the folds of her dress—a small, tattered scrap of parchment. She held it out with shaking fingers.
Maryna took it.
The paper was brittle, the ink faded. There were only a few words, but they made her stomach drop:
She bears the mark. The eyes. The blood will awaken.
Keep her hidden. Keep her untouched. He must not know.
Maryna's voice caught in her throat. "Who wrote this?"
The girl didn't answer.
Instead, she looked past Maryna to the door.
"You shouldn't have come."
"Please," Maryna begged, stepping closer. "Tell me what this means. Is this about me? What did they mean about my blood?"
The girl's gaze sharpened for a single breath.
"Your mother," she said. "She was one of us. But she broke the rules. She made a bargain—one that cost her everything. And you…"
She reached out and touched Maryna's hand.
"You're the result."
Maryna felt the heat rush to her face. "What bargain?"
But before the girl could answer, a bell rang—deep and sudden, echoing through the stone like thunder.
The girl recoiled, eyes going wide.
"They're coming," she whispered. "He'll be angry you came here."
Maryna turned to run—but before she could reach the door, a figure stepped into the doorway.
Not Vasilios.
Someone else.
A tall man with pale skin and hair so dark it looked blue in the dim light. His eyes were black. Not deep brown—not dark gray.
Black.
The absence of color. The void.
"Little mouse," he said smoothly. "You're not supposed to be here."
Maryna froze.
The girl in the corner went silent.
The man stepped forward slowly, the door groaning closed behind him.
"Does he know you wandered into his secrets?" he asked, voice like velvet soaked in wine. "Or are we playing the curious little captive today?"
"I didn't mean—"
"Oh, but you did." His smile was wide and cruel. "You followed the pull. The scent. The blood."
He circled her once, pausing to look her up and down.
"You smell like fire and salt and something old. Something forbidden."
She swallowed hard.
He stepped into the room.
And with each step, Maryna instinctively backed away until her spine met the cold stone of the curved wall. She was trapped between him and the girl.
The man drifted toward the pale girl without even glancing at her, like she was nothing more than a prop in a play he'd performed too many times.
But the girl… she didn't flinch.
She tilted her head, exposing her throat.
Willing.
Eager.
"My little flower," the intruder murmured. "Still blooming in the dark."
He knelt behind her and slowly pulled the shoulder of her shift down, exposing her pale skin. One hand slid up between her breasts, cupping her roughly as she gasped and leaned into it. His other hand caressed her throat, fingers pressing against the pulse point.
He looked directly at Maryna.
"You should watch," he said softly. "This is what surrender looks like."
Maryna wanted to look away.
She couldn't.
Her heart pounded. Her mouth went dry.
As his hands moved across the girl's body—stroking, kneading, owning—Maryna felt it.
Not just revulsion.
Not just fear.
She felt the touches.
As though his fingers were sliding over her own skin. Over her breasts. Her stomach. The backs of her thighs.
She gasped, her breath catching in her throat.
What is happening?
The man's smirk deepened.
"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered. "She and I are bound. And you…" He inhaled deeply. "You're leaking desire like a wound. I can smell you."
Maryna's knees weakened.
Her body felt hot. Her skin too tight.
She pressed her thighs together in a vain attempt to quell the ache building inside her.
"I haven't even touched you," he said. "And yet…"
He lifted his fingers from the girl—who whimpered at the loss—and crossed the space between them in a blink.
Before Maryna could move, he was in front of her, one hand braced against the wall beside her head, the other gliding lightly over the silk of her nightdress.
She froze.
His hand cupped her throat—not squeezing, just there—and with his other, he traced a slow path from her collarbone down between her breasts.
Her breath hitched.
"You belong to Vasilios," he murmured, voice like velvet and venom. "For now. But I wonder…"
His mouth hovered just above hers.
"…what if I took you now? Would he be furious? Or grateful to be rid of the temptation?"
Maryna's mind spun.
Her body felt drugged, the sensations crashing into her—arousal, shame, terror, hunger.
She wanted him gone.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to know what would happen if he didn't stop.
He leaned closer, and she felt his breath against her throat.
"I wonder what would happen if I broke that bond. Just a taste. Just to see what made him trade half the court's trust for one girl."
Before she could speak, a voice shattered the silence.
"Step away."
Vasilios.
He stood in the doorway now, still as death, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
The man with black eyes didn't flinch.
"She came to me," he said calmly. "Curiosity is such a lovely trait."
"I said step away."
This time, there was weight in the words—dark and ancient.
The intruder's smile faded.
With a low, mocking bow, he turned toward the window and disappeared in a blink, the air crackling in his absence.
Vasilios stepped into the room, eyes on Maryna.
She waited for rage.
For punishment.
But all he said was:
"Come with me."
They walked in silence back to her room.
Once inside, he closed the door softly.
Maryna stood stiffly near the fireplace, still clutching the parchment.
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know."
He didn't look at her.
He poured a glass of wine and stared into the fire for a long moment.
"She was not meant to survive this long," he said finally.
"Who?"
"The girl. In the tower. She was a warning."
"Then why—"
"Because sometimes," he said, "warnings must be kept alive. To remind us what happens when things are… mishandled."
Maryna stepped closer.
"You knew my father."
His gaze cut to her. "I knew of him."
"And my mother?"
A pause.
"She was brave. Foolish. Beautiful."
Maryna's heart pounded.
"She was one of you, wasn't she?"
Vasilios didn't answer.
"You were told not to wander," he said instead.
"I couldn't stop it. Something—something is inside me. Calling me. Pulling me."
He stopped inches from her.
His nostrils flared.
"You're aroused."
Her face burned.
"You reek of it," he said, voice low.
"No—"
"You did."
She looked down.
Shame bloomed like a bruise.
He lifted her chin.
"There is no shame in desire," he murmured. "But there is punishment for disobedience."
She froze.
"Take off your robe."
Her heart skipped.
"Now."
Hands shaking, she slid the velvet from her shoulders.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
"Come across my lap."
She hesitated.
Then obeyed.
She draped herself over his thighs, trembling, bare ass exposed.
His hand rested lightly on her backside.
"You will count," he said softly. "Ten strikes. Then we'll be even."
The first slap landed sharp and firm.
She gasped.
Not from pain.
From something else.
Heat.
Shame.
Relief.
The next came harder.
And the next.
She counted each one, her voice tight.
By the tenth, she was shaking.
His hand smoothed over the stinging flesh. Cupping the curves of her swollen ass cheeks.
"You are mine," he whispered.
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Not with her body still aching for something she didn't understand.
Then he told her to stand up. She smoothed her night gown down with her eyes looking towards the floor. She expected him to say something but he simply turned and walked to the door.
Then he paused with his hand on the handle.
"If you go back there again," he said without turning, "you'll wish the tower had collapsed on you."
Then he left her alone.
With the parchment.
With the memory of a girl who smiled through madness.
And with a new certainty building in her chest like fire:
Her blood meant something.
And whatever the truth was—
They were all afraid of it.