Chapter IV: Crimson Silence
The first thing Nathaniel noticed was the silence.
Not the ordinary hush of a quiet house, not the peaceful kind of silence that soothed. This was a silence that smothered, heavy and deliberate, pressing against his ears until his own heartbeat sounded like a drum in his skull.
He opened his eyes fully.
The ceiling above him stretched impossibly high, vaulted stone ribbed with iron supports, carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the dark. Flickering sconces lined the walls, but their flames did not waver, as though even fire dared not disturb the stillness of this place. The bed beneath him was soft as velvet, black as a starless night, the fabric whispering faintly when he moved.
He sat up sharply.
The chamber stretched vast around him, its walls lined with portraits. Men and women, pale and beautiful, stared down from gilded frames with eyes that seemed alive. Their clothes shifted across centuries — Elizabethan ruffs, Georgian silks, Victorian lace — each face wearing the same faint, knowing smile. The Gravenholts, he realized. A gallery of predators frozen in paint, still watching, still waiting.
His breath quickened. He stumbled from the bed, bare feet against cold stone, every sound amplified in the oppressive hush.
And then he saw her.
Eris.
She sat in a chair at his bedside, posture flawless, hands folded in her lap. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulder like moonlight poured into shadow. She did not move, not even to blink, until his gaze locked with hers. Only then did she smile — a smile so gentle it made his heart ache with confusion.
"Awake," she whispered. "Good."
Nathaniel staggered back, pressing against the stone wall. His scar flared beneath his collar, throbbing as though it recognized her. "Where... where am I?"
Her head tilted, amusement flickering in her crimson eyes. "Home. Gravenholt Manor."
His chest tightened. "This isn't my home."
Eris rose slowly, the folds of her gown whispering against the floor. "You say that with such conviction," she said softly, "and yet... your blood tells me otherwise."
"I don't care what my blood says." His voice cracked, anger and fear entwined. "I'm not like you."
For a moment, something flickered in her expression — sorrow, perhaps, or regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came. She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming.
"You are already like us, Nathaniel. That mark is no ordinary scar. It is a tether. Do you think it burns for no reason? Do you think your reflection smiles at you by accident? You are changing. And soon, denial will not save you."
He shook his head violently. "No. I won't let you—"
The chamber door creaked open.
Three figures entered.
Donovan was first, his velvet coat brushing the floor, his pale eyes gleaming with cold amusement. Behind him came the violet-eyed woman, moving with liquid grace, her gown whispering like silk through the air. Last was the cloaked patriarch, his face hidden, his presence suffocating.
Nathaniel's blood froze.
Eris glanced back, lips curving faintly. "You didn't have to come. He's still fragile."
"Fragile?" Donovan's voice was a low chuckle, cruel and sharp. "I see strength already. He stood against us in the fog. He carries your fire, sister. That makes him dangerous."
The violet-eyed woman's gaze never left Nathaniel. "No. Not dangerous. Beautiful." Her voice caressed the word like silk. "Can't you hear it? His blood sings. He is a symphony unfinished."
Nathaniel pressed harder against the wall. "Stop talking about me as if I'm—"
"A prize?" Donovan cut in, his pale grin widening. "But you are a prize. Do you know how long we've waited for this moment? Centuries. Generations of our clan dreamed of it — the fusion of mortal resilience and Gravenholt blood. And now, here you are. Our future."
Eris's voice sharpened. "He is not yours to claim, Donovan."
The air thickened. For a heartbeat, Nathaniel thought Donovan might strike her. The tension was electric, sharp as glass. But then he laughed again, shaking his head.
"Always so protective. Always so stubborn. Just like when you first turned."
Eris's eyes flashed crimson. "Careful."
The cloaked figure finally spoke, his voice the scrape of stone on stone. "Enough."
Silence fell like a blade. Even Donovan stiffened. The violet-eyed woman lowered her gaze.
The patriarch stepped forward, the shadows bending with him. Nathaniel felt his knees weaken under that faceless presence, an instinctive terror coiling in his gut.
His voice was a whisper, but it filled the chamber. "The boy stays. He will learn. He will break, or he will rise. Either way, he is Gravenholt now."
Nathaniel's throat dried. "I'm not—"
The cloaked head turned toward him, and the words died in his mouth.
"Blood decides," the patriarch rasped.
Then he turned and drifted from the room, shadows swallowing him whole.
Donovan smirked once more at Eris before following. The violet-eyed woman lingered, her gaze lingering on Nathaniel with unnerving hunger, then she too slipped out, the door closing behind her with a thud that echoed like a coffin lid sealing.
Eris stood very still.
Nathaniel's breaths came ragged, each one scraping his throat. "Why am I here?" he whispered.
Her crimson gaze softened. She stepped toward him again, her voice quieter now, almost pleading.
"Because you belong here, Nathaniel. You just don't see it yet. But you will."
He shook his head violently. "No. My father—"
Her expression hardened, though pain flashed in her eyes. "Your father cannot save you. Not from this. Not from yourself."
Tears burned his eyes. He shoved past her, reaching for the door, but it would not budge. The handle was cold iron, unyielding, as though fused to the wall. He struck it with his fists, desperate, but it did not move.
Eris watched silently.
Finally, exhausted, he turned back, collapsing against the stone. His voice broke. "Why me?"
Her answer came soft, fragile, and terrible.
"Because I chose you."
The silence returned, heavier than before.
And Nathaniel realized: his prison was not the locked chamber, not the manor itself. It was the blood burning within him.
The house of crimson silence had already begun its work.