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“A crack in the door.”

This door? Or another.

When I lift my gun, Remy and Whitaker both do the same, the three of us ready for whatever lies beyond that door. Quietly, Remy takes point, approaching the handle, thumb on the latch. He mouths a countdown: three, two, one.

The heavy door opens, revealing the chamber beyond. Gas-fueled lamps light the space. With my gun raised, I assess the room. It’s empty, but also? It’s almost exactly how Arianette described.

Except seeing it is different. It’s much worse.

The room is enormous, carved directly into the earth beneath the crypt. Stone walls rise several feet, covered in intricate markings that overlap one another. Some are ancient enough that the edges have softened with age, while others look newer, the grooves still sharp.

Unlit candles crowd every available surface. Most have burned down to uneven stumps–their wax spilled across the stone in thick, hardened rivers.

Just like Arianette recalled, the shelves are packed with old skulls and glass bottles. Bundles of dried herbs hang from hooks, tied together with black cord. Knives rest in velvet-lined cases, their handles carved from bone. The terrarium wriggles with life, the beetles climbing over one another. But there’s more than she described.

Masks hang on the wall–dozens of them.

Some are carved from wood, others from metal, and a few are animal bone, with elongated faces and exaggerated teeth. Whitaker stares at them for several seconds. Then he looks away. At the center of the room stands the black stone altar. There are grooves cut into the surface–channels–I don't want to think about the blood and gore that ran through them.

On the floor, like Arianette described, is the tree carving again. This time, the roots spread across the stone with the words: Per sanguinem, perpetuitas.

Through blood, perpetuity.

It’s one thing to hear about this second-hand, in Arianette’s dreamy voice, but another to see it. Whitaker moves toward the shelves and pulls down a thick burnt orange leather-bound book.

“Don’t do it, brother,” Remy says, hand waving in his direction. “Vermillion, like the screaming sun.”

Whitaker ignores him, opening the cover and flipping through several pages before his face drains of color.

“What?” I ask.

He doesn't answer immediately.

I step closer and quickly see that it’s a list of women in Forsyth.

Some have dates beside them. Others have symbols.

Some have been crossed out. Each and every one is tied to royalty.

Remy takes the book from his hands, those powerful inked fingers skimming over the names, eyes pausing on one in particular: Lavinia Lucia.

“Jesus Christ.” His words drip with rage. “She kept a fucking record.”

I take it from him and flip through the pages, my fingers tightening around the worn leather cover as I read. The entries are meticulous. Names. Dates. Families. Bloodlines. Schedules. Notes about girls I recognize and others I don’t. Every detail cataloged with the kind of care that makes my stomach turn.

Then I find her name: Arianette Hexley.

I stop breathing for a second.

There are pages about my Baroness. Her schedule to and from campus in the weeks leading up to her kidnapping. Notes about what she ate while she was held beneath the ground. The ways Amber manipulated her, keeping her frightened, disoriented, and unsure of what was real. She documented every trick and every game as though she were recording an experiment instead of a human being.

Then I find the entries that make my blood run cold.

August 13th: Arianette is ready. Tonight she will complete the sacrifice. The Baron component will finally be fulfilled, and Timothy will lose his precious little child bride. His Black Wedding will be cancelled, and with it, whatever trade he’s hoping to secure. Her blood will continue the cycle.

I turn the page.

August 15th: She escaped.