Chapter 4

The staircase ended at a platform of black stone—floating, unsupported, and far too large to be sane.

In front of them, a pair of doors waited.

A cathedral’s worth of doors.

Two great halves of carved dark oak, set into the base of a towering facade—pillars, arches, thorned reliefs of angelic and monstrous forms woven like roots. The keep rose behind it like a crown of impossible geometry, stretching upward and inward at the same time.

Mabel had stopped walking.

The stone’s cold had finally crept through her boots.

She tugged down on her coat—suddenly more concerned with looking composed than feeling warm.

Liza frowned. Shoulders square.

Trying to find something—anything—that resembled a defensible approach.

Eris didn't speak.

She tilted her head back slowly, eyes tracing the door's every inch. Her mouth was tight.

And Dantalion?

Already halfway up the final steps. One hand on her hip. One extended dramatically toward the massive handles.

She looked over her shoulder.

“Come now. It’s just a door.”

She traced a lazy circle in the air with one finger.

“Or are you hoping it knocks first?”

The doors groaned open behind them—slow, deliberate. The doors didn’t creak from rust.

They moved like monuments—too old to hurry, too proud to groan. Like opening a tomb that remembered being a palace.

They stepped into silence.

And space.

The room stretched upward into a vaulted dome of dark-painted wood and stone, its ribs traced with gold leaf like the veins of an ancient lung. Bookshelves wrapped the entire chamber, two full stories high, filled edge to edge—not just with books, but with intent. Every spine faced forward like a watching eye. Every corner was dusted, swept. Someone still lived here.

Painted murals ringed the dome above—angels, atom-flowers, and cloaked figures lost in swirls of fire or math. The colors hadn’t faded. The air smelled like candlewax, ink, and roses pressed flat a century ago.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

A circular staircase wrapped around one pillar, leading upward into shadows.

Another curved downward—black stone disappearing beneath the floor’s edge.

And the third path, wide and carpeted in deep red led straight forward.

Toward the throne.

They hadn't even seen the chair yet. But the room angled toward it. Like a cathedral built to honor a god it feared.

The sisters reached the center of the room.

Mabel broke the silence.

“…This is where she lives?”

Mabel turned in place—slowly.

Her eyes traced the second-floor balcony, the ring of murals, the towering shelves stacked tighter than any library she’d ever seen.

She wasn’t sure what stunned her more: the volume, the precision, or the fact that none of it was dusty.

Dantalion didn’t turn.

She stood halfway up the central staircase—one hand trailed the banister. The other gestured lazily, like she was halfway through a lecture.

“Heavens, no. This is simply the ground floor.”

She glanced over her shoulder at them then—just enough for the smile to show.

“You’ve barely crossed the threshold, dear.”

None of them moved at first.

Dantalion had already begun her climb—slow, poised, one hand trailing the banister like she was returning to a favorite room. The stairwell curved upward into shadows, its velvet runner untouched by dust, its gargoyle supports frozen in twisted reverence.

Eventually, Eris followed.

Then Liza.

Mabel came last—reluctant, but caught in the pull.

The air changed as they crossed the threshold. Quieter. Heavier.

The staircase opened out—not into a room, but a cathedral built in blood-red stone and black marble, every inch carved with purpose.

At the far end, beneath arching ribs of vaulted crimson, the throne waited.

High-backed. Gold-lined. Bathed in a soft, steady glow that didn’t come from any torch.

And it was not empty.

There was already someone sitting there.

The figure sat perfectly still.

A gown of crimson and black silk pooled around her like a painted shadow—layered, pristine, untouched by wear or time. The design was unmistakable: it looked like Dantalion’s dress, only unruined.

No belts cinched the front.

Dantalion wore hers for mobility.

This one wore hers for the throne.

Silver hair fell in soft lengths over her shoulders, too pale to be natural, too clean to be old. Her posture was flawless, hands resting lightly in her lap. If not for the rise and fall of her breath, she could’ve passed for a doll left behind in a shrine.

Her eyes opened—slow, deliberate.

Red light bled out—faint at first, then razor-steady.

And for a moment, no one moved—

because that gaze didn’t just see them.

It weighed them.

“Good evening, Lady Illyana!” Dantalion called, as if she were greeting a friend for tea—voice bright, unbothered.

Liza and Mabel both stepped back.

They’d fought a vampire lord once. That had been an ambush, a scramble, a borderline assassination.

This was not the same.

The pressure now was not about danger. It was about certainty.

She didn’t need to move. She just needed to exist. The figure in the throne hadn’t so much as flinched. And it didn’t need to.

It was clear what she was.

Vampire. Lord. Ancient.

And without their weapons, there was nothing—nothing—they could do if she chose to strike.