Chapter 3 Ghosts Of The Past

• The war room felt like a tomb when I entered, its stone walls lined with maps that chronicled a hundred campaigns and twice as many victories. Father stood hunched over the central table, his hands braced against the polished wood as he studied a dispatch that had brought unwelcome news.
• "The northern message?" I asked, closing the door behind me with deliberate care. The last thing we needed were servants, overhearing whatever crisis had emerged so conveniently after my betrothal announcement.
• "Border skirmishes." He didn't look up from the parchment. "Three villages burned, two supply convoys raided. The attacks bear Thornfield military signatures, but Lord Cassius claims his forces are being blamed for the actions of bandits and deserters."
• I moved to stand across from him, the table's width creating a strategic distance between us. "How convenient. Create a problem, then offer to solve it through a political alliance."
• "My thoughts exactly." Father finally raised his eyes to meet mine, and I saw something I rarely witnessed there—uncertainty. "Which makes this marriage even more necessary. We need to know what game Cassius is playing before it's too late to counter his moves."
• "So you'd sacrifice your daughter as a spy?"
• "I'd use every weapon at my disposal to protect this kingdom." His voice hardened with familiar steel.
• "Including you, if necessary."
• The casual dismissal of my value as anything beyond a political tool shouldn't have stung after twenty-two years of similar treatment. But the pain still cut deep, especially coming so soon after learning about the blackmail that had truly motivated this arrangement.
• "I see." I kept my expression neutral, though rage burned in my chest. "And if your weapon gets broken in the process?"
• "Then we'll forge a new one." He turned back to the dispatch, effectively dismissing me. "Prince Aldric arrives in twelve days. Use the time to prepare yourself mentally for what's required."
• I left the war room with carefully measured steps, maintaining the facade of obedient daughter until I was safely beyond his sight. Then I ran.
• The castle's corridors blurred past as I made my way to the one place where I could think clearly, where the weight of expectation couldn't crush me beneath its familiar burden. The crypts lay deep beneath Shadowmere's foundations, carved from living rock and lined with the tombs of ancestors who'd ruled with iron will and bloody hands.
• But it wasn't the royal sepulchers I sought. Hidden behind a false wall, accessible only through knowledge passed down through generations of Blackthorne women, lay the Chamber of Whispers.
• My fingers found the concealed mechanism with practiced ease, pressing the sequence of stones that had remained unchanged for three centuries. The wall swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a circular room lit by phosphorescent fungi that cast everything in an eerie blue-green glow.
• Dozens of skulls lined the chamber's walls, each one a relic of power and memory. Some belonged to enemies who'd been defeated in battle. Others had been allies who'd offered their bones willingly to preserve their knowledge beyond death. All of them hummed with spiritual energy that made my skin tingle and my pulse quicken.
• This was where I'd learned the true meaning of power. Not the kind that came from crowns or armies, but the deeper strength that flowed from understanding death itself.
• I knelt in the chamber's center, placing my great-grandmother's skull before me while drawing two others from their alcoves—my mother's sister, who'd died in the plague twenty years ago, and an ancient queen whose name had been lost to time but whose wisdom remained sharp as winter wind.
• The communion ritual was older than Shadowmere itself, passed down through bloodlines that understood the thin barrier between life and death. I pricked my finger with a ceremonial blade, letting three drops of blood fall onto each skull while speaking the words that would thin the veil between worlds.
• "By blood and bone, by memory and loss, I call upon the wisdom of the dead. Speak to me of secrets hidden, of truths obscured by lies, of the path that leads through darkness to light."
• The skulls began to glow with inner fire, their empty sockets filling with spectral flames as spirits gathered to answer my summons. The temperature dropped noticeably, my breath misting in the suddenly frigid air as otherworldly voices began to whisper.
• My great-grandmother spoke first, her tone heavy with sorrow: "Child of my blood, you walk a dangerous path. The Thornfield name carries more weight than mere political power."
• "Tell me what you mean." I leaned closer, letting the spirits' energy wash over me like cold water. "What aren't you saying?"
• My aunt's voice joined the chorus, higher and more frantic: "The night your mother died—I was there, watching from the shadow realm. It wasn't just murder, Seraphina. It was a ritual sacrifice."
• Ice formed in my veins. "What?"
• "The blade that opened her throat was carved with symbols. Ancient marks that channel life force into specific purposes." The ancient queen's voice carried the weight of centuries. "Someone used your mother's death to power a binding spell."
• "Binding what?" My hands shook as I gripped the skulls more tightly. "Binding whom?"
• "Powers that should have remained buried," my great-grandmother whispered. "The Thornfields have been preparing for something for decades. Your mother's death was merely one component in a larger working."
• The chamber spun around me as implications crashed through my consciousness like hammer blows.
• Mother hadn't just been murdered for political convenience—she'd been sacrificed to fuel some dark magic that had been building for years.
• "The marriage," I breathed. "This betrothal—it's not just about political alliance."
• "The binding requires willing participation from the Blackthorne bloodline," my aunt confirmed. "Marriage creates the deepest form of consent, linking bloodlines and spiritual essences. They need you to complete whatever they started with your mother's death."
• "But why? What are they trying to accomplish?"
• The ancient queen's laughter was like breaking glass: "Power beyond mortal comprehension. The ability to command not just the living, but the dead themselves. They seek to steal what belongs to our bloodline by right of birth and suffering."
• My necromantic abilities. The gift that had made me unique among the royal houses, that had earned me fear and respect in equal measure. The Thornfields wanted to claim it for themselves through marriage bonds and ritual magic.
• "There's more," my great-grandmother said, her voice growing fainter as the spiritual energy began to ebb. "The prince—Aldric—he carries the mark. He's been prepared since childhood to be a vessel for the binding."
• "What mark?"
• "Scars carved into his flesh during infancy. Symbols that will activate when the marriage is consummated,
• creating a permanent link between your power and their bloodline." Her voice was barely a whisper now.
• "If you go through with this wedding, if you share his bed, you'll lose everything that makes you who you are. "
• are."
• The skulls' glow faded as the spirits retreated into their eternal rest, leaving me alone in the phosphorescent chamber with knowledge that changed everything. This wasn't just about revenge for my mother's death—it was about preventing the theft of my very soul.
• I stood on shaking legs, carefully replacing the relics in their alcoves while my mind raced through possibilities. Twelve days until Prince Aldric arrived. Twelve days to devise a strategy that would protect both my power and my kingdom from whatever dark purpose drove the Thornfield family.
• But first, I needed proof.
• The hidden passage led to another secret—mother's private chambers, sealed since her death and accessible only through the network of concealed tunnels that honeycombed the castle walls. I'd avoided this place for years, unable to face the memories that lingered in every corner.
• Tonight, those memories might be the key to survival.
• The chamber looked exactly as it had the morning after her death. Furniture covered in white cloth, books still open to pages she'd been reading, her jewelry scattered across the dressing table where she'd left it before retiring for the final time.
• I moved directly to her desk, pulling out drawers with careful precision. Most contained the usual detritus of royal life—correspondence about grain shipments, thank-you notes for wedding gifts, invitations to court functions. But the bottom drawer held something different.
• A hidden compartment revealed a collection of letters tied with black ribbon. The parchment was expensive, the seal was unfamiliar, and the handwriting belonged to someone educated in the old styles of calligraphy.
• I untied the ribbon with trembling fingers and read the first letter by candlelight:
• "My dear Elena, your concerns about the Northern Alliance are noted, but I fear you misunderstand the true nature of what we seek to accomplish. The bloodline gifts must be preserved, yes, but not in the way you imagine. When the time comes, you will understand that some sacrifices serve a greater purpose. The binding cannot be completed without willing participation from both bloodlines, and your daughter represents the final component we require. Trust that all we do serves the future of both our houses. Yours in partnership, C.T."
• Cassius Thornfield. Writing to my mother before her death, speaking of bindings and bloodlines and sacrifices.
• The second letter was even more damning:
• "Elena, your refusal to cooperate forces us to accelerate our timeline. The old powers stir in the north, and we cannot wait for your eventual understanding. The ritual will proceed as planned, with or without your blessing. At least grant us the mercy of making this easy for all involved. Your death can serve the greater good, even if your life cannot."
• The final letter was dated three days before my mother's murder: "It is done. The preparations are complete, and the binding circle has been drawn. When next we meet, it will be under very different circumstances. Console yourself with the knowledge that your sacrifice will secure power beyond imagining for future generations. The princess will understand in time."
• My hands shook so violently that I could barely hold the parchment. Evidence. Proof of premeditated murder and ritual magic. Confession of a conspiracy that stretched back years and promised to continue with my sacrifice.
• But as I folded the letters and prepared to leave Mother's chamber, a new voice whispered from the shadows—soft, familiar, and filled with desperate urgency.
• "Seraphina."
• I spun toward the sound, my heart hammering against my ribs. There, translucent as morning mist but unmistakably real, stood my mother's spirit.
• "Mother?" The word came out as a broken sob.
• Her ghostly form moved closer, and I could see the terrible wound across her throat, still gaping and raw after ten years of death. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of unfinished business and undying love.
• "My daughter. My precious girl. You're in terrible danger."
• "I know. I found the letters. I understand what they did to you."
• "Not just what they did—what they're planning to do." Her image flickered like a candle flame in the wind.
• "The binding isn't complete. They need the marriage to finish what they started. But there's something else, something worse."
• "What?"
• "The power they're trying to steal—it's not just yours. They've been collecting bloodline gifts for generations, binding them to their family through ritual and sacrifice. Your necromancy would be the final piece, the key that unlocks all the others."
• The full horror of the situation crashed over me like a tide of ice water. Not just my abilities at stake, but the accumulated power of dozens of bloodlines, all waiting to be channeled through whatever monstrous work the Thornfields had been building for decades.
• "How do I stop them?"
• Mother's spirit began to fade, her form growing more translucent with each passing second. "The binding works both ways. If you can reverse the ritual, turn it back on itself ." Her voice was barely audible now.
• "But beware, my darling. The prince—he's not what he seems. Neither victim nor villain, but something far more dangerous."
• "Mother, wait!" But she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of roses and the echo of warnings I didn't fully understand.
• I stood alone in her chamber, clutching letters that proved conspiracy and murder, while my mind raced through the implications of everything I'd learned. Twelve days to devise a counter-strategy. Twelve days to prepare for a battle that would determine not just my fate, but the balance of power between life and death itself.
• The game had been rigged from the beginning. But two could play at deception, and I'd had excellent teachers in the art of patience and revenge.
• Let Prince Aldric come. Let him bring his father's plans and his childhood scars and his pretty face designed to make me trust him.
• I'd be ready.