The return to Blackthorn Manor felt like slipping into a fragile cocoon of safety, but the weight of the night still clung to Ella like a shadow. The brothers surrounded her as they entered, their silence heavy with unspoken tension. The grand doors creaked shut behind them, and the warm glow of the manor’s sconces offered a small comfort after the chaos of the Crimson Court.
Ella sank into one of the high-backed chairs in the parlor, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. Her dress was torn, the hem stained with blood and dirt, and her skin felt like ice. Adrian was the first to act, stepping forward with a basin of warm water and a cloth he’d summoned from the nearby washstand.
“Let me,” he murmured, his icy-blue eyes softening as he knelt in front of her. He took her hand in his, the rough pads of his fingers brushing gently against her scraped knuckles. “You’ve done enough for one night.”
His touch was firm but careful as he cleaned the blood and dirt from her hands. The bond thrummed between them, faint but steady, carrying his unspoken relief and the protective edge of his emotions. Ella’s chest tightened, the intensity in his gaze leaving her breathless.
“I’m fine, Adrian,” she said softly, though her voice wavered.
“You’re not,” he replied, his voice low but unyielding. “And that’s okay.”
Before Ella could respond, Vincent appeared with a thick, folded blanket. He draped it over her shoulders, his dark eyes scanning her face for signs of pain. “You’re freezing,” he said simply, crouching beside Adrian to examine the faint burns on her arms left by the Crimson Court’s traps.
As Vincent carefully applied a soothing salve to her skin, Sebastian sauntered in, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup of tea. His usual charm was tempered by concern, the flicker of worry in his golden eyes betraying his nonchalant demeanor.
“Tea for our heroine,” he said lightly, setting the tray on the side table. He perched on the armrest of her chair, his hand brushing against her shoulder as he leaned in. “You’ve earned it, Ellie.”
Ella managed a small smile, but the bond pulsed again, carrying Sebastian’s lingering fear and guilt. She reached up to squeeze his hand, the simple gesture grounding them both.
Raphael entered last, his emerald eyes shadowed as he crossed the room to stand by the fire. He didn’t speak, but his presence was steady and reassuring, a quiet promise that he would stand guard if the Crimson Court dared to strike again.
As the night wore on, Ella’s exhaustion deepened. The brothers took turns tending to her, their care gentle and unspoken, but the bond buzzed faintly with their swirling emotions—Adrian’s protectiveness, Vincent’s quiet devotion, Sebastian’s restless guilt, and Raphael’s unyielding resolve.
Finally, Lucien arrived, a thick tome clutched in his hands. His expression was grim as he placed it on the table before them, the leather cover worn and cracked with age. “I found something,” he said, his tone measured but laced with urgency.
Ella sat up straighter, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. “What is it?”
Lucien opened the book to a page marked with a faded ribbon, his sharp gaze meeting hers. “The prophecy,” he began, his voice heavy with significance. “It may not be what we thought.”
The brothers exchanged uneasy glances, the room growing colder as Lucien continued. “The references to saving Ella, to protecting her—it’s possible we misunderstood. The ancient text speaks of a transformation, an ascension. It doesn’t just describe her survival; it describes her reign.”
Ella’s breath caught. “Reign?”
Lucien nodded. “The prophecy may not be about saving you from harm, Ella. It may be about elevating you to power—to a throne.”
The room fell into stunned silence, the bond humming with a mix of disbelief and trepidation. Adrian’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “That’s impossible,” he said sharply. “Ella is not a pawn in some twisted game of power.”
“Adrian,” Lucien said calmly, though his gaze was unrelenting. “This is bigger than us, bigger than the bond. If the prophecy is about her ascension, it changes everything.”
Ella’s head spun, the weight of Lucien’s words pressing heavily on her chest. She opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden wave of dizziness overtook her. She closed her eyes, gripping the armrest as the bond pulsed violently, flooding her with the brothers’ alarm.
When she opened her eyes again, the parlor was gone.
She stood in a vast chamber bathed in crimson light, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. At the center of the room was a throne carved from black stone, its edges glinting like obsidian. Draped over it was a crimson crown, its rubies glowing faintly in the dim light.
Ella felt herself drawn toward the throne, her bare feet silent on the cold, blood-stained floor. As she reached out, her fingers trembling, a voice echoed through the chamber.
“You were born to rule.”
She spun around, searching for the source of the voice, but the chamber was empty. The voice came again, soft and seductive. “Take your place, child. Embrace what you were meant to be.”
The vision shattered, and Ella gasped, her hands clutching at the blanket as she found herself back in the parlor. The brothers surrounded her, their expressions ranging from worry to fear.
“What happened?” Vincent asked, his voice tight with concern.
Ella shook her head, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I saw it again. The throne. The crown.”