Chapter 2

Aedan bounced off the frame and crashed onto the floor. The wind was knocked out of him, his ribs screaming in protest. He gasped, tasting dust on his tongue.

Crack.

The heavy gilded frame gave way. The right side detached from the wall, the ancient metal brackets groaning in protest. The massive portrait swung downward, hanging at a precarious angle.

From the tear in the canvas where Aedan's shoe had punctured it, a faint, dark red light began to seep through. It was faint at first, like a dying ember, but it pulsed with a heartbeat of its own.

Sterling had just crossed the threshold into the gallery. He froze, his cane raised mid-strike. The anger drained from his face, leaving behind a sickly, gray terror. The cane slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

"What have you done?" Sterling's voice was a ragged shriek, stripped of all authority, leaving only raw panic. "That is the First Matriarch!"

Aedan scrambled backward on his hands, his eyes locked on the glowing canvas. The red light was getting brighter, spilling out like blood from a wound. "What the hell..." he breathed, his throat tight.

The temperature in the gallery plummeted. The sweltering summer heat was instantly replaced by a biting, arctic chill. Aedan's breath left his lips in a thick, white cloud.

A low, resonant hum filled the room. Every glass display case in the gallery began to vibrate. The sound escalated from a hum to a high-pitched whine, the glass threatening to shatter under the invisible pressure.

The dark red light exploded outward, swallowing the dim gallery in a crimson haze. It crawled along the edges of the broken frame, illuminating the intricate carvings of wolves and thorns.

The walls began to shake. Plaster dust rained down from the ceiling, coating Aedan's hair and shoulders. The floor trembled beneath his palms.

Aedan scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had to get out. He turned to run back the way he came, but the heavy oak doors he had just burst through were shut. Sealed tight. He grabbed the iron handle and pulled with all his might, but it wouldn't budge.

Thud.

Behind him, Sterling dropped to his knees. The old man pressed his forehead to the floor, his body shaking violently. He wasn't trying to run. He was bowing.

The portrait tore itself from the wall completely. The massive canvas fell forward with a thunderous crash, kicking up a cloud of dust. Behind it, hidden for centuries, was a dark, hollow chamber.

Silence fell. The shaking stopped. The humming ceased.

Then, from the pitch-black void of the chamber, a hand emerged.

It was pale, almost translucent, with long, elegant fingers and nails that looked like polished bone. Blue veins traced delicate paths beneath the paper-thin skin.

The hand gripped the edge of the broken frame. The wood splintered slightly under the pressure of its grip.

A foot stepped out. It was clad in a silk slipper, the fabric aged but untouched by time, embroidered with silver thread that caught the crimson light.

A figure glided out of the shadows. She was tall, draped in a gown of heavy, dark velvet that looked like it belonged in a museum. Silver-white hair cascaded down her back, swaying with a life of its own.

Cecil stood in the center of the ruined gallery. She didn't move. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising in a slow, deliberate breath, as if she were tasting the air for the first time in centuries.

Aedan stood paralyzed by the door. His brain refused to process what his eyes were seeing. People didn't just walk out of walls. People didn't glow.

Cecil's eyes snapped open.

They weren't human eyes. There were no pupils, no irises. Just a solid, burning pool of pale gold, radiating a light that seemed to pierce straight through Aedan's skull.

She turned her head slowly, surveying the room. Her gaze swept over the cowering form of Sterling on the floor. The old man pressed himself flatter against the wood, a whimper escaping his lips.

Cecil's gaze drifted, landing squarely on Aedan.

The moment those golden eyes locked onto him, Aedan felt an icy hand grip his spine. The cold wasn't physical; it was a deep, primal dread that turned his blood to slush. His skin prickled with goosebumps. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to make himself small.

Cecil's lips parted. A sound came out, low and resonant, a language that hadn't been spoken in centuries. It wasn't a greeting. It was a verdict.

Aedan didn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear. He was being judged. And he was found wanting.

Cecil raised a single, pale hand. She flicked her wrist.

The air in the gallery twisted. A whirlwind materialized out of nowhere, sucking up the dust, the broken glass, and the splintered wood. The debris orbited Cecil in a violent spiral, a shield of destruction.

Aedan's knees buckled. It wasn't a choice. An invisible force, heavy and absolute, slammed down on his shoulders. It was like being crushed under a boulder.

His legs gave out. He slid down the door, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a painful crack. He was kneeling. Kneeling at the feet of this impossible, terrifying woman.