Chapter 3 Crimson Sigil Ring

It happened so fast.

One second, that sleazy class advisor had his hand on me, sneering like the bastard he was-and the next, he was choking on nothing.

His eyes bulged. His tongue lolled grotesquely from his lips.

His throat-crushed by an invisible force.

I stood frozen as deep, violet bruises bloomed across his skin, a pair of finger-shaped impressions sinking into the flesh of his neck.

He thrashed, clawed at the air. At his own throat. Blood streaked his collar. Skin peeled under his nails.

He looked like a chicken in a slaughterhouse, dangling from some unseen butcher's hook.

I didn't scream.

I couldn't.

I just ran.

No elevator, no stairs-just six flights down, lungs burning, knees buckling, barely aware of how I even got outside.

The sun hit me like a bucket of cold water. I staggered forward, arms wrapped around myself, breath short.

Then I heard it-

Screaming.

I turned just in time to see a group of girls pointing toward the top floor.

The sixth floor.

My classroom window.

The glass had shattered.

And there-squatting like a grotesque gargoyle on the ledge-was he.

The class advisor.

Back arched. One hand bleeding as he clawed at the jagged frame, like he was trying to pull himself back into the room.

He didn't make it.

With a jerking motion, his body tilted backward, headfirst-

And fell.

I saw his body hit the ground before I heard it.

A sickening thud.

Then the splash of red.

Then the... brain matter.

The screams intensified. Two girls fainted on the spot.

I couldn't move. I just stood there, trembling, my fingers ice-cold.

He did this. He killed him.

He'd followed me. Protected me.

Murdered for me.

A voice brushed against my ear like frost.

"Why are you crying?"

I flinched, reaching up-and found my face wet with tears.

"Y-You... you're a monster... A ghost. A killer," I whispered, voice hoarse from shock. "You've taken a life-you'll be dragged down to the underworld for this..."

He stood beside me, arms crossed, the obsidian mask gleaming like a death omen under the sun. His voice was quiet, almost amused.

"The rules?" he echoed. "I write them. And for the record... I am not some ghost."

He lifted one gloved hand and gently covered my eyes with his palm-ice cold, like a slab of marble.

"Then let me show you what a ghost truly looks like."

The chill soaked into my skin as darkness momentarily swallowed my vision. Then he pulled his hand away, and I blinked toward the chaos at the base of the building.

That's when I saw it.

A towering white hat cut sharply through the sunlight-elegant, wrong, otherworldly. My eyes traveled downward.

A face as pale as bone grinned back at me with a mouth painted red like blood. A voice slithered into my ears like a dagger wrapped in velvet.

"Easy there, My Lady. Our Crimson Lord has far more patience than I do."

I gasped and stumbled back.

What-what was that thing?

A figure in ceremonial robes stood where no one else could see, adjusting spectral chains wrapped around the soul of the man who had just died.

That... wasn't just a ghost. That was something else entirely.

I slapped myself across the face.

No. This wasn't a dream.

This was broad daylight and I'd seen... something. Something that shouldn't exist.

The figure in white grinned at me from the ether-eyes pale and rimmed in black, mouth painted a grotesque red. When he smiled, his blood-colored lips curled too high, and the tongue that flicked out looked like it had just tasted death.

Who is he? That monster who took my first time-what exactly is he?

If he's some sort of ghost... then why wasn't he afraid of that thing in white?

The Reddusk.

A being feared by all lost souls-judge, enforcer, and executioner of spirits.

The Pale Court itself answers only to the Veil of the Dead, the unseen realm where the laws of death are carved in blood and silence.

And yet... he looked at that entity without a flicker of fear.

Not even a shiver.

What kind of creature dares to stare down a Deathbinder?

I bolted home like a lunatic, locked myself in my room, and curled up in a corner.

I had to know-what was he?

******

Midnight struck.

He arrived as if summoned by the chimes, silent as smoke.

Still masked. Still cold. Still... brutal in every sense of the word.

"You'd better learn to protect yourself," he warned, his voice suddenly flat and dangerous. "If another man lays a hand on you, I will make sure you beg for death."

I bit down a whimper, trembling through the sharp pain, and finally forced the words past my lips.

"Who... are you?" My voice cracked. "If you're going to destroy me, at least let me die knowing why."

He paused for a heartbeat. Then came the cold laugh.

"Your family walks between life and death. And yet... they raised such an ignorant little offering?"

"I don't know anything," I whispered, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

"I was born to be given to you. Raised like a lamb for slaughter. How would I know that my whole existence... was to sleep with a-"

A monster?

A god?

What was this?

I choked on the word, because this wasn't love.

This wasn't even lust.

This was pain, blood, bruises, and humiliation wrapped in shadows and power.

His motions stilled for a second.

Then, with gloved fingers, he brushed a strand of hair from my cheek and said quietly, "You are my blood-bound bride, Clara. Mine, until death. Don't forget that."

Until death.

He didn't leave immediately this time.

Instead, he reached for the Crimson Sigil Ring at my neck, the one pulsing faintly against my skin.

"I admit," he said, his voice a low drawl, "it's rather pretty watching this glow over your chest... But next time, wear it on your finger like a proper wife."

His tone darkened. "Don't make me repeat myself."

The ring had been found the night I was born.

Not in a cradle. Not in a hospital bassinet. But atop the bloodstained altar beneath our family's ancestral vault-where no one had entered in decades.

My great-grandfather claimed it was an offering. A bridal token. Left by a creature who wasn't supposed to exist outside of myth.

Back then, it was far too large for my infant hands. So they strung it around my neck with a thin cord of red silk-a family superstition, meant to bind the unknown to the living.

I grew up wearing it like that, never thinking to place it on my finger. But after his warning that night-stern and ice-cold-I tried.

Only my right ring finger accepted it. The fit was perfect. Too perfect. Once it slid past the joint, it locked in place and refused to come off.

I should have hated it. I knew it came from him. But I didn't. Not really.

It used to be a dull crimson, the kind of red that looked nearly black in the dark. Lately, it had begun to glow faintly-its luster warm, like wine catching candlelight. Veins of brighter red shimmered beneath the surface, like threads of living blood. Sometimes, I thought I saw patterns inside... runes, maybe. Or veins.

But they always faded when I looked too hard.