NOCTURNE REQUIEM

Darkness pooled at the edges of Selene's vision, swirling like ink in water. The cold pressed into her bones; not the numbing chill of the chamber where she lay unconscious, but the deliberate, ceremonial cold of an ancient hall carved from obsidian stone.

She stood in its center, her breath steady, her hands unstained. A lie. A whispering wrongness curled at the back of her mind, fleeting and distant.

A grand throne loomed before her, its spires jagged like the teeth of some forgotten beast.

A blond man with translucent white skin and a deep frown, Lord Veylan, sat atop it, watching her with eyes like frozen embers. His presence filled the room, suffocating yet intoxicating, a force that demanded reverence.

Selene knelt.

Not by choice. Her body moved as if pulled by invisible strings, her limbs bending to a will not her own.

The weight of expectation settled on her shoulders, pressing her down. Around her, robed figures watched in silent approval. Their faces were blurred, indistinct, as if they had never been meant to be truly seen.

A chalice was presented to her; silver, etched with ancient runes that pulsed with dark energy. The liquid within shimmered, thick and crimson, reflecting the torchlight like liquid rubies.

Blood.

Her own voice echoed in her skull, soft but distant.

This isn't real, Selene, shut your eyes and count sheep.

But the thought dissipated as soon as it came, drowned beneath the tide of the memory's vividness.

This was her initiation, the moment she had sworn herself to the vampire lords. She had always belonged to them.

Hadn't she?

Lord Veylan's voice was a silken snare, rich and deep. "Selene Raine, daughter of the night, sworn to our kind by fate and blood. Do you accept your place among us?"

The chalice was raised to her lips. The scent was intoxicating, metallic and rich, stirring something deep within her, a hunger she had long since embraced.

She drank.

The blood was warm as it slid down her throat, igniting a fire within her veins. A rush of power surged through her, exhilarating and terrifying.

Her heart no longer beat with the fragile rhythm of mortality; it thrummed in sync with something ancient, something greater.

Applause rippled through the hall, a chorus of voices whispering her name. She lifted her gaze to Veylan, and he smiled. Pride. Approval. Possession.

Chains made of silk. Chains made of blood.

A knife was placed in her palm. She recognized it instantly, the same blade used in countless blood rites she seemed to have attended.

Smooth, curved, inscribed with the sigil of the High Lords. The moment she touched it, her fingers remembered the weight, as if they had held it before.

She turned her wrist over, exposing pale, unblemished skin. Without hesitation, she dragged the blade across it. A thin, crimson line bloomed, and the room exhaled in satisfaction.

Blood dripped onto the ancient stone below, vanishing into the engravings like ink absorbed by parchment. The sigils flared to life, pulsing with the same rhythm that now echoed in her bones.

Veylan stood, descending from his throne with the grace of a predator. He took her bleeding wrist, his fingers cool against her fevered skin. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur of triumph.

"You are ours, Selene. You always have been."

Somewhere in the depths of her mind, something screamed in denial.

The scream was soundless, smothered beneath layers of certainty that were not her own.

Selene remained still, her wrist still captured in Lord Veylan's grip.

His touch was cold, colder than ice, colder than death itself, yet his presence burned, sinking into her flesh like brands forged in ancient fire.

The last droplets of her blood vanished into the stone below, devoured by the sigils that pulsed in rhythm with something ancient, something hungry.

The chamber breathed around her.

The robed figures at the edges of her vision stirred, shifting in ways that defied natural movement.

Their silhouettes stretched impossibly long, merging with the shadows cast by flickering torches.

Their faces were lost in the hooded voids of their garments, yet she could feel their eyes; watching, waiting, claiming.

A whisper slithered through her mind, thick as smoke and sweet as poison.

This is who you are.

The words coiled around her thoughts, threading through her memories like silk spun into a web.

Selene's breathing slowed.

Yes.

She had always been one of them. A daughter of the night, bound by fate and blood. Hadn't she sworn herself willingly? Hadn't she craved this power, the exquisite, intoxicating truth of what she was meant to be?

She lifted her gaze, drawn to Lord Veylan as though tethered by invisible strings.

He watched her with the satisfaction of a master admiring a masterpiece nearly complete. His eyes, like frozen embers, like dying stars, gleamed with something far worse than pride.

Ownership.

You have always belonged to us.

The words didn't just echo in the chamber. They reverberated inside her, shaping themselves into something she could not deny.

And yet...

The whispering wrongness remained.

A sliver of discord. A hairline fracture in the perfect tapestry of this memory.

Her fingers twitched. A single, minuscule motion; but hers.

Her eyes flickered downward, to the blade still resting in her palm.

The weight was familiar, but something was wrong.

A knife in her grasp. But not this one. A different one. Smaller. Cruder. Not forged for ceremony, but for survival. Slick with blood; not freely given, but stolen in a desperate, gasping moment.

The torches faltered, the exquisite gown she was wearing faded into battle gear, The figures around her shuddered, their outlines flickering, like ink smeared across wet parchment. The chamber's vast, suffocating presence shifted, as though it had momentarily forgotten itself.

Selene's breath hitched.

For the briefest moment, she saw herself; not this version, swathed in silken obedience and shackled by ritual.

But herself.

Human. Bloodied. Defiant.

Her grip tightening around a weapon; not in devotion, but in rebellion.

A pulse of awareness cracked through the illusion like the first fissure in fragile glass.

The memory shuddered.

Veylan's grip turned iron-tight, dragging her back into the weight of the moment. The chamber seemed to contract, the walls closing in, shadows pressing against her like unseen hands.

The sigils beneath her flared with renewed hunger, a power that pulled at her, threading itself through her veins, her thoughts, her very self.

Selene gasped, her body arching as something invisible wrapped around her ribs, her spine; pressing, binding, suffocating.

Forget.

The robed figures solidified once more, their movements smooth, seamless.

Accept.

The scent of blood thickened, warm and metallic, filling her lungs with something so familiar, so right.

Her lips parted, and the words slid from her tongue before she could stop them.

"I am yours."

The room exhaled, and the sigils pulsed in triumph.

Somewhere, buried beneath layers of falsehood, behind locked doors and smothered flames;

The real Selene screamed.