Wandering through the endless halls of the castle, I stumbled across a staircase leading downward. Without hesitation, I took it, hoping to find a floor that made more sense than this one. Each room I'd encountered so far had been filled with bizarre paintings, cryptic symbols, and strange artefacts I couldn't decipher. Maybe this time, I'd get lucky.
"Basements always have secrets," I muttered to myself, the words half a reassurance and half a plea.
The staircase wound down, deeper and deeper into the castle's core. My footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed by the oppressive stillness of the place. Just how big was this castle? The descent felt endless, the air growing cooler and denser with every step.
"If this is another floor of useless rooms..." I trailed off, clenching my fists.
Despite the growing ache in my legs and the eerie silence around me, I pressed on, determined. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I reached the bottom. A thick wooden door stood before me, its surface worn with age but sturdy, as if guarding something important.
I pushed it open, and a wave of musty air greeted me, tinged with the distinct scents of aged wood and ancient paper. My breath caught.
A study?
Not the cryptic lair of secrets I'd imagined after such a long trek. Still, the room was unlike anything I'd seen above. From wall to wall, towering shelves brimmed with books, scrolls, and journals, each impeccably organized. Their spines gleamed under the faint light from a chandelier above, its candles flickering softly.
Curious, I wandered through the rows, my fingers brushing the leather-bound covers. Many of the titles were familiar. I'd read books like these in my family's library when I was younger.
I paused at a shelf full of books on mythical creatures, their illustrations vivid even on worn covers. Next to them were spell books, tomes on ethereal beings, journals, and even scrolls that seemed to hum faintly with power. This person didn't discriminate, dark magic, light magic, everything blended.
One scroll caught my eye. Its edges were slightly frayed, but the material shimmered faintly, as if imbued with magic. Carefully, I unrolled it, revealing intricate calligraphy that glowed faintly in the dim light.
The language was foreign but oddly familiar, its shapes and symbols stirring something deep within me.
As I read, the room seemed to shift slightly, the air growing thicker. A low hum filled the space.
"What is this...?" I whispered, my hands trembling.
The words on the scroll began to rearrange themselves, their meaning unfurling in my mind as if they were being whispered directly to me.
"They will pay for every life I lost."
I dropped the scroll as the hum intensified, reverberating through my bones. The room grew darker, the flickering light from the chandelier dimming. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
"What the hell?" I backed away from the scroll, its glow fading.
I went to another shelf and picked up a scroll that didn't radiate magic. I began reading it.
"September 25, 1175. I reincarnated into a human body but was bitten by a vampire in 1191. I'm beginning to hate each time I am born. I already know I live now to die later, but why must I endure something so painful? It always feels like I am being defiled, only to purify the world later."
At the bottom of the scroll was a name written in elegant script: Isadora Kane.
Curiosity gnawed at me, and I grabbed a few more scrolls and journals from the shelf, stacking them onto a nearby table. With a deep breath, I unravelled another scroll.
"September 24, 1575. I reincarnated into a Fae. It's better than the last time—no vampire bites—but running from the Fae realm after insulting the Queen's heir was... less ideal. Apparently, you get the death penalty for that. Still, what matters is that I avoided being bitten. Instead, I carry a curse placed on me by that bloody Izil Princess Fae when I was 16. I miss my family. I wish they didn't have to carry the pain of seeing..."
The scroll ended abruptly. I rolled it shut and leaned back in my chair, exhaling heavily. A pattern was beginning to emerge, one that made my chest tighten.
I was born on September 28. At 16, I turned into a werewolf. Now, I was running for my life.
The connection clawed at my mind as I reached for another journal, flipping through its yellowed pages. Each entry detailed a different reincarnation—different bodies, families, lives. Some journals even had paintings or photographs tucked inside, worn and faded, yet hauntingly familiar.
With every account, the pattern became clearer, each life overlapping with the themes of pain, transformation, and loss. The endless cycle of reincarnation felt more like a curse than a gift.
Finally, I grabbed the last journal on the table, its leather cover cracked with age. Inside, the handwriting was slanted and urgent, as if the author had written in desperation.
"I've found a way to reincarnate without memories of who I am. I hope things will be different this time. I want to live like everyone else. I can't take this anymore. If there's anyone I wish to never forget is my love Syvis Dredd, if it wasn't for him, who knows what would've become of me."
My hands froze on the page. Syvis Dredd.
The name echoed in my mind, strangely familiar yet frustratingly elusive. My heart skipped a beat as hope flared within me.
"Maybe if I find him, he can help me," I muttered.
But as my eyes trailed down the letter, my hope shattered.
"March 13, 1713."
Three hundred years ago. My stomach sank like a stone as I did the math. There was no way he could still be alive—unless he wasn't human.
The dreadful realization settled in my chest. Oshun's words rang in my ears.
"You'll find yourself in here."
I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath shaky. Was this really me? Was I all these reincarnations? These lives filled with sacrifice, pain, and death?
A single tear slid down my cheek as the truth clawed its way to the surface. The person in those journals, the one who carried the weight of love and war across centuries, was me.
"This is not me!" I yelled, slamming a journal shut and shoving it back onto the shelf with enough force to rattle the bookshelf.
Something fluttered to the floor.
A piece of folded paper.
My anger dulled into curiosity as I bent down to pick it up. Unfolding it, I read the words scrawled in hasty, desperate handwriting:
"Why do I have to sacrifice myself? Let them have their war. Let them kill each other and live with the consequences. I didn't mind being a sacrifice the first few times, but dying on the same sword, over and over again, while the Night World and the Light go on without even knowing I existed? That I'm the reason they have love and peace?
No. I will no longer choose death. I choose life. But choosing life comes with consequences—the pain I put my love through."
The lump in my throat grew unbearable as I clutched the note tightly, my knuckles white. The raw pain in those words seeped into me, threatening to crush what little resolve I had left.
This was my life. This was my reality.
I wanted to scream, to tear the paper into shreds, but instead, I crumpled it in my fist and let the tears fall silently.