A Tithe Of Blood

The stairwell to the third floor was narrow and wound like a spine. The higher Elira climbed, the colder the air became, as if she were ascending into the bones of the house itself. The torches lining the walls were unlit.

Only moonlight filtered through the high, narrow windows, making the floor glow with silvered frost.

The corridor was unlike any she had seen in the estate.

It was silent, heavy, as though sound itself feared to linger. The walls were lined not with tapestries or paintings, but mirrors were tall, warped, rimmed in tarnished gold. They stood like silent witnesses on either side of the hall, reflecting more than light.

In each one, her reflection was subtly wrong eyes a fraction too wide, movements a hair delayed, limbs strangely long, as if her image were peeling away from the body that cast it.

She tried not to look. But her gaze kept slipping sideways.

She found the door tall, black oak, carved with an ornate brass serpent whose eyes glinted with something like awareness.

Elira knocked. Once. Twice.

No answer.

She bent and placed the folded parchment at its foot, just as Marta had instructed. But as she rose, a flicker of motion in the mirror across the hall caught her eye.

A figure.

Not her own.

She turned quickly there was no one.

But when she looked back at the mirror, her breath caught.

Her reflection was staring back.

Only it wasn't hers.

Same face. Same braid over one shoulder. But the eyes glowed a cold, piercing blue. And the mouth was curled into a knowing smile.

It stared at her like it remembered everything she had forgotten.

Elira stepped backward, one hand gripping her skirts. Her heart thundered in her chest.

That was when the voice came smooth, low, and dangerous.

"You shouldn't be here."

She turned sharply.

Lord Calvorn stood just beyond the shadows, half-lit by moonlight and colder than any night air. He looked like something carved from obsidian, his silver moon sigil dim against the black of his cloak.

Elira's breath came fast. "I—I was only

delivering a message," she said, her hands lifting instinctively. "From Marta. I didn't mean to—"

His eyes didn't leave hers. But she felt them brush past her, toward the mirror behind her.

His expression didn't change, but the air shifted.

"You were told not to linger," he said. No anger. Just weight. His voice dropped like a stone into deep water. "This floor is not meant for you."

She nodded quickly. "Forgive me."

Still, he didn't look away. His gaze roamed her face not hungrily, but like a scholar dissecting a riddle. As though something didn't quite fit.

Her pulse hammered.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked past her, his cloak whispering across the stone floor like spilled ink. The corridor seemed to lean away from him as he passed.

Elira fled the way she'd come, boots clacking softly on the stairwell. She didn't dare look back.

That night, she could not sleep.

The hearth fire had burned to ash, and the frost clung to the inside of the windows like a second skin. She wrapped herself tighter in the blanket, listening to the creaks and groans of the old estate.

Then the humming returned.

Faint. Softer than breath. But close, too close.

It no longer came from the west wing. Nor above.

It was inside the room.

Elira sat up slowly, heart pounding. Her gaze moved to the small mirror above the washbasin. The surface shimmered not like glass, but like disturbed water.

She rose, legs trembling beneath her shift.

And there where her reflection should have been stood the woman from the tapestry.

Silver robes. Hair like smoke. Eyes glowing blue.

Her lips moved, silent and slow.

Words Elira couldn't hear but understood all the same.

Not a warning.

A promise.

And the next second everything stilled and back to normal. No more reflection of that girl but Elira could see herself.

________

The hush in the servants' quarters that morning was unnatural.Gone were the usual clatters of pots, the quick shuffle of feet, the low murmur of complaints.

Instead, silence hung in the air like smoke after a fire thick, stifling, and full of things unspoken.

Elira entered the long, stone-lined chamber cautiously, a tray of washed linens in her arms. The other maids were gathered near the hearth, eyes wide, mouths thin and pale. Marta stood at the center, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

She turned the moment Elira stepped inside.

"You're late."

Elira bowed slightly. "Apologies. The laundry room—"

But then she saw it.

One of the younger scullery girls , Alaine lay on a narrow cot by the fire, wrapped in blankets, shivering violently despite the warmth. Her skin was waxy, her lips tinged gray.

"What happened to her?" Elira asked, stepping forward.

No one answered.

Alaine moaned softly, turning her head toward the stone wall.

"She fell down the north stairs," Marta said stiffly.

But her voice was too quick, too flat. And there was a look in her eyes—guilt? Or fear?

Elira set the linens down and knelt beside the girl. Her skin was ice-cold to the touch. When Elira pulled back the collar of her shift to check for bruising—

Two small puncture wounds. Faint, but unmistakable. Just below her collarbone.

Elira's breath caught. "This wasn't a fall."

The silence grew tighter.

Marta's eyes flashed. "Be careful what you say."

Elira looked around. No one met her gaze.

"She's barely breathing," she whispered.

A voice spoke softly behind her. "It won't kill her."

Elira turned.

A girl leaned against the stone pillar in the corner lithe, elegant, with auburn hair coiled in braids like woven fire. Her face was pale, but there was a strange glow in her cheeks. She smiled at Elira not warmly, but with knowing.

"I've seen you before," Elira said slowly.

The girl stepped forward, her boots making no sound. "Leida. I work the upper kitchens. You're Elira."

Elira hesitated. "How do you know me?"

Leida's smile sharpened slightly. "Because the lord watches you."

Something in her tone made Elira's spine tighten.

"Is that how you got these?" Elira asked, nodding slightly toward the faint scar visible beneath the lace of Leida's collar.

The girl didn't flinch. "They don't always take without asking. Sometimes we give."

She reached out and tucked a blanket tighter around Alaine's shivering form.

Elira stared. "You give… willingly?"

Leida gave a soft laugh. "It's not so simple. Or so terrible. When they feed gently, it's like falling asleep in warm rain." Her voice dipped lower. "And sometimes, it's more than that."

She met Elira's eyes.

And Elira understood. The intimacy. The invitation.

"You sleep with him," she said quietly.

Leida didn't deny it.

"He feeds when he wishes. I let him. There are worse fates here than being chosen. It keeps you from the dungeons."

Elira stepped back. Her stomach twisted.

"But Alaine…" she gestured to the girl on the cot.

Leida's smile faded. "He doesn't always control it. Especially if he's… restless. If something's bothering him."

Like a shadow. Like a memory.Like Elira.

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered.

Leida stepped closer, her voice a brush of silk.

"Because you'll be next. Everyone sees it. He watches you the way hawks watch dying rabbits. You may pretend you don't notice, but the rest of us do."

Elira's breath caught.

"And if I refuse?" she asked.

Leida's expression softened, almost pitying.

"Refuse too loudly, and he'll take anyway. Refuse quietly… and maybe he'll forget you."

But they both knew that wasn't true.

Lord Calvorn didn't forget.

Elira fled the room a moment later, the stares of the other servants following her like cold fingers across her skin.

That night, she bolted her chamber door and sat by the mirror, staring into her reflection.

But it was no longer her reflection she feared.

It was the way her pulse raced when she heard his footsteps in the hall.

The way her skin prickled when she felt his presence before he spoke.

The way a part of her was no longer afraid of the bite but of what she might do if he asked for it gently.

__________

Next day the morning mist clung to the estate like a veil soft, damp, and heavy with secrets.

Elira worked quietly along the gravel path near the eastern gates, her gloved hands pruning the frostbitten remnants of a vine that coiled along the rusting iron fence. Her breath rose in pale clouds, and her fingers ached with cold, but she welcomed the stillness. Out here, the house could not breathe down her neck. No walls of mirrors. No strange reflections. No watchful eyes.

Only the low murmur of the wind through the bare branches, and the occasional creak of the iron gates in their hinges.

She reached for a broken branch and her fingers brushed paper.

Elira froze.

Tucked into the curve of the vine, half-concealed beneath a thorny stem, was a piece of parchment folded into a tight square. No seal. No crest. But the paper was thick ,too fine for a servant's hand and it smelled faintly of pine, smoke, and something colder.

Something northern.

She glanced around.

No one.

The stable hands were down near the barns. Marta was nowhere in sight. The mist blurred the fields beyond, turning the world into shifting gray shapes and silence.

Elira slid the parchment from its hiding place and unfolded it with trembling fingers.

The handwriting was sharp, slanted, deliberate.

You are watched more than you know.

Do not return to the third floor.

If you are afraid—good. But be wise enough to fear the right monsters.

—A

Elira stared.

No signature. Just that single initial.

Her breath hitched.

A rush of wind swept through the gate behind her, carrying a spray of brittle leaves down the path. She turned sharply, heart thudding, but saw nothing but stone and shadow.

Still, she felt it.

That presence. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing something was watching from just beneath the water's surface.

Why warn her?

Was it protection?

Or something more dangerous cloaked in care?

She folded the note and tucked it into her sleeve, hiding it beneath the fabric like a secret pressed against her skin.

But the words echoed in her mind, long after the mist had burned away:

Fear the right monsters.

And for the first time since arriving, Elira wasn't sure what may come next.