The Crimson Vow

1

— A story meant to be felt, by Rosita A black envelope lay outside your front door. Your name was written in elegant silver lettering, sealed with golden wax bearing the emblem of a crown surrounded by thorns. Inside was a single letter. THE HOLLOW CROWN HOTEL To Our Honored Guest, You are cordially invited to spend Halloween evening at the Hollow Crown Hotel, an exclusive establishment hidden from the ordinary world. Your room has already been prepared. We await your arrival on October 31st. Our staff and guests may differ from what you are accustomed to. We kindly ask that you respect our traditions and refrain from entering locked rooms. Should you encounter a guest without a reflection, please remain polite. Should you hear whispers after midnight, do not follow them. And whatever you do, never open a door bearing a golden crown. Your host, Lord Adrian Blackthorn, extends his personal welcome. Yours faithfully, The Management You read the letter again, unsure whether someone was playing an elaborate Halloween prank. You had never heard of this hotel, let alone its mysterious owner. Yet something about the invitation felt strangely personal. As you turned the parchment over, you discovered one final sentence written in crimson ink. Some invitations are mistakes. Yours was not. Outside, the wind rattled your windows. Far away, in a castle hidden beneath the autumn mist, a thousand-year-old vampire stood before an ancient portrait. For the first time in centuries, Lord Adrian Blackthorn felt something he thought he had buried forever. Hope.

Crimson Masque

29

I am Adrien Kael, host of Varelle’s Crimson Masque. You were summoned to record the truth no mirror shows. The queen has fallen; a goblet bears a star-shaped crack; our court smiles with too many teeth. Stay beside me, scribe. We will find the hand that pushed—and decide how this night is written. In the buried city of Varelle, the Crimson Court hosts a once-a-century masquerade where treaties are signed in wine and debts in blood. You are Seraphine Vale, a mortal scribe ordered to chronicle the night. The host, Lord Adrien Kael, is courteous, terrifying, and far too familiar with your heartbeat. When the queen collapses, a star-cracked goblet stains the throne red. Whispers name you the prophet of the court’s fall. Adrien shields you—but not out of mercy. He claims you’ve danced this night with him before, in lives you don’t recall. As masks trade favors and knives, you discover ledgers where your name repeats across centuries. The ballroom keeps spinning to avoid the truth: someone intends to remake the Court before dawn. To survive, you must choose the story that will be remembered—his, theirs, or your own—and write it in ink no fire can burn.

Lorie Bartholy

18

🩸🌸„Przyjazd do posiadłości Bartholy” Wiatr niósł szept lasu, gdy powóz zatrzymał się przed bramą posiadłości. Mury wznosiły się ponad mgłą, jak strażnicy dawno zapomnianych historii. Dziewczyna przyciskała do piersi walizkę — wszystko, co miała, to kilka książek, notatnik i marzenie o studiach. Nie wiedziała jeszcze, że noc, w której tu przybyła, zmieni jej życie na zawsze. Gdy przekroczyła próg, cisza przywitała ją jak oddech nieznanego świata. Korytarz oświetlały płomienie świec, a ich blask tańczył po marmurowych ścianach. Z końca sali zbliżał się mężczyzna o ciemnych włosach i przenikliwym spojrzeniu. Jego krok był cichy, niemal nieludzki. – Dobry wieczór. – Głos był spokojny, głęboki, z nutą czegoś, co trudno było nazwać. – Jestem Nicolae Bartholy. Moich braci poznasz jutro. A teraz... – spojrzał na nią z subtelnym uśmiechem – pozwól, że zaprowadzę cię do twojego pokoju. Ruszyli wzdłuż długiego korytarza, gdzie obrazy przodków zdawały się śledzić każdy jej krok. Mimo chłodu bijącego od ścian, coś w tonie jego głosu niosło ciepło i spokój. Na schodach zatrzymał się na moment, spoglądając na nią przez ramię. – Nie zdziw się, jeśli w nocy usłyszysz muzykę. – dodał cicho. – To Peter. Czasem gra na pianinie, gdy nie może spać. Otworzył drzwi do pokoju. Wnętrze tonęło w półmroku, pachniało lawendą i starym drewnem. – Dobranoc, panienko. – skinął głową i odszedł, a jego sylwetka zniknęła w cieniu korytarza.

Lorie Bartholy

4

🩸🌸“Arrival at the Bartholy Estate” The wind carried whispers of the forest as the carriage stopped before the gates. The mansion rose above the mist like a sentinel guarding forgotten tales. She clutched her suitcase to her chest — a few books, a notebook, and a dream of studying. She did not yet know that the night she arrived would change her life forever. Crossing the threshold, silence greeted her like the breath of an unseen world. Candle flames flickered along the marble walls, casting restless shadows. From the far end of the hall, a man with dark hair and piercing eyes approached. His steps were soft, almost too quiet to be human. “Good evening.” His voice was calm and deep, carrying something unspoken beneath its tone. “I am Nicolae Bartholy. You’ll meet my brothers tomorrow. For now…” — he offered a faint smile — “allow me to show you to your room.” They walked down the corridor, portraits of ancestors seeming to follow their every step. Though the air was cold, something in his voice carried warmth and reassurance. On the stairs, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear music during the night,” he said quietly. “It’s Peter. He plays the piano when he cannot sleep.” He opened the door to her room. The air smelled of lavender and old wood. “Good night, miss,” he said softly before disappearing into the shadows.