The Wedding
It was a hollow celebration.
The Moonwell Clan and the Carellos hosted the union of Prince Calix and Lady Brienne beneath banners of silver and white. But even the wind that day blew colder than usual—as if nature itself knew something sacred had been broken.
Corrine did not attend.
She locked herself in her chambers, her soul hollowed, her body aching from the weight of betrayal.
Her sister now wore the gown that was meant for her.
Her sister now held the hand she once kissed.
And no one questioned it.
No one dared.
Because Brienne was a Carello. And even without magic, she had found a way to win.
The sun never returned to the Carello estate after the wedding.
Not truly.
Even when daylight broke over the hills, the grounds were shrouded in an unsettling grayness—as though the earth itself mourned for the girl who once danced barefoot beneath the moonlight, who whispered love into the wind and believed it would return.
Corrine no longer spoke.
She wandered the halls like a ghost draped in lace, her eyes vacant, her hands cold. Servants no longer dared approach her. Even her reflection had changed. Her face, though still lovely, bore the sharpness of sorrow turned sour, of sweetness curdled into steel.
On the night of the wedding, she took off the dress meant for her, folded it gently, and burned it in the hearth. She watched it blacken and curl, watched the lace melt like flesh, and never blinked.
Something inside her had broken.
And something else… had woken.
Lord Gustav died within the month followed by yhe Lady.
Some said heartbreak.
Others said poison.
Their body was buried, but their soul was never at rest—for the moment their coffin was sealed, the manor moaned with voices not heard in centuries.
Brienne, now a newly crowned princess, returned to the estate in mourning.
But it was no longer hers.
Corrine stood at the top of the grand staircase as her sister entered—draped in widow's silk though she was not yet a widow.
"Welcome home," Corrine said, her voice like velvet and venom. "How does it feel to return... to a throne you tried to steal?"
Brienne froze.
"Corrine…"
"I am no longer Corrine," she said, descending slowly. "That girl died the night you betrayed her. I buried her beneath the roots of the lake where he took my soul. Now, I am what this clan needs."
Brienne's voice trembled. "The throne was not yours—Father never—"
"I am the heir now," Corrine said, eyes blazing. "Because I took it. With blood. With fire. With pain."
---
The Forbidden Catacombs
Beneath the Carello estate, through corridors sealed for centuries, lay the Matriarch's Sanctum—a vault of ancestral spells, curses, and blood-written contracts. Only those who bore the mark of succession could enter.
But Corrine's grief had become a key. Her betrayal, a compass.
The doors opened for her.
And inside, bound in chains of bone and sigils long lost to time, was the Mirror of Mourning.
It was said to show not what you were, but what you could become—if you were willing to pay the price.
Corrine stood before it, her hair wild, her fingers bloodied from clawing at the stone to get there.
Her reflection blinked.
And smiled.
"You are ready," it whispered. "Are you willing to be loved and feared?"
Corrine nodded.
Then screamed.
The spell seared her veins, twisted her breath into smoke, her heart into ice. Her once golden aura shattered like glass. And in its place, a black flame rose.
The legacy of the Carellos was reborn.
The Carello estate had become a tomb of silence, yet Corrine still craved more—more than the ruins of love, more than the bloodline she'd wrested with her fury.
The black magic she unearthed stirred her, but did not satisfy her.
Something in her soul screamed that this was not the end—but a door waiting to be opened.
And so, guided by a dream soaked in shadows and whispers, she ventured deep into the oldest forest—the cursed one known as Velvarra's Veins, a labyrinth of thorns and silent trees that even spirits refused to haunt.
She walked barefoot. The trees bowed in fear.
There, beneath a weeping moon and a sky without stars, she found it: a crumbling stone altar hidden beneath twisted roots.
The Catacomb of the First Sin.
An entrance carved from bones and obsidian yawned before her like a throat eager to swallow. No one had stepped into it in centuries.
Except one.
Corrine entered.
---
The Descent
The walls pulsed with ancient runes, glowing faintly with a deep red light—as if the catacombs themselves breathed. Her footsteps echoed not on stone, but on memory.
The deeper she went, the warmer it grew. The air thickened. The light dimmed.
Until at last, she stepped into a chamber where time stopped.
A circle of fire danced on the ground. And within it stood a man—no, not a man.
A being of impossible beauty.
Tall, lean, his skin a shade between gold and shadow, his black hair falling in waves, and his eyes… burning with hunger that no woman could ignore.
Lucifer.
He turned to her slowly, smiling.
"I felt you coming," he said. "Like a storm long overdue."
Corrine did not flinch.
"I want power," she said simply. "More than this world offers. More than bloodlines."
Lucifer stepped down from his fire circle. The flames followed him like worshippers.
His voice was silk and sin. "And what are you willing to give, my dark blossom?"
Corrine's eyes did not waver. "Everything."
He laughed—low and melodic. The chamber trembled with it.
"Would you give your name?"
"Yes."
"Your soul?"
"Without hesitation."
He moved closer, a finger trailing down her cheek. She did not shy away from his touch. His presence was overwhelming, yet… inviting.
"And what about your body?" he asked. "Would you be my bride? Let me carve eternity into your womb?"
Corrine's lips parted. "Yes."
He paused, delight flashing across his wicked features.
"Many mortal women have begged me for love. For favors. For a taste of my fire. But you… you offer yourself without plea."
"I do not beg," Corrine whispered. "I make pacts."
Lucifer's grin widened. "Then let us seal this one… the old way."
---
The Devil's Bride
He snapped his fingers.
A black altar rose from the ground.
Candles of bleeding wax lit themselves, casting dancing shadows across the ancient stone.
"Strip," he said gently. "There is no room for shame in power."
Corrine obeyed.
Naked beneath the flickering darklight, she lay upon the altar. Lucifer towered above her, discarding his own robes. His body was sculpted perfection—divine and unholy in one breath.
He climbed onto the altar.
And there, in the depths of the forbidden catacombs, Lucifer made her his.
Not with tenderness.
But with raw, consuming fire.
He devoured her cries. Matched her rhythm with primal hunger. The flames around them surged as their bodies tangled, sweat and shadows becoming one.
Every thrust was a binding.
Every gasp, a contract.
And when her scream finally shattered the chamber walls, he whispered against her lips:
"You are mine now, Corrine Carello. First of many brides. But the mother of my firstborn."
She clung to him, blood and fire mingling in her veins.
"I will bear your child," she whispered. "A prince of night and ruin. And the world will kneel."
Lucifer kissed her forehead. "We will fill this world with my seed—one child at a time. Until the old gods choke on their own fear."
---
The Pact is Sealed
When she emerged from the catacomb, her belly was still flat—but the magic inside her churned.
The forest parted for her.
The winds bowed low.
And far away, in temples where angels once sang, bells began to crack.
For a dark bride had been crowned.
And her womb bore the fire of the abyss.