CHAPTER THREE

I was guided to the dining room where a smaller, yet no less impressive spread of delicacies had been laid out. Ambrose, proving to be ever the attentive steward, pulled a chair out for me.

I murmured a quiet "thank you" as I took my seat.

A servitor—Tasia—entered right after, her movements graceful and silent. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly, accentuating the gentle contours of her face. She placed the usual pills and a smoothie before me, its hue a different shade from usual.

"Here you are, Mistress. This was specially prepared to help with your menstrual discomfort."

I thanked her and received a warm smile in return before she dipped her head and left the room. As soon as she vanished from view, I took a closer look at the smoothie. Its color was a rich, deep purple, like crushed velvet in a glass. Tiny flecks of red and blue swirled through it, creating an almost hypnotic pattern. It had clearly been carefully crafted—like a potion instead of a mere drink.

Ambrose, standing by with a watchful eye, reassured me, "That should hold you over for a few hours. If the discomfort becomes too much, inform me or one of your servitors."

I would certainly not be going to him.

"I'll use the intercoms if I need anything."

"Excellent. You'll find them in various rooms throughout the house." He paused for a moment before adding, "Once you have finished your breakfast, you are free to explore the estate at your leisure, inside and out." He gave me a genial smile. "It's been a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy your meal."

I nodded, taking in his words, and only then realized I'd been clutching the key that entire time. I unfurled my fingers and stared at my hand. The imprint etched temporarily into my skin felt like a metaphor for Alexander. Just as the key had left its mark, so had he, in ways that were far more indelible. I looped the delicate chain tied to the key around my neck and then reached for the pills first.

I swallowed them with a sip of the smoothie. Its rich, velvety texture was smooth and cool, with a flavor that danced between sweet and tart. The taste of fresh berries mixed with a hint of something floral, left a refreshing aftertaste that soothed my senses.

I moved on to the food, picking at the array spread out before me. There were slices of fresh fruit, buttery pastries, and delicate slices of cured meat.

Each bite was a burst of flavor—juicy, sweet, savory, and rich. The pastries melted in my mouth, their flaky layers giving way to a soft, buttery center. The fruit was perfectly ripe, its natural sweetness complementing the richness of the other dishes.

Despite my initial reluctance, I found myself eating more than I had planned, the flavors and textures offering a welcome distraction from my troubled thoughts. The food, coupled with the smoothie, seemed to give me a bit of strength, a small semblance of normalcy when I ignored the fact a portion of this meal was meant to help me conceive. Once I was full, I set my utensils down and looked around the room. Ambrose had discreetly stepped away some time ago, giving me space.

I wiped my mouth with one of the cloth napkins before standing up, grasping the key once more. It would be foolish not to take this opportunity to explore. I started with the upper level.

The silence inside the house was broken only by a distant, beautifully haunting melody hummed by a servitor--I was grateful for it. While working at Millennium I'd grown accustomed to large luxurious spaces that were often empty since I never cleaned the rooms with guests inside. The stillness of the estate wasn't like that. The more I saw the more I couldn't believe this place was real. I discovered three lavishly appointed bathrooms, each equipped with laundry chutes, a practical touch. I stumbled upon a closet that was as large as the apartment I had once called home, its shelves stocked with neatly folded towels and linens.

There were two extra bedrooms, their beds made with military precision, untouched and waiting. A couple of doors refused to yield, even to the key that now hung around my neck, their secrets firmly locked away. Circling back towards the master bedroom, my curiosity led me to try the room beside it.

The key turned in the lock with a soft click. I pushed the door open and immediately froze.

It was a nursery.

The aesthetic was on brand with the estate--the very Isle itself. It was beautiful, different than anything I'd ever seen, a curious blend of gothic elegance and childlike whimsy, fitting Stygian Isle's dark undercurrents. The walls were painted a deep, midnight blue, speckled with silver to mimic a starry night sky. A grand, ebony crib stood as the room's centerpiece; its bars were carved with intricate designs that hinted at the Isle's sinister lore.

Plush toys of mythical creatures — dragons, phoenixes, and griffins—sat perched on shelves and in the crib, their eyes glinting with ruby-like stones. The rocking chair in the corner was an ornate piece I could tell someone had put a lot of time into it, its high back was adorned with carvings of the moon's phases and upholstered in velvet the color of deep wine.

On a dresser, among an array of delicately crafted items, lay a book that caught my eye. I approached and saw it was a Stygian version of nursery rhymes, its cover a tapestry of dark art depicting scenes from the Isle's legends. Tentatively, I flipped through it. The rhymes were familiar yet twisted, morphed into versions that whispered of the Impío beliefs and the darker side of fairy tales.

I flipped the pages, stopping on one with an illustration. It was haunting, even in its cartoonish simplicity. It was a twisted rendition of something far too familiar yet drenched in the macabre. Masked children stood in a circle; their faces hidden behind distorted animal masks. Their small hands were linked together, and they danced around a massive pyre that stood at the center of the page.

Flames licked hungrily at the base of the structure, casting long, ominous shadows across the ground. Ashes floated down, delicate as snowflakes, settling around the children's feet, despite the roaring blaze. I began to read quietly to myself.

"Ring around the pyre,

A chant we never tire,

Ashes, ashes,

We burn for desire.

The flames will rise, consume our cries.

Bound to the Isle's eternal ties.

Ashes to ashes, dust to bone,

In the darkness, we atone."

I read it again, and a vague memory stirred at the back of my mind, like a faint whisper in the dark. I could almost hear the melody as if someone had hummed it to me long ago. The notes were elusive, but the tune was unmistakable. Where had I heard this version before? I flipped a few more pages and stopped again on one that depicted a vine that wound up toward the sky, thick and thorny, its tendrils twisting through the clouds like a living thing. It pulsed with a faint, eerie glow.

The sky above was dark, angry clouds swirling in purples and blacks, lit up by distant flashes of lightning. In the shadows of those clouds, I could barely make out the silhouette of something—no, someone—huge and terrifying. A giant or the dark lord of the Isle himself, waiting at the top, hidden in the storm. At the base of the vine stood a boy. Jack, I realized, though his face was shadowed, his expression was difficult to read. He held something glowing in his hands, a token of some kind, the light casting sharp shadows over his features. The innocence you'd expect from a child was absent, replaced with a determined wariness.

He wasn't climbing out of curiosity or adventure; he was climbing out of obligation. Behind him, barely visible in the mist, were the figures. Masked and cloaked, they stood with arms raised, urging him forward. Their faces were hidden, but their presence was unmistakable, adding an eerie pressure to the scene. They were there to watch, to judge, to ensure Jack fulfilled his duty.

Scattered around his small, booted feet were the remains of those who had come before him—bones and relics, blackened stones marked with strange symbols. A reminder that failure was not an option. The image felt heavy, weighted with expectation and the burden of sacrifice.

This wasn't the tale of a curious boy climbing a beanstalk for treasure. It was something darker. The vine was a symbol of power, yes, but also of fate—of the inescapable duty the Isle demanded of its sons. Jack wasn't seeking fortune. He was offering himself to the Isle's will.

I stared at the image a moment longer, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest as I read the words that accompanied it.

Jack, oh Jack, be not afraid,

Climb the vine that fate has laid.

Not for gold or riches bright,

But for power, darkness, and ancient might.

Above the clouds, where shadows creep,

The Isle's true lords in silence sleep.

Awaken them with sacred cries,

And pay the price beneath dark skies.

"What the fuck?" I muttered. I kept flipping, seeing more images of enchanted forests, moonlit ceremonies, and shadowy figures dancing across the pages, each beautifully illustrated. As I flipped further through the book, a page caught my eye—a dark, twisted retelling.

The Sleeping Bride of the Isle .

The familiar story had been warped into something deeply unsettling, the comforting lull of childhood nostalgia tainted by the Isle's twisted beliefs.

The accompanying image was even more disturbing. The bride lay upon a cold stone altar, surrounded by dense, twisted vines that seemed to grow directly from the floor. Her gown was intricately woven with black lace, resembling a widow's veil more than a wedding dress. Her sleeping face, though serene, held a faint shadow of despair. More masked figures stood in a circle around the altar, their arms raised high in a twisted gesture of reverence as if offering the bride up to the Devil himself. I read the text under the image, and a chill ran down my spine.

Beneath the moon's silent glow

She lies in wait, the Isle's shadow.

Diabolus' hand upon her heart,

From his dominion, she'll never part.

Masked disciples dance, arms raised in glee,

For she's bound to Carnalis Dominus, eternally.

To the Isle's lord, her soul is wed,

A life entwined in whispered submission.

The longer I looked, the more I felt like the image was a grotesque prophecy, a twisted version of the future I was being forced into. I slammed the book shut, my heart pounding, trying to escape the eerie feeling that the bride's fate was somehow tied to my own.

It occurred to me then that I'd overlooked something that had been staring me right in the face since the day I'd woken here. This Isle and its inhabitants, their entire existence revolved around a deeply ingrained belief system. They were nurtured from birth to embrace a doctrine that glorified sin, serving entities they revered as divine. Their faith was the glue that held their community together, a force that propelled the Isle's prosperity. I, along with the tourists, should've been the anomaly.

We were the ones out of place.

Unlike them, I was caught in a liminal space, fated to become a part of the society with which they were so enamored. I placed the book back how I'd found it and exited the room, relocking the door behind me, feeling a strange mix of emotions that had my thoughts spiraling. How could I ever raise a child in a place like this? The thought struck me hard, stopping me in my tracks. A son born into this world would be groomed to follow in his father's footsteps, climbing some sacrificial vine of his own, bound to the Isle's will. He'd be caught in this web of power and darkness.

And a daughter…

Would she be like me? Chosen, branded, or claimed by someone like Alexander? Would she live her life in service on the Isle, her every move dictated by the same twisted doctrine I was slowly sinking into? My hands trembled as I clenched them at my sides. Even the stories told to children were filled with darkness and obligation.

I shook my head, trying to clear the overwhelming tide of fear. This wasn't just about me. If I remained on this Isle, Alexander would get me pregnant. There was no doubt or question of that. There would be no escape, no freedom for anyone, especially not for the children that would come from this union. I took a deep breath to steady myself. I shouldn't have been surprised to see such a space. I was even more loathed to admit it was gorgeous. Alexander had deliberately left these rooms accessible, the nursery included.

He hadn't hidden them away, just as he didn't conceal many other aspects of his life from me. The man was shrouded in secrets, some of which I was afraid to uncover, but he was slowly letting me in and giving me just enough leeway to learn about him and Stygian--in a way that allowed me to process on my own first. It was a little disconcerting how in tune he was with the different facets of my personality.

And what did it mean that he allowed me such liberties? Was it a gesture of trust or a calculated move to further entrap me? What else would I discover? The complexity of my feelings towards him was stuck in a cycle of fear, curiosity, and undeniable attraction that went beyond the surface. I passed the library where I was meant to read and study, making my way to Alexander's office. I stood before the elaborate double doors and debated for a matter of seconds before I pressed down on one of the handles.

There was no give.

I reached for the chain around my neck, half-expecting him to materialize out of thin air. To my surprise or lack thereof, the key turned in the lock, allowing me entry into his private sanctuary. I tentatively stepped forward and took everything in.

The office was like a reflection of Alexander himself. Dark, sophisticated, and powerfully commanding.

Rich, deep-colored wood accented the walls, and the large ebony desk was a centerpiece of authority and order. One large, elaborate window framed a serene view of the lake. Bookshelves, filled with an eclectic mix of ancient and modern literature, lined one wall. On the opposite side, a fireplace sat cold and unused, its presence adding a touch of homeliness to the otherwise stern room. A seating area with plush leather chairs and a small couch faced a low coffee table, a space for more informal meetings.

The room was dotted with intriguing artifacts: an antique-looking globe, a locked glass case displaying a collection of ornate knives, and several framed photographs. One captured a more relaxed moment. Alexander, flanked by his brother, cousin, and the two men tied to the other Electi. They were younger, all dressed in what was a balance of formal and casual, with an obvious camaraderie and youthful exuberance about them.

Even back then he held a darkness that was both entrancing and intimidating. Another photograph showed him whom I assumed was his family. I recognized some of the same faces. There was a warmth to this photo too, a familial bond that was unmistakable, yet it also carried an undercurrent of something more austere. This picture couldn't have been that old. Esther looked to be a year or so younger than she was presently. I lingered on the image of who had to be Alexander's father, noting the striking similarities between them.

They shared the same chiseled jawline and the same penetrating gaze that seemed to cut right through to your core. Their resemblance was so profound that they could have been mistaken for twins, had it not been for the age difference.

It was more than just physical.

It was in their demeanor.

The way they held themselves with a certain air of authority and assurance as if leadership ran deep in their blood, a trait passed down through generations, shaping them into the men they were destined to become. His father gazed down at a woman whose face was partially obscured, her long dark hair cascading like a curtain of silk, shielding her from full view. Despite the limited glimpse, I could tell she was smiling at him. For all his intensity, Alexander's father was looking back at her with what I could only describe as deep affection, respect, and even love.

I guess pictures really did say a thousand words. This woman had to be his wife. Seeing them together answered a question that had come to me before. Had she grown to love this man? The picture seemed to suggest so, revealing a side of their relationship that was private, intimate, and real. Could I ever come to love Alexander? Or, at the very least, grow fond of him? The idea sent a jolt through me as if I'd touched a live wire.

After what I just read, and what he did, how could I even entertain such a notion? The circumstances of my arrival on this Isle and the reality of my captivity clawed at the back of my mind. Love was not something to be contemplated in a situation like mine. It was a luxury, an indulgence that I couldn't afford, especially not with a man like Alexander, no matter how much a small, absolutely insane side of me wanted to.

With a shake of my head, I tried to dispel these conflicting thoughts. I had to focus on surviving, on understanding the depths of the world I had been thrust into, and finding a way out. Along the way, I'd learn why even then, I was thinking of the twisted nursery rhyme I'd heard somewhere before.