Chapter 4
Chapter four
The South Wing
Annabel
The weight of my circumstance steals the breath from my lungs.
An echo reverberates along the stone, sealing me in a tomb dressed as a palace, where hope suffocates and shadows press close.
I shiver violently and fold my arms around myself, desperate to conjure warmth against the icy dread seeping from every corner.
The villagers have always talked about the broken prince and his haunted castle, but I never believed them.
But now that I am here, I see this place is not only haunted; it is alive, thrumming with sinister energy.
And the prince, the Beast, is truly broken.
I glance down. The blood-red vine scorched onto my wrist pulses with a heat that borders on agony, a cruel reminder of the supernatural force tethered to my fate.
The reality hits me for the first time, and I realize I will never see my father again.
Whatever power dwells here, I am at its mercy, and the weight of that knowledge is crushing and suffocating. Tears well into my eyes.
I trail behind Erik through endless corridors, my footsteps swallowed by ancient tapestries and the hush of secrets too old for daylight.
Flickering torchlight casts monstrous shadows on the walls.
The portraits lining the halls stare down with hollow, blackened eyes, their painted lips curled in mockery as if each canvas remembers the fall of every soul who dared cross this threshold.
How many have passed through these halls?
I know I am not the first. And then I realize, But could I possibly be the last?
Doors creak and slam of their own accord, barring routes of escape before I can even contemplate flight.
The castle is a living labyrinth, its very bones seeming to shift to thwart me.
With every step, the mark on my wrist blazes brighter, pulsing in time with my racing heart. Is it a warning… or perhaps a summons?
Servants drift through the passages like wraiths, their faces blurred, bodies insubstantial.
Their movements are eerily silent, save for the whispering chill they leave in their wake.
Phantom courtiers cluster in balconies, their skeletal hands folded, their empty sockets locked onto me with chilling intent.
Their silence is more terrifying than any shriek, an accusation and a sentence all at once.
Are they real, or am I already losing my grip on reality?
Somewhere in the depths of the darkness, I sense the prince’s gaze.
His presence is as suffocating and relentless as the midnight fog that clings to these cursed walls.
I feel his breath on my skin, cold and possessive, testing for weakness.
I force my spine straight, swallowing terror, and let my defiance blaze from my eyes.
He may wish to break me, but I will not yield to him, nor will I yield to the ancient evil saturating this place.
The corridor narrows as Erik leads me deeper into the heart of the South Wing, the air growing colder and heavier with every step. The tapestries here are old, their colors faded to ghostly hues. I envision they were once lavish scenes of revelry, but now they are choked by dust and neglect.
At last, Erik pauses before a towering oak door carved with swirling roses and thorns that mirror the burning brand within my skin. He gives a curt nod and pushes it open, revealing the rooms that will serve as my new prison—or sanctuary, if I dare imagine such a thing.
I step inside, hesitant. The first chamber is a sitting room, its high windows veiled by thick velvet drapes the color of midnight.
Moonlight manages to leak in through cracks, painting faint silver streaks across the polished floor.
A massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantle crowded with candlesticks and ornate clocks, all ticking in unsettling unison.
An arrangement of armchairs and settees, upholstered in deep burgundy and gold, encircle a low table set with a bone-white teapot and matching cups.
Some level of hospitality is evident, though the setting feels untouched, as if awaiting a guest who will never arrive. Until now, that is.
Beyond the sitting room, double doors open to my bedchamber.
The ceiling arches high overhead, supported by twisted beams that resemble the gnarled branches of a forest. A four-poster bed stands in the center, draped in crimson silk and piled high with feathered pillows.
Long mirrors line one wall, reflecting the flicker of candlelight from matching sconces.
The wardrobe is immense and carved with scenes of roses entwining around fleeing maidens, an unsettling echo of my own predicament.
I approach, fingers trembling, and open its doors, revealing an array of gowns in every texture and shade—sapphire velvet, ivory lace, and emerald silk—more beautiful than anything I have ever owned yet somehow menacing in their perfection.
A bathing chamber is attached, its marble tub sunken into the floor and surrounded by gilded fixtures.
A tray of scented oils and lotions sits nearby; even here, luxury is tinged with unease.
The windows, though barred, frame the moonlit gardens below, a reminder that escape is as impossible here as anywhere else in the castle.
Every detail whispers of wealth, but nothing truly feels mine.
The silence presses in, broken only by the faint creak of settling beams and the distant echo of the Beast’s laughter somewhere in the labyrinth beyond.
I turn back toward Erik, who lingers near the door, his face softening as he notices my uncertainty.
“Your rooms are yours to command, mademoiselle. If you require anything, only ring.” He gestures toward a bellpull beside the bed, the cord so fine, it might crumble under my touch.
With a shallow nod, he retreats toward the door but does not leave.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, letting my gaze travel the room’s every shadowed corner.
For now, this is my world: a gilded cage, once beautiful and now terrifying.
I resolve to explore every inch, searching for comfort, for clues, for a way through the darkness.
The South Wing is no mere set of chambers.
It is a threshold, and I must decide whether to cross it in fear or defiance.
I choose defiance. I know fear will only feed its evil and draw me deeper, to the point of no return.
Just as I finish surveying the room, Erik, still hovering near the door, clears his throat gently. I look up, trying to mask the tremor in my hands.
“You might want to change before dinner,” he states, gesturing toward the wardrobe.
I shake my head as tears I have been fighting well in my eyes.
“You are not planning on joining the prince for dinner?” he asks quietly, his tone indicating concern.
I shake my head, struggling to keep my voice steady. “No. I could not bear it tonight. I have lost too much, Erik. I need a moment to breathe, away from his… scrutiny.”
Erik’s features soften, and he lowers his gaze respectfully.
“I understand, mademoiselle. I will relay your regrets to the prince. He will not be happy, but I will try to reason with him.” He hesitates, then says, “The prince is… not an easy man. Be patient with him.” I look at him curiously and he continues.
“He was once...” He stops himself and then turns toward the door, then looks back.
“If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Erik!” I holler after him, “He was once what?” But he doesn’t respond.
Realizing he is not going to give me an answer, I muster a faint nod.
“Thank you, Erik,” I murmur, my voice barely rising above the hush of the room.
Weariness and sorrow intertwine within me, and as he quietly closes the door, his brief kindness lingers like a fragile warmth I clutch to stave off the encroaching cold of the night.