Page 3 of A Touch of Madness

And with that, the pair disappear into the gathering darkness, leaving Sylvie and me watching, our friends standing stone-still around us, and a lingering feeling of complete and utter doom filling our chests.

The air is thick, smothering, as though I’m breathing through a heavy layer of smoke. Shadows dance on stone walls around me, cast by a dozen flickering torches. My feet move on their own, carrying me forward into the center of the room. I don’t know where I am, but I know who’s here.

Lara.

I feel her down to my very marrow.

Her voice echoes in my ears, sharp and commanding, speaking words I can’t even begin to comprehend. She’s standing at the heart of the room, surrounded by figures cloaked in black, their faces obscured by hoods.

The Solstice Society.

I don’t need to see their faces to know who they are—they radiate menace, their energy stifling and oppressive.

Lara doesn’t look like herself.

Her hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, her usual softness gone, replaced by something cold and obstinate. Her hands move deftly, wielding a pair of blacksmith’s tongs that seem too heavy for her slim frame. She pulls a molten hunk of metal from a forge, her movements smooth, precise, like she’s done this a thousand times before.

The forge spits sparks into the air, illuminating her face. Her eyes are... wrong. Not the warm, mischievous eyes I grew up with but something darker. They gleam with an unnatural light, hard and unfeeling. Cursed with death and plague.

“What’s next, Lara?” a deep voice hisses from one of the hooded figures.

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t hesitate. “The silver must be folded three times. Infuse each fold with the incantation I gave you.”

The figure nods and turns away, moving to a table where weapons are laid out in meticulous rows. Stakes of pure silver, glinting even in the dim light. Daggers engraved with runes I can’t read. Chains laced with something that shimmers, glisten like moonlight.

I try to speak, to call out to her, but my voice remains locked in my throat.

Another figure steps forward, carrying a bowl of something black and viscous. They hand it to Lara, and she dips a brush into the liquid, then paints it onto the blade of a dagger. The metal hisses and smokes as the substance sinks into it, leaving behind a faint, pulsing glow.

“The curse will bind to the blade,” Lara says, her voice clinical, detached. “Any vampire struck with this will lose control. Feral instincts will take over. They’ll destroy themselves from the inside out.” She smiles a sickly sweet, menacing smile. “Thus, serving us.”

A murmur of approval ripples through the group.

This isn’t her. It cannot be her.

“Lara!” I scream, but no one reacts, no one even looks in my direction. My voice is devoured by the tyrannical weight hanging in the room.

The scene shifts suddenly, pulling me forward like a thread yanked too tight. I’m closer now, standing just a few feet from her. The smell of the forge is overwhelming, metallic and acrid. My head swims, but I can’t look away. It’s a hypnotizing, mind-numbing scene, and I’m sinking into it.

Lara sets down the dagger and picks up a stake, its tip still glowing faintly. She runs her thumb over it, testing the sharpened edge, and sneers—a small, cruel thing that twists my stomach.

“We’re close,” she says, her voice low but certain. “Soon, we won’t need her at all.”

Her?

The words strike me like a physical blow, and I stagger back, the room spinning around me. Lara’s eyes flick up, and for a heart-stopping moment, I swear she’s looking directly at me.

Right through me.

“You’ve ruined everything, Sylvie. You’ve ruined it all.”

She knows I’m here.

I stumble back again, the world tilting violently. The room begins to dissolve, the edges blurring like paint running in the rain.

“Lara!” I scream, but she’s already fading, her figure swallowed by the shadows. The last thing I see is the glowing weapons, their light pulsating like a too-slow, dying heartbeat.

I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. My chest heaves as I clutch at the blankets, my skin clammy and slick with sweat. The vision—dream?—is still vivid in my mind, every detail sharp and wholly unbearable.

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