Devil Doesn't Bargain

Chapter 3: The Red String Tightens

The library's silence was a fragile shield, broken only by the rain's relentless roar against the stained-glass window. Its demon, entwined with a blood-red rose, stared down at me, its eyes glinting in the candlelight as if it knew my secrets. I clutched the book to my chest, its brittle pages heavy with truths I wasn't ready to face. The words I'd read burned in my mind: "The Demon's Pact binds the heart with a thread of blood, a charm that cannot be broken without sacrifice." The red string glowed faintly around my heart, invisible to anyone but me, pulsing like a wound that wouldn't close. It tied me to Raviel Draven, the devil who'd shatter me, his blade destined to break a mirror and stain a rose with my blood. I have reached the room where Cillian rests.

I sank into a chair, the book falling open on my lap. The rose petal I'd found—red, too red, like the one in library—lay crumpled on the floor, its edges smeared from the rain. My reflection in the library's silver-framed mirror was fractured, the crack from earlier now a jagged web that split my silver hair and pale blue eyes into pieces, I remembered. Cillian Vale, I thought, the name heavy with a life that wasn't mine. But as I touched the book, memories flooded in—not mine, but his, sharp and vivid like shards of glass.

I saw House Vale, a crumbling manor on Eryndor's outskirts, its gardens choked with thorny roses. My father, Lord Cedric Vale, stood in a study lined with herb jars, his silver hair graying, his pale blue eyes cold as he lectured Cillian: "Your magic is our only hope to rise in court. Win the prince's favor, no matter the cost." My mother, Lady Elira, was a ghost in these memories, her golden hair and soft gray eyes faded, her death a shadow tied to the kingdom's curse. My sister, Lysa, with her sharp green eyes, smirked as she adjusted her silk gloves, whispering, "Don't think you're special, Cillian. Raviel will get tired of you." The memories stung, painting a picture of a boy loved only for his usefulness, his heart a pawn in a game he never understood.

I slammed the book shut, my breath ragged. The Devil's Throne wasn't just a novel—it was a cage, and Cillian was its sacrifice. Jade Lin, the BL reader who'd raged at its tragic ending, was now trapped in its pages, living the life of a shou doomed to die for a prince who didn't love him. The novel's lore unspooled in my mind: Eryndor, cursed by a demonic pact centuries ago, demanded a "chosen heart" for each heir. Cillian was that heart, bound to Raviel by a charm crafted by Lady Seraphine, the court mage whose violet eyes had chilled me in the garden. In the original story, Cillian confessed his love at the banquet, only to be discarded when Raviel chose a political marriage. His death—poisoned, bleeding among roses—sealed the curse's cycle or something else.

"I'm not him," I whispered, my voice shaking. But the red string pulsed, hot and tight, urging me toward Raviel, toward the fate I was fighting. I stood, shoving the book into my robes, and slipped out of the library. The corridors were darker now, the torches dim, as if Eryndor itself was conspiring to keep me caged. I needed to breathe, to escape the weight of Cillian's memories and the charm's pull. The hidden garden was my only refuge.

The storm had softened to a drizzle, but the air was still thick with the scent of wet roses. The garden was a tangle of thorns, their petals scattered like blood across the cobblestones. A stone fountain stood at its center, its basin cracked, reflecting my fractured face. The red string glowed brighter, a crimson thread stretching into the darkness, and I pressed my hand to my chest, willing it to fade. Only I can see it, I thought, the realization both a curse and a secret. It was my burden, my fight, and no one—not even Raviel—could know its full power.

"Cillian," a voice called, soft but steady. I turned to see Lorian emerging from the shadows, his brown hair damp, his green eyes catching the faint moonlight like a forest after rain. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic, but his presence was still a shield, warm and solid in the garden's chill. "You shouldn't be out here alone."