Do you still dream of me, Rosalind, upon my chariot of rot? I am there, wedged between breast and bone where you keep every mad, mad thing. I am a tribute to every sin you have ever dared commit.

Allow me to uncover the monster that rests silent and in wait, lingering behind whatever fragments of goodness you hide behind a wall of smoke. Hold the mirror of truth before you and witness who you truly are.

We are both monster and mortal, shadow and sunlight, teetering on the high wire of hope and lies. They tell us if we choose the path of destruction or autonomy, we will fall.

But we were not put up there to fall.

Were put up there to fly.

The misty sky was a veil and Rosalind Hershel the mourning bride. Though the air was warm, every cloud swore of rain.

Through the faint light, a flock of crows took flight and dotted the sky with inky wings. Their caws were a cacophony to serenade the damned.

Fog cascaded like long fingers touching every part of the Borgo. The forest was Rosalind's sanctuary. Hunting her escape. And her memories a cage.

She glanced towards the manor, but it remained hidden behind the trees. The dark stone walls were once her prison, but soon, they would be her home.

Summer sang in the air yet she heard nothing but her longing for winter.

"What a horrible world I live in now. One that no longer has you, my lord and king. My beloved beast—my Caspian." Only the shadows heard Rosalind's admission and shadows kept secrets well.

A fist squeezed her heart. Her breath escaped her lungs and took flight. It had been so long but the young woman was still left breathless over the thought of him, the one they called the Borgo Beast, Lord Caspian, the monster who had spread death and chaos over Transylvania for one hundred years.  

Death and chaos and blood.

On the hilltop stood an albino stag. His horns protruded handsomely. His gestures were majestic. Rosalind could not wait to stick an arrow in him.

Every beat of the stag's heart echoed her own. In a moment, her scent would float to him—roses and wine. She had seconds to send him to his demise.

She slowed down her breathing until she resembled the dead.

"Shoot him between your own heartbeats," a family voice violated her subconscious. "It will make you more steady."

Rosalind willed her heart to stop.

Her eyes burned. Tears she no longer shed lingered behind her lids. She wanted to cry. She had wanted to cry, scream, and slaughter everything and everyone for the past eleven months. Ever since she found out she was a demon slayer and murdered the only man she truly loved. But the young woman kept her composure and went hunting with her betrothed instead.

Her lord's voice was a ghost forever haunting her. "Find his heart," Caspian's baritone ebbed behind Rosalind's breastbone, there where he once stated she kept every mad thing she ever loved.

The past was seeds of Belladonnas inside her, ones that would soon blossom. Those blossoms would be the end of her.

"Death awaits him, Rosalind."

Blood. Blood calmed her down. If only for a short time. Hers. Someone else's. It made no difference. The scars she left on her now-lover's back, chest, and arms, were a testament to what she had become.

Bellua.

Monster.

Rosalind pulled the bow's taut string and let go.

The buck let out a puff of air. His last breath hung above him as he crumpled to the grassy floor. He was dead before she lowered her weapon.

In the distance, she heard her husband-to-be and the small hunting party nearing. Their horses' hooves tore up the ground. Wildflowers were uprooted and fell around like colourful confetti.

"My beauty." Troy, the new lord of the Borgo, brought his white steed to a halt before her.

The three fellow hunters lingered in the distance to give them privacy. Rosalind saw two deer dangling from their saddles. One from a man with striking red hair and one from her brother Julian's horse.

"Where did you go? We have been looking for you for a long time. Night will soon be here and there is the threat of a storm in the air."

A crack of thunder shook the treetops. A chill slithered under Rosalind's gown. It snaked around her thighs to gnaw at any soft bit of flesh it found.

What she missed in this damned eternal summer was the cold. Winter would no longer come to Transylvania, not since breaking the curse when she stuck her Vorpal blade into Lord Caspian's heart.

Troy slid off his horse and looked at the dead stag. "We do not need another."

His bride-to-be turned from him to the animal. Blood pooled around the stag's chest and seeped into the ground. High above, a little bird chirped away happily. Rosalind could not feel the same joy. Birds were now just birds for all the magic had gone.

Troy stepped closer and pulled her in his arms. The bow wedged between them. Rosalind's fingers were firm around it, unable to let go. "We have two. A third is excess."

She wanted to tell him how much killing the buck brought her momentary delight and pain but all those words inside, desperate to spill out, remained a whisper in her stomach. She held them back and swallowed them down. Rosalind did not know for how much longer she could keep from screaming out the anguish she carried.

Rosalind brought her head to Troy's chest. Her cheek touched his warmth. His body was muscular, ivory-fine, and inviting. Her heart lay in shambles. She wanted Troy but still wanted his father, too.

Troy ran his fingers along her long, dark hair. His hands were a balm. She was in need of soothing.

"I had to kill it," Rosalind whispered.

"Darling, why?"

The sky became purple, then blue, then tangerine. The mist could not hide the hues she had not seen for so long. Her heart ached. Everything reminded her of the love she lost.

"Why, my darling?" Troy asked again.

Closing her eyes, she tensed. She could not bear watching the colours shift. Rosalind wanted the sky to become black and stay that way.

"Because Troy..." she lamented. "Because I wanted to watch it die."

A shadow hand reached for her. It blended with the fog pluming from the ground, invisible, yet there. Finding her hair, it briefly sought sanctuary.

Rosalind shuddered. Every colour in the sky vanished. Darkness grew around her and Troy.

A butterfly appeared from the mist and fluttered towards her. It perched where the shadow had been only for a moment, before flying off.

A deep baritone whispered inside her, One thing I am certain of is that true love is eternal.

DEDICATION:

My first dedication is for Shimaira who's not only a fabulous (and very descriptive) horror writer, but also a dear friend. She's always there to offer support and feedback. Her story The Transcended: My Lord is a dark, steamy Gothic tale about rediscovering yourself after trauma.

After losing hearth and home, Meya attempts to escape the traumatic memories by travelling east. In 13th century Tristanja, however, it's not safe to be alone. 

A local slave trader catches wind of the kinless woman and abducts her in the dead of night. Beaten and abused, the now meek Meya is sold to Lord Deminas. He's known to be cruel, yet becomes strangely protective of his new chambermaid, punishing anyone who dares hurt her. After cutting her to drink her blood, he even uses his own to heal her wounds.

Meya and her paramour wonder if Deminas' dark secret is why servants regularly vanish, including the lord's previous chambermaids. However, the two women quickly learn that Lord Deminas isn't the only danger lurking in the castle's shadows.

Fun Fact! Bellua means Monster. I chose this as the title for the sequel because Bellua was the name of a book of poetry Caspian gifted Rosalind (chapter 48 and 49 of Rosalind).