The Promised Blade ✧ Min Yoongi

𝐅 𝐎 𝐑 𝐓 𝐘 - 𝐅 𝐎 𝐔 𝐑

CHAPTER 43 | TRUTH UNFOLDS

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YOU

A weary sigh escaped my lips, heavy and ragged, echoing faintly against the cold stone walls as I leaned into their rough surface for balance. Each step through the narrow corridor felt like a battle against exhaustion itself. My breath came in uneven gasps, the sharp intake and slow exhale punctuating the silence, while my trembling hands — sticky with drying blood — trailed along the walls. The cold texture beneath my fingertips was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my bruised, battered body. I could feel the smear of crimson left behind as I dragged my palms, a vivid reminder of the violence and struggle that had marked my path.

My fingers grazed the intricate paintings hung along the corridor, their surface cool and smooth beneath my touch. The murals depicted ancient Pureblood vampires — regal figures adorned in elegant robes, their eyes gleaming with eternal power and arrogance. Each figure seemed to gaze back at me, their expressions frozen in immortal judgment, whispering secrets of a long-lost age. The air was thick with the weight of history, yet strange and alien, unfamiliar to my senses despite the intimacy of the moment.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps thundered down the catwalk behind me, sharp and relentless. The hollow clatter of boots echoed ominously, amplifying the tension suffocating the narrow space. My body, already drenched in a grotesque mix of my own blood and that of my adversaries, shook violently. Sweat dripped unceasingly down my forehead, mingling with the grime and pain that radiated from wounds I had yet to fully acknowledge — aches burning deep in muscles and sinew, stabbing with every breath I drew. My heart hammered against my ribs in frantic rhythm, every beat a frantic plea for survival.

Yet, despite the urgency and chaos, a jarring thought intruded: I did not recognize this place. The corridor's stark coldness, the polished stone, and the ancient tapestries lining the walls were all utterly foreign to me. I had never set foot here before. Panic clawed at the edges of my mind, but I forced it down, slicing through the advancing guards with desperate precision. Their surprised cries filled the air, but I pressed forward, refusing to let fatigue or fear halt my progress.

Slowing my pace, I paused beneath the vaulted ceiling, my eyes drawn upward to the paintings that hung with proud reverence. On one side, a solemn procession of Purebloods, the supreme rulers of the vampire clans, their regal presence undeniable. On the opposite wall, intricate scenes depicting House Lazaurus unfolded, a lineage shrouded in myth and reverence. The colors, though faded by time, still conveyed an air of grandeur and sorrow, a history written in blood and sacrifice.

My gaze lingered on a particular portrait — a woman whose face stirred a flicker of recognition deep within me. Her features were hauntingly familiar, the same face that Yoongi had spoken of repeatedly in hushed tones: The Speaker. She was a vision of grace and strength, her hair cascading like silk, her eyes shimmering with an almost otherworldly wisdom. I approached the painting slowly, entranced by the lifelike quality of her gaze, tracing the delicate strands of hair that seemed to move with a breeze only she could feel.

Without thinking, I placed my trembling hand against the canvas. Suddenly, a mechanism whirred softly beneath my palm as the wall shifted open, revealing a hidden steel door recessed into the shadowed recess behind the portrait. My heart leapt with cautious hope as I pushed the door wider — to my relief, it was unlocked. I stepped back startled, raising the torch in hand to expand the fiery light.

The chamber was vast and suffocating, carved not by chisel and hammer but by some ancient force that melded flesh and stone into a single, grotesque entity. The walls pulsed with organic textures—ribbed and veined as though the entire place were alive, breathing in slow, imperceptible rhythms. A broad, blackened corridor stretched forward, its floor slick with the sheen of something not quite liquid, patterned with winding grooves that resembled the hardened arteries of a god long since entombed. Pillars, massive and bone-like, arched upward from the ground in twisted spirals, not standing but reaching—as if in eternal worship of whatever power dwelled at the heart of this place. The path led to a towering sanctuary, its entrance flanked by twisted machines half-buried in the warped floor, their designs ancient and unknowable, like petrified engines made of sinew, rust, and sorrow. A staircase, narrow and steep, ascended toward a high platform that bore the unmistakable stain of blood, dark and dried into the altar's cracked surface. This was no throne—this was a place of ritual, of offering, where the living were perhaps once bled for gods that no longer answered.