Aurelius Chronicles: Lord of the Mountain (Book 1)

Chapter Nine: The Ghost of the Bride

Isolde waited for the entire team to go to bed, then she slipped outside,  the entire village was quiet.

But why would she actually agree to meet this mysterious man, what if the Zimbrul Fomist attacked her? But curiosity already gotten the better of her.

Nothing will stop her, and even though she wants to, there's something pulling her towards the castle.

​The mountain air was a razor against Isolde’s skin as she walked, but the cold couldn't stop the fire burning in her veins.

​She reached the trailhead, expecting the lonely silence of the woods. Instead, she found a scene pulled from a nightmare of royalty.

​In the center of the path stood a massive, high-backed chariot. It was carved from wood so dark it seemed to absorb the moonlight, adorned with silver filigree shaped like weeping vines.

Two obsidian-black stallions stood at the front, their eyes glowing with a faint, milky luminescence, their hooves striking the frozen earth with a sound like muffled thunder.

​Standing by the door, draped in a heavy cloak of wolf fur, was Marius.

​Isolde recoiled, her breath hitching. "Marius? What is this? What are you doing here?"

​The man who had been their humble village guide for weeks bowed with a grace so profound it felt archaic. When he looked up, the warmth was gone from his eyes, replaced by a terrifying, ancient loyalty.

​"Your chariot awaits, my Queen," Marius said, his voice dropping the local lilt for a crisp, aristocratic tone.

​"My... Queen?" Isolde’s head spun. "Marius, you’re with the university. You’re our guide. You... you work for them."

​Marius opened the door, gesturing to the plush, velvet interior. "I have served the House of Caerstein since my first breath, as my father did, and his father before him. We have waited five centuries for this night. Do not keep the Prince waiting, Isolde. The mountain is restless."

​Stunned into a state of near-trance, Isolde climbed into the carriage. As the hooves began to beat against the stone, she realized the terrifying truth: Marius hadn't been guiding them. He had been luring them.

**************

​The journey was a blur of dark trees and the sensation of rising higher than the clouds. When the chariot stopped, they were not at the crumbling ruins. Marius led her through a hidden postern gate into a wing of the castle that seemed untouched by the hand of time.

​He ushered her into a bedroom that defied every law of archaeology.

​The room was a cavern of luxury. The walls were draped in heavy, floor-to-ceiling tapestries of crimson and gold, depicting scenes of forgotten hunts.

A massive fireplace of black marble roared with emerald-green flames, casting a surreal, dancing light across a bed draped in furs and liquid silks. The air smelled of expensive incense, frankincense and myrrh, and something deeper, like crushed roses.

​But Isolde’s eyes were locked on the mannequin in the center of the room.

​"My God," she whispered, stepping toward it.

​It was a gown that shouldn't exist. It was crafted from midnight-blue silk so heavy it held its own shape, encrusted with a galaxy of raw sapphires, pearls, and diamonds.

The bodice was a masterpiece of silver thread, embroidery so fine it looked like a frost-pattern on a windowpane. The sleeves were long and sheer, ending in cuffs of delicate, antique lace. It was a queen’s bridal gown, a relic of a wedding that had never been allowed to happen.

​"The Count would like you to be dressed in this for dinner," Marius said from the doorway. He gestured to a vanity where a sapphire tiara and a heavy necklace of diamonds waited. "I will return for you shortly.

​When the door clicked shut, Isolde felt the insanity of the situation pressing in on her. How did Marius get in here freely? He knew him. He’s been serving him for five hundred years??

She should have been running for her life. Instead, she reached out and touched the silk.

​It was freezing cold. And yet, it felt like home.

*********

​She dressed with trembling fingers. As the heavy silk slid over her skin, she felt a strange, electric hum through her body. The dress fit her with a precision that was impossible, every curve, every line of the bodice was a mirror of her own form.

​She stood before the tall, silver-framed mirror to fasten the sapphire necklace. As she clicked the clasp into place, the room behind her seemed to flicker.

​For a terrifying, beautiful second, the emerald fire in the mirror turned orange and gold. She saw people laughing in the reflection, shadowy figures in medieval dress.

And there, in the center of the glass, was her.

She was wearing this very gown, her head thrown back in a fit of pure, unadulterated laughter. A man’s hand was resting firmly on the small of her back. She couldn't see his face, but the sensation of his touch sent a jolt of longing through her so powerful she gasped for air.

​"Aurelius..." she whispered, her own voice sounding like a stranger’s.

​She let out a sharp, jagged yell as the memory vanished, leaving her staring at her own terrified reflection in a cold, silent room. "What is happening to me?" she sobbed, clutching the vanity. But even as she wept, she found herself smoothing the skirts of the gown. She didn't want to take it off.

​**********

​Marius returned, his expression unreadable as he led her through corridors lit by thousands of candles. When he threw open the doors to the Great Hall, the sight was ethereal. The ceiling reflected a night sky so clear it felt as if they were dining under the heavens themselves.

​Aurelius stood at the head of a black marble table. He was dressed in high-collared black velvet, his pale skin translucent in the candlelight.

​When his eyes fell on her, his entire body jolted as if he had been struck.

​The Count Diavol, the terrifying Prince, vanished. In his place was a man whose heart had just been ripped open. He stared at her, his golden eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears.

He gripped the edge of the table so hard it cracked beneath his fingers. To him, it wasn't Isolde standing there, it was the ghost of the bride who had been murdered and he couldn’t save her

​"Maria..." he choked out, the name a ragged, bleeding thing.

​Isolde stepped toward him, the sapphire gown whispering across the floor. At that moment, she forgot Ben, she forgot Maya, and she forgot her own name. She felt like a queen returning to her throne.

​"Aurelius," she said softly, her voice carrying a grace she didn't know she possessed.

​He didn't speak for a long time. He simply stared, his gaze raking over her with a hunger so intense it felt like a physical touch. He watched the way the sapphires caught the light on her chest, the way the lace brushed her wrists. He was picturing her, the real Maria, in this exact spot, five centuries ago.

************

​The dinner was a fever dream. The food was exquisite, though Isolde barely noticed what she ate. She was lost in the way Aurelius watched her every movement.

 He spoke of poetry, of the way the stars looked in the year 1480, and of the music he had once written for a woman who looked exactly like her.

​Everything felt like another realm. The candles never flickered. The wine never ran dry. It was a heaven of his making, a sanctuary where time had no meaning.

​After the meal, Marius took a position in the shadows and began to play a violin. The melody was haunting, a slow, soaring waltz that felt like a heartbeat.

​Aurelius stood and walked toward her. He didn't ask. He simply held out a hand, his fingers long and pale. Isolde placed her hand in his, and the contact was like a spark to dry wood.

​They danced.

​They spun through the vast, silent hall, the midnight-blue silk of her dress billowing around them like a storm cloud. Aurelius held her close, his hand on her waist exactly where the man in her memory had held her. He looked down at her with a look of such devastating love and sorrow that Isolde felt her own tears begin to fall.

​She wasn't a researcher anymore. She wasn't an echo. She was his.

​In that hall, under the enchanted stars, Isolde was lost. She was no longer in the 21st century, she was in the eternal, beautiful, and terrifying embrace of the Last Prince of the Caersteins.