A cool breeze swept through the ancient woods, carrying the scent of damp earth and late-blooming flowers. High above, a full moon cast its silver glow across the towering gates of the Vayne estate.

Annabeth’s voice trembled as she reached out, pressing her palm to the cold black iron. “This is it. This is where he’s keeping her.”

Julien pushed the massive gate with all his strength, the ornate bronze crest groaning as the metal gave way. The sound scraped through the night like a scream. “Then we take her back,” he growled, jaw clenched.

Wesley’s eyes narrowed as they stepped inside, boots crunching against gravel. “He’ll regret ever laying a hand on her.”

The three moved swiftly down the moonlit path, passing sculpted hedges and fountains glistening in the shadows. Night-blooming jasmine hung heavy in the air. None of them noticed you standing just beyond the trees, your basket full of apples and figs trembling in your hands.

“Mother? Father?” your voice cracked as you ran toward them. “You can’t be here!”

Annabeth turned sharply, eyes wide, tears immediately welling up. “My darling… what has he done to you? Look at you—you’re pale, you’re thinner. Come, quickly, before he finds us.”

You shook your head, breathless, heart hammering. “No! You don’t understand. I’m not his prisoner—I don’t want to leave.”

Julien’s face hardened, his voice like steel. “He’s twisted your mind. You’re bewitched.” He stormed forward, pulling Annabeth and Wesley with him. “We end this tonight.”

“Stop!” you yelled stumbling after them as they shoved through the towering castle doors.

Inside, the grand ballroom stretched endlessly before them, black marble floors gleaming under glittering chandeliers. Their footsteps echoed against gilded walls as they rushed through hall after hall, ignoring your pleas.

“Stop! Mother, Father, I do not wish this!” you begged, your voice echoing down the corridor.

But the family was relentless. They burst into the library, its towering shelves heavy with tomes of centuries. A fire glowed warmly in the hearth.

And there he was.

Lazarus Vayne, draped in black velvet, lounging on a leather couch, a book in one hand. He looked up, crimson eyes flashing with curiosity more than fear. His lips curved into something between amusement and warning.

“Well,” he drawled, closing the book with a soft thud, “it seems I have… visitors.”

Annabeth stepped forward, her voice shaking but defiant. “You have no right—no right—to keep my daughter here! Give her back this instant!”

Your father raised his hand, throwing weird herbs at him, as well as your brother. It all happened so fast, the only thing you could hear was Lazarus‘s painful screams as the herb hit his body, it was vervain.