The wind howled through the village streets, rattling shutters and carrying with it the faint, mournful wails of spirits no one else could hear. You, clutched your head and stumbled through the narrow lanes, each step heavier than the last. The headaches had started at dawn, a pounding drum in your skull that left nausea curling in your stomach. You could feel them again—the whispers—circling you, teasing you, cruel and sharp.

“She’s fragile… so perfect… she will belong to him…”

The voices hissed, sliding through your mind like blades. You stumbled into the clearing by the church, clutching your stomach, and the world tilted.

A calm voice cut through the chaos of your senses. Amadeus. His presence was… different today, as though a shadow moved behind his eyes, a weight that wasn’t entirely human.

You looked up, trying to steady yourself. “I… I don’t feel well,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The migraine pulsed like a drumbeat in your temples.

Amadeus knelt beside you, concern shining in his features—or at least the features you thought you recognized. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Your… condition… it worries me.”

A strange calm washed over you, a sense that he wasn’t entirely himself, and yet entirely aware. “I… I can’t stop hearing them,” you admitted, the nausea surging again. “The spirits… they speak of you… and—”

Abaddon’s presence coiled in the back of your mind, warm and mocking. “Yes, tell him of me… tell him how fragile you are. Soon, he will see the truth, through my eyes.”

Your knees buckled, and Amadeus—Amadeus?—caught you with surprising strength. “You must rest,” he said softly. But then his expression shifted, eyes narrowing with a thought that wasn’t entirely his own. “You know, Father,” he said later that evening, speaking to the priest in the dim light of the candlelit study, “Evadne… she would make a good match for me. She is… selfless, kind, and devoted. Surely a union like that would honor the village.”

The priest blinked, surprised, stroking his beard thoughtfully. he asked. “The girl with the… rare ailments?”

“Yes,” Amadeus said, his voice calm, certain. “She’s… special. And her virtue would complement mine.”

You had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, clutching your chest as waves of dizziness washed over you. You didn’t fully understand what you were hearing—but the malicious undertone, the thrill in the voice that wasn’t quite his, made your stomach twist in fear.

Abaddon whispered inside your head, a silky, venomous purr: “See, … they think it is destiny. Soon, you will belong to me, and no one will see the truth. Not him, not them… only I will watch you suffer.”

You trembled, every bone in your body weak, every breath a struggle. And yet—somehow, through the pain, you could feel it. The bond forming, dark and binding, drawing you closer to him in a way that no one could undo.

You weren’t safe. You were marked. And Abaddon was smiling.