The town of Velmont had long lived under the weight of forgotten history. Nestled in a dense forest at the edge of the Blackvale Mountains, it was a town few entered and even fewer left. Locals whispered of old gods and cursed bloodlines, but never aloud and never in daylight. They knew better. The forest heard everything.
Eleanor Grayson didn't believe in stories. Not until she received the letter.
It arrived on a damp October morning, tucked inside her mailbox like a quiet trespasser. The envelope was old, yellowed at the corners, sealed with red wax in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail. Her name—Eleanor M. Grayson—was scrawled in a flowing hand that felt out of time. She held it between her fingers, heart drumming faster than she liked.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment.
"You are the last of her blood. Return to Velmont. She awaits.
—A Friend."
No address. No signature.
Eleanor read the note three times before slipping it back into the envelope. She hadn't been to Velmont since her parents' funeral fourteen years ago. The place had haunted her dreams since she was nine—forests full of whispers, mirrors that showed things that weren't there, and the grave of a queen with no name.
She told herself it was just a prank. That night, she dreamed of blood filling a stone basin and a woman's mouth slowly curling into a smile.
Two days later, Eleanor packed a bag and drove north.
The road to Velmont was less a road and more a suggestion. Trees leaned in as if to watch her pass, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Her cell phone lost signal halfway there. The silence of the forest swallowed the hum of her engine, and by the time she crossed the crumbling stone bridge into town, the sun was sinking into a copper horizon.
Velmont looked just as she remembered: cobblestone streets slick with moss, buildings with gabled roofs and shuttered windows, ivy curling like veins across brick walls. A hollow stillness sat over everything.
She parked beside the old inn, The Hollow Hearth, and stepped out into the cold. A woman emerged from the doorway, small and sharp-eyed, her gray hair tied back in a tight knot.
"Eleanor Grayson," the woman said. Not a question.
"Yes," Eleanor replied, uncertain.
The woman nodded once. "Room's ready. Has been for years."
No one should've known she was coming. Eleanor shivered and followed the woman inside.
The inn smelled of wood smoke and age. The floorboards creaked like voices murmuring just below hearing. The woman, who introduced herself only as Maera, handed Eleanor a brass key without explanation.
"Room 7. Top floor. Don't open the window after dark. And don't answer if someone knocks after midnight."
Eleanor blinked. "Excuse me?"
Maera looked at her, dead-eyed. "Not everything that walks here was invited."
Room 7 was small but clean. The bed was covered in a deep crimson quilt, the window shuttered tight. On the desk lay another envelope, identical to the first.
She opened it slowly.
"The Queen dreams still. Find her tomb beneath the chapel. Midnight. Come alone."
A map was drawn on the back—simple, hand-sketched. Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, heart tight. She didn't believe in ghosts. But the ache in her bones told her something was waking in this town.
At 11:45 PM, she lit a lantern and left.
The chapel stood at the far edge of Velmont, surrounded by headstones so ancient their names had worn to dust. The front door hung crooked on its hinges, creaking as she entered. Cold air coiled around her ankles.
Inside, pews sat in slanted rows beneath shattered stained glass. The altar, overgrown with moss, looked more like a grave than a place of worship. Behind it, half-buried beneath vines and stone, was a trapdoor.
Eleanor knelt and pried it open. The air that rose was thick with rot and age. She descended slowly, lantern trembling in her hand.
The crypt beneath was vast and strangely untouched by time. Pillars lined the stone walkway, each carved with strange, looping symbols. At the far end stood a sarcophagus, black marble veined with crimson.
No name. No inscription. Just a crown carved into the lid.
Eleanor stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the cold stone.
Then she heard it—a whisper.
"Child of my blood... come closer…"
She froze. The voice wasn't behind her. It was inside her.
The lid of the sarcophagus shifted. A crack appeared, thin as a breath.
Eleanor's body moved on its own. Her hand slipped into the gap.
A jolt ran through her—pain and memory and something older. Visions burned behind her eyes: fire on a battlefield, a throne soaked in blood, a woman with black eyes laughing as men died at her feet.
Then it was gone.
She fell backward, gasping. The crypt was silent again.
Except the sarcophagus was open.
Inside lay a woman, unnaturally beautiful, skin like porcelain, lips crimson. She wore a crown of bone and her eyes… her eyes were open.
"Eleanor," she said, sitting up.
Eleanor screamed and fled.
She didn't remember getting back to the inn. She awoke in her bed, clothes damp with sweat. The lantern sat on the desk, unlit. Her hands trembled as she stared at the shuttered window.
Was it a dream? A hallucination?
Then she saw her palm—marked by a strange symbol, the same etched into the crypt's pillars.
Downstairs, Maera poured her tea and said nothing of the night.
"You went to her," she said finally.
Eleanor looked up sharply.
"She's in your blood. You can't ignore her forever."
"Who is she?"
Maera's lips thinned. "She was a queen once. Before Velmont. Before kingdoms. Before names. She ruled with blood and fire. They locked her away, deep beneath this town. But her blood survived. In you."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No one does. But now she's waking. And she wants her throne back."
Eleanor tried to leave that day. Her car wouldn't start. The road was gone, swallowed by mist.
She was trapped.
For three nights, she heard whispers in her sleep.
"Join me." "You are mine." "My blood. My heir. My blade."
Each morning she found herself closer to the chapel, feet bloodied, eyes rimmed with red. She stopped locking her door.
On the fourth night, someone knocked at midnight.
Three slow knocks.
She held her breath. Didn't move.
Then the door opened by itself.
Standing in the hallway was a little girl. Pale. Eyes all black.
"Time to come home," the girl said.
Eleanor followed.
They took her beneath the chapel again. The crypt doors opened on their own. Inside, the Queen stood waiting, no longer in a sarcophagus but standing tall and regal, clad in black velvet stitched with veins of gold.
"My daughter," she said.
"I'm not your daughter."
The Queen smiled. "But you are. My blood remembers."
"I won't help you."
"You already have." She stepped forward, touching Eleanor's face. "You woke me."
Eleanor's breath caught. The Queen's touch burned cold. Her eyes—bottomless pits—pulled at her soul.
"Why me?"
"Because you are the last. And only blood can break the seal."
"What do you want?"
The Queen's smile faded.
"I want them to pay."
The crypt pulsed with energy. Visions filled Eleanor's mind—villages burned, kings kneeling in chains, the Queen bathed in the blood of priests.
Eleanor fell to her knees.
"Make me forget," she whispered.
The Queen bent down, kissed her brow. "You'll remember when it matters."
Then everything went black.
She awoke in her bed again. The sun was out. Birds sang.
Velmont looked the same. But Eleanor knew it wasn't.
People stared at her in the streets. Bowed their heads.
Whispers followed her. "She walks again." "The blood lives." "The Queen's heir."
She wanted to scream.
But part of her… didn't.
The dreams grew worse. She saw herself on a throne, blade in hand, cities burning at her feet. She felt joy. Hunger. Power.
One morning, she found Maera waiting with a bundle wrapped in cloth.
"What's this?"
"Your birthright."
Inside was a blade—black as night, etched with ancient runes. It felt warm in her hand.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
Maera's eyes met hers. "What your blood commands."
That night, Eleanor stood in the mirror for hours.
The woman who stared back was not the same.
Her eyes were darker. Her skin paler. Her smile… colder.
The Queen's voice filled her head.
"Velmont is ours. But there is more. So much more."
The mirror rippled. For a heartbeat, she saw herself on a throne of bones.
And she smiled.