An Enchanted Ring

Rosamund could have cried into her elbows while perched up on the vanity for hours on end—had she not glanced up to see that the door was still open. It was not locked by Count Ivar. Tangled strands of dark hair clung to her moist cheeks, framing her tear-streaked face as it reflected dimly in the elaborate mirror in front of her. The vanity itself was a massive object, with a single flickering candle casting a weak glow on the surface, which was crowded with crystal bottles and silver brushes. Both the stifling weight of her grief and the musty smell of old wood hung thick in the room. Before that unexpected view of the open door pierced her grief like a shard of glass, her weeping had been a calm, trembling cadence, her shoulders heaving with each breath.

She had a sudden, electrifying, and piercing realization that sliced through the mental fog. For an instant, a glimmer of hope lit in her breast, and her breath caught in her throat. Maybe there was a way to escape this oppressive nightmare. The room's walls, lined with fading, flowery wallpaper and covered with heavy crimson drapes, appeared to tilt inward, as though they were attempting to ensnare her in their arms. The slight, metallic flavor of her own anxiety was present in the thick, nearly physical air. Her heart pounded against her ribs, pleading for release with every beat. With her skin chilly and clammy, she used the back of her shaking palm to wipe her eyes before making her choice. She would leave this location, vampire or not, ostracized by the town or not. Perhaps she could outrun the hideous creature she had turned into if she could run far enough and quickly enough. Perhaps, just possibly, the universe would correct itself when she got home, and everything would vanish into the mist of a horrible nightmare.

With a sudden sense of thankfulness, she saw that her room was the closest to the stairwell, a tiny boon in this vast, maze-like fortress. Her bare feet slapped the cold stone floor as she staggered out of the vanity, the sound resonating softly in the silence. She couldn't afford time, so she didn't stop to pick up her shoes or collect her strewn-about possessions. She was surrounded by an eerie silence, a huge, empty emptiness that absorbed all sounds but the desperate beat of her footsteps. Her vision narrowed to the way ahead, the open door calling her forward like a lifeline, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her chest tight with panic.

The magnificence of the palace erupted around her as she crossed the threshold and dashed into the hallway. The polished gray stone used to carve the walls, floors, and ceilings was cool to the touch and smooth, reflecting the gloomy light in a way that gave the room a sense of grandeur and emptiness. She hurried down the broad spiral staircase, her palm brushing the cold banister as the cold crept into her bones. The spiral staircase wound downward interminably, the gentle thump of her feet echoing with every step. The interior of the castle towered over her, its dark recesses and tall arches a sharp contrast to her tumultuous, unkempt appearance. Her escape was watched with calm indifference by tapestries that hung limply on the walls, their worn threads portraying scenes of forgotten nobility.

Finally, she staggered into the entryway, a vast room with a vaulted ceiling that extended to the highest point of the castle. She felt like a dust particle trapped in a massive, empty shell due to its immense size. The enormous oak doors in front of her were three times as tall as she was, and their dark wood was carved with elaborate designs that appeared to move and writhe in the wall sconces' wavering light. Her breath caught in her chest as she hesitated, her hand lingering over the iron handle. This is too easy, there must be a catch, she thought to herself, but the urge to get away overcame the hesitation. She was unable to remain here and accept her fate. She took a trembling breath, clutched the handle, and tugged as hard as she could.

A golden flood of sunlight poured into the foyer as the doors cracked open, crashing over her like a breaking wave. Pure, persistent, and overwhelming, the light burned her eyes with its intensity. As if caressed by unseen flames, she stumbled backward, letting out a moan as her flesh pricked. Tears clouded her eyes, and she raised her hands to protect her face from the assault. The warmth she had previously longed for on clear mornings now seemed like an enemy, an invader that charred her skin. The feeling was both strange and terrible as her knees gave way and she almost fell.

She hurled her weight against the doors and slammed them shut in a fit of desperation. A deafening boom from the heavy wood's collision echoed across the deserted room, resonating like a tolling bell. Her hands shook as they gripped her chest, and she forced her back against the rough surface. She grabbed her mouth to stop the scream that was tearing at her throat, and her breaths came in short, panicked gasps. The light's afterimage flickered behind her eyelids as she pressed them shut, a terrible reminder of what she could no longer stand. Once a source of happiness, the sunlight now made her more terrified, its rays a poison from which she was unable to get away. Shying away from something so pure was wrong—so terribly wrong—but here she was, stuck in the dark with no way out.

What's going on with me? The idea raced through her head like a mad fever. Who am I?

From someplace to her left, Count Ivar's steady, smooth voice pierced through her panic and said, "I'm sorry you had to learn that the hard way." "Today's sun is far too bright. I didn't consider alerting you. I apologize; I didn't think you would try to get away so quickly. It simply pushes us away; it won't physically harm you.

Her teeth chattered in spite of the lack of cold, and her body trembled as though she were in the middle of a winter storm. She was unable to look at him; instead, her eyes were fixed on the grey stone beneath her feet, which was becoming blurred by her tears. The contradiction of his presence was that it was both comforting and condemning. He was the one who understood and her link to this new reality, but he was also the one who planned her downfall.

"It becomes easier," he added, his voice becoming softer, almost gentle. "I swear, it gets easier after the first year, which is the hardest. And I'm here to assist you.

The words were uncomfortably knotted in her stomach. She didn't want to live this life or adjust to the darkness. She yearned for her former existence—warm laughter, sunny fields, and people.

She buried her fingers in her arms and embraced herself firmly, whispering, "I'm a monster."

Before he spoke again, there was a heavy, oppressive silence between them. He murmured softly, "I do not believe that," with a weight she was unable to understand.