Inside the cold, silent Milverton mansion, Vespera sat alone in the reading room. A single candle flickered weakly on the table, casting long shadows along the stone walls. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the handle of a porcelain teacup—softly, almost imperceptibly.

"Three hours," she whispered, eyes narrowing at the antique clock on the wall. "He hasn't returned."

Charles never came home this late without notice. He might be stubborn, but never reckless. And tonight... Vespera felt something different. There was something in the air, something sharp pressing against her spine like thorns.

Her blood turned cold.

"...Lord Charles."

The voice was barely audible, like a whisper from another realm. In an instant, her form vanished from the chair. Only the teacup fell, shattering on the floor and releasing the scent of spiced herbs.

---

Whitechapel.

A cursed place where the scent of blood never truly fades. Usually, it was filled with crude laughter, rushed footsteps, and muffled cries behind shuttered windows. But tonight—it was dead silent.

Vespera moved swiftly across the wet cobblestones. Every step she took was silent but clear, like echoes only the night could hear. Her sharp eyes scanned every shadow, every corner.

And there, beneath a dying streetlamp, she saw her.

A woman dancing.

Her long hair flowed wildly, and her tattered dress was stained with dirt and blood. In her hand gleamed a long silver knife. Her movements were gentle—almost graceful. But it wasn't a seductive dance—it was more like a summoning ritual. Repetitive, spiraling, haunting.

"Fascinating," Vespera murmured.

She watched briefly, then turned away. Time was short.

---

A few steps later, she found Charles.

Lying in the middle of the road.

As if discarded like a broken doll.

Blood drenched his chest, spilling from wounds too deep to name. His face was pale. His breath—barely there.

Vespera dropped to her knees. Her hand gently cupped Charles' face, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"Lord... Charles..."

She touched the gaping wound on his chest—then her eyes widened. The injury... refused to close. The blood contract she had sealed with him should have kept him from death.

Yet this...

"This... is no ordinary wound."

She inhaled sharply. Something cracked inside her chest.

"Who... dares to do this to you?"

---

In a blink, Charles was back in his bedroom. Vespera had carried him with magic and fury. She laid him on the bed, stripped away the torn clothing, and wiped the pool of blood blooming across his abdomen.

Her every touch trembled with anger wrapped in icy calm. Her fingers were cold, but moved fast—cleansing, stitching, shielding him in layers of protective spells.

"No wound is beyond my healing," she whispered. "You're not allowed to die. Not until I’ve avenged everything."

But the wound continued to darken. The flesh rejected healing. Something blocked Vespera’s power.

Her gaze sharpened at the jagged tear. And for the first time, her eyes showed fear.

"...That knife... it’s not of this world."

In her mind, the image returned: the dancer with the cloth-wrapped face, the grotesque forced smile, the stitches lining her cheeks.

"You... you’re a demon too."

---

Vespera rose from the bedside. Her gown whispered across the cold marble floor. She stared out the window.

"I saw you tonight. Dancing with blades, treating the world like your stage. But you touched what's mine."

Her voice was no longer soft. It was frigid, like the soil in graveyards.

"Prepare yourself. I’ll come for you. And when I find you..."

She turned, looking once more at Charles, pale but still breathing.

"Your head will be an offering."

The night dragged on.

And somewhere in London, two demons now stared at each other through the darkness—waiting for their cue to set the world ablaze.

---

Rain began to fall again over Whitechapel. A light drizzle that masked blood, screams, and secrets.

But above it all, within the Milverton mansion, magic pulsed in steady rhythm around Charles’ bed. Vespera sat at his side, unmoving, fingers interlaced, lips silent.

She would not sleep.

She would not pray.

Only wait.

Until vengeance began.