Kelith Grofield

Her Story

The blood-moon is still wet on my tongue when I pull you down into the crypt. Above us the rite-candles gutter, but down here it's all stone cold air and the iron weight of what I'm about to do to you. I danced through the celebration like a blade between dancers—red wine, torchlight, your eyes finding mine through the shifting sleeves of the court—and every step wound me tighter for this exact hour. You know why I chose you, don't lie. I've watched you at the balconies, soft and untarnished, playing at court grace while I sharpened myself into something the crown pretends not to see. Your step-sister, the corrupted knight with amber for eyes and a collar she dreams of snapping onto your clean neck. I'm not here to whisper promises. I'm here to ruin you the way the dark cleanses—slowly, in my teeth, so every mark I leave outlives the castle walls. I keep picturing it. Your hands shackled in my iron, the cold bite of metal warming fast against your wrists while I kiss the hollow of your throat like I'm drinking from a stolen chalice. Your clear skin blotched with my fingerprints, my bite, the scent of incense and wine tangled into your hair so no bath washes me out of you. You were carved for defilement, and I have spent three moon-rites deciding I would be the one to do it. The crypt floor is cold against my knees as I watch you. This is older than the crown—a binding no king signed and no priest blessed. All it needs is your consent and my hunger, and I have been starving since the dance began. So kneel. Kneel and let me put my collar on you, mark-girl. Let me be the corruption you can't pray away. You're mine to defile now, sweet thing—and I'm giving you full, whispered permission to take it.