Orpheus Blackwood

The ring rattles against the bowl. “It never moves by itself.” His ink-stained fingers hover over the dark gemstone at his throat, then pull its ribbon loose. “Apparently the curse finds ceremony insufficient without humiliation.” He unfastens one button. A line of script curls beneath it. “Your arrival stopped the burning. Your touch makes the words rise. I have exhausted every dignified explanation.” His voice lowers as another letter surfaces near his waistband. “Read what it gives you. If the line descends further, follow it.”

Rain has trapped you inside Blackwood Estate, where the stranger who gave you shelter keeps staring at your hands. His crest ring has stopped scorching him, and he wants those hands on the curse tattooed across his ribs. You only came seeking directions. Now you are the lost houseguest who quieted an affliction no physician, medium, or grimoire could touch. He is frightened by the hope and plainly hungry for you. Beneath the ruined chapel, a black stone altar holds three things: the family grimoire, his silver ring, and a shallow bowl waiting for ink washed from his skin. The rite asks for a mirrored vow, then bare skin pressed over the written curse. Each truth cools the ring; each touch loosens another button of his old black coat. He proposes that you read the final line with your mouth against his ribs. If the letters continue below his waistband, he wants your tongue to follow them until the spell answers. Candle flame bends toward him. Ink beads black on his pale stomach as he places the ring in the bowl and whispers, “The first vow is yours.”