Chapter 1: A Posthumous Mandate

Chapter 1: A Posthumous Mandate

The silence in the apartment was the loudest thing Dahlia had ever heard. It was a thick, suffocating blanket woven from the scent of dust, dried roses, and the lingering aroma of Shelby’s Earl Grey tea. Three days since the funeral, and the silence had only grown, pressing in on her until her own breathing felt like an intrusion.

Dahlia Thorne—Dolly, to the woman who had raised her—sat on the edge of an armchair that sagged with the memory of Shelby’s weight. Her fingers worried the cool silver of the locket around her neck, a nervous habit she’d had since she was a child. Inside was a tiny, faded picture of Shelby, her sharp, intelligent eyes crinkling at the corners. She had never been Dahlia’s mother by blood, but she was the only one she had ever known. Her great-aunt, the brilliant, reclusive academic who had taken her in as a baby.

On the coffee table, amidst stacks of books on obscure folklore and pre-Roman history, sat a single, thick manila envelope. It had been left with Shelby’s solicitor, with instructions to be given to Dahlia only after the service was concluded. Scrawled across the front in Shelby’s familiar, spiky handwriting were five words: FOR DOLLY. WHEN IT'S OVER.

Her desire was simple, an ache in her chest so profound it felt like a physical wound: she wanted one last piece of Shelby. A letter of goodbye, perhaps. An explanation for the sudden, aggressive cancer that had taken her in less than a month. Something, anything, to fill the cavernous emptiness.

With trembling fingers, she broke the wax seal. The obstacle was the grief itself, making every movement feel like it was through deep water. Inside wasn't just a letter, but a small, heavy object wrapped in oilcloth. She set it aside, her focus drawn to the crisp, folded pages.

My Dearest Dolly,

If you are reading this, then the worst has happened, and my time has run out. I am sorry. I am sorry for so many things, but most of all, I am sorry for the lies. Every story I told you about your parents—the car crash, their beautiful, tragic love—was a fabrication meant to protect you.

The truth is far worse.

Your biological parents, John and Mary Thorne, are alive. They live not twenty miles from this apartment. Twenty years ago, they made a deal.

Dahlia’s breath hitched. A cold dread, sharp and metallic, bloomed in her stomach. This wasn't a goodbye letter. This was a confession.

They were part of a small congregation, obsessed with summoning things that exist outside our reality. They were ambitious. They offered a being they called the Collector the most valuable thing they had: the unrealized potential of their firstborn child. You.

In exchange, they received boons. Gifts. Your father, a silver tongue and the ability to know a lie when he hears one. Your mother, eternal youth and unnatural strength. They gave you away, Dahlia. They sold your future, your very soul, as collateral for a twenty-year loan of power.

I was there. I was the scholar who led them to the ritual. It was my life’s work, my greatest shame. When I saw what they were willing to do, what they had done, I broke the rite. I stole you from them that night, severing their claim and hiding you from the Collector. But a contract with such a being can’t be broken so easily. It can only be defaulted on.

The contract stipulates that on your twentieth birthday, the debt comes due. That day is tomorrow. The Collector will come to claim its property. And John and Mary, whose boons will vanish if the contract defaults, will gladly hand you over.

Dahlia’s world tilted, the words blurring into meaningless symbols. The quiet apartment was no longer a sanctuary but a holding cell. Her life, a twenty-year lie. The self-doubt she’d always carried, the feeling of being an outsider, suddenly clicked into place with horrifying clarity. It wasn't just anxiety; it was the echo of a cosmic bargain.

Her eyes fell on the final, terrifying paragraphs.

There is only one way to void the contract. The signatories must be rendered null and void. The debt must be erased in blood.

You must kill them, Dahlia. Before midnight tomorrow.

I know this is a monstrous thing to ask. But I have left you a weapon. A piece of my will. A final atonement.

Her gaze snapped to the oilcloth bundle. This was the turning point, the moment her grief was eclipsed by sheer, unadulterated terror. With numb fingers, she unwrapped it.

Lying on the waxy paper was a dental prosthetic. A partial plate, like one an old person might wear. But instead of plastic teeth, two impossibly sharp, slightly yellowed canines were set into the pink acrylic, bound with shimmering silver wire. They were real teeth. Human eyeteeth. A small, typed note was tucked beneath it.

My own. Extracted years ago and prepared for this day. They hold a sliver of the knowledge I bargained for, and the intent of my sacrifice. Put them in. They will fit the gap where your baby canines fell out and your adult ones never grew in. It was a flaw I engineered into you from the start. A keyhole only this key will fit.

A wave of nausea washed over her. The gap in her upper jaw had always been a source of minor embarrassment, a quirk the dentist could never explain. Now, it was revealed as a premeditated wound.

This was insane. Shelby, in her grief and illness, must have lost her mind. A cult? A soul-selling contract? Killing her parents with enchanted teeth? It was the plot of one of the gothic novels Dahlia studied at university.

But as if on cue, a strange sensation began deep within her chest. A cold, rhythmic thrumming, like a tuning fork struck against her sternum. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. It felt… ancient. Inescapable.

…a strange, ticking anxiety beneath the surface of her life…

The letter hadn’t been a metaphor. There was a clock. And it was ticking.

The surprise wasn't the fantastical story anymore. The surprise was that some primal part of her believed it. Every word.

Her terror was a great, freezing ocean, but her trust in Shelby was a lifeline. Shelby, who had taught her how to think, how to be calm under pressure, how to see the truth behind the curtain. Shelby had never lied to her—until she had, and now she was explaining why.

Action, divorced from thought, took over. Her hands, steady now with a chilling resolve, picked up the prosthetic. She opened her mouth, tilted her head back, and pushed the device against the roof of her mouth.

For a moment, there was only the alien pressure of acrylic and bone. Then, with a soft, sickening click, it seated itself. There was no pain. Instead, a jolt of ice-cold energy shot down her spine, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. The two sharp points settled perfectly into the empty spaces in her gumline, feeling more natural, more right, than the gap ever had. A low hum vibrated through her jaw, a whisper of stolen knowledge and desperate, protective love.

She stood up, the letter clutched in her hand. The address for John and Mary Thorne was printed at the bottom. The ticking in her chest was stronger now, a metronome counting down the final hours of her life as she knew it.

Dahlia Thorne, a 20-year-old university student, walked out of her quiet, grief-stricken apartment and into the fading afternoon light. She wore a simple dark sweater, jeans, and a silver locket. And hidden in her mouth, she carried her adoptive mother’s final, monstrous mandate.

An hour later, she stood on a pristine sidewalk in a neighborhood of manicured lawns and identical houses. She looked at the address on the paper, then up at the charming, two-story colonial with a cheerfully painted blue door and a welcome mat that felt like the most profound lie she had ever seen.

The clock inside her ticked. One beat. Two. Her hand, cold and steady, reached for the doorbell.