Page 1 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Prologue – Calista

The chandeliers are glittering, like over-the-top golden cages, throwing bits of light all over the polished marble floor and the heavy, dark tapestries hanging from the walls. Every corner is filled with laughter and chatter, but it doesn’t feel right. I stand there in the middle of it all, feeling like some kind of statue, stiff and stuck in place, my fingers curling into fists beneath my gloves that are way too tight for comfort.

The gown's too much. It's weighty, fancy, and feels all wrong.

Every stitch screams ownership, legacy, and expectations. The ivory silk presses against my ribs, reminding me of the bruise I’m still nursing from when the guards tried to move me earlier. My veil’s crooked, ripped from my attempt to get rid of it. Guess I lost that fight. And just like I’m losing this one.

My uncle’s right next to me, flashing his usual fake, perfect smile. It’s a smile he practices in the mirror, not one that actually reaches his eyes. He lifts his glass in a toast, soaking in the approval of men who see daughters as nothing but property—Just an object to trade, sell, and control. As if we’re just currency.

They call this a wedding celebration.

But no one’s dancing for me.

Because I’m not the bride. I’m just the deal.

A parchment lies out on the long table in front of me, surrounded by fancy candle holders that make it look all important. It’s the Rourke-De Corsi marriage contract. But let’s be clear—it’s not about hearts coming together. It’s about two empires colliding. My name’s the only thing that stands out, in black ink. I can’t even see who made this deal happen or who pulled the strings. It’s all a mystery, a twisted game of power, and I’m caught in the middle of it. My name on that document feels like a death sentence. The hand that wrote it wasn’t trembling with fear—it was full of rage.

Zano De Corsi isn’t even here. He’s the one I’m supposed to marry. The one who’s already signed the contract. All that’s left is for me to sign my name, and then it’s official. A legal, bloody mess that’s going to bind our families forever. Meanwhile, the party’s still going, like I was never meant to have a say. I’m just a check mark, a formality. They’ve got me all boxed up, ready to be delivered.

“You’ll be delivered when the time comes,” a voice says behind me. I don’t react. I keep my eyes locked on the damn contract, memorizing the cruel curves of the letters.

I don’t beg them to stop the ceremony because I have a plan. In no world would I marry Zano De Corsi.

Later that night, I ditch the silk and the fear, leaving both behind like bad memories. I slip through the servant’s corridor, moving quick and quiet while everyone’s too caught up in their celebration to notice me slipping away. Barefoot and barely breathing, I race through the halls before anyone notices I’m gone. The gravel’s sharp under my feet, and my dress snags on the thorns in the vineyards as I push forward, heart pounding. The wind’s loud, like it’s yelling at me to move faster.

The estate’s gates are looming in front of me. Tall. Impenetrable. Unyielding. But I don’t care. I climb anyway, because at this point, nothing’s stopping me.

The metal digs into my palms, making my skin tear open. Blood smears on the gate as I pull myself up, ignoring the barking dogs and the shouts from the guards behind me. Every movement’s defiance. Every heartbeat’s a scream.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I’m going somewhere—anywhere, far away from this place. Far enough that no contract or family ties can reach me.

And as I vanish into the night, I make a vow of my own.

I will never be theirs. Not by ink, not by blood. No matter what paper they seal, no matter whose name they carve beside mine—I belong to no one. Running away before signing the contract binding me to Zano is my way of telling them to stop making decisions for me.

Somewhere, in the dark archives of the estate, the contract still waits. Dry ink. Dead promises. But vows, real ones, have teeth. And one day, someone’s going to come to collect. When they do, I won’t be some girl in white silk, playing by the rules.

I will be fire—unforgiving and untamed.

Chapter 1 – Calista

I sit hunched at my station, tracing the outline of wings coiled around a blade—sharp curves meeting soft shadows. It’s not just a design—it’s another piece meant for my own arm, another mark in a tapestry of defiance inked over bone.

Loud music pulses through the speakers—a punchy pop tune, the unmistakable voice of Halsey echoing through the studio with gritty melodies. Probably "Nightmare"—fitting, in more ways than one. Outside, Veldenport groans—ships grinding at rusted docks, the distant wail of sirens, the pulse of a city trying to swallow its own decay. But here, inside Ink & Iron, the world is quieter.

Draw. Ink. Breathe. Repeat.

It’s the rhythm that keeps me steady. The ritual that stills the chaos stitched beneath my skin. Every mark on my body tells a story I let them speak for me. Each line, each symbol, a memory carved in defiance. And maybe that’s why this studio matters so much—because in here, I can be myself.

But even comfort has cracks.

My eyes flick toward the empty stool across the room—the one Noel, my brother, used to slump into, complaining about the weather while stealing my cigarettes. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him. Days since his number last rang. I tell myself not to care, not to ache, but that stool is a reminder. And reminders hurt.

The bell over the door chimes—a sharp note that cuts through the haze.

I glance up.

Malissa strides in, the familiar click of her combat boots echoing on the floor. Blue hair spills over her shoulders in messy waves, and tattoos scatter across her arms—little bursts of stories inked in color and blackwork. She’s a regular, a walking canvas with a laugh like gravel and a heart sharper than most knives.

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