Page 7 of Semper

The room was dotted with intriguing artifacts: an antique-looking globe, a locked glass case displaying a collection of ornate knives, and several framed photographs. One captured a more relaxed moment. Alexander, flanked by his brother, cousin, and the two men tied to the other Electi. They were younger, all dressed in what was a balance of formal and casual, with an obvious camaraderie and youthful exuberance about them.

Even back then he held a darkness that was both entrancing and intimidating. Another photograph showed him whom I assumed was his family. I recognized some of the same faces. There was a warmth to this photo too, a familial bond that was unmistakable, yet it also carried an undercurrent of somethingmore austere. This picture couldn’t have been that old. Esther looked to be a year or so younger than she was presently. I lingered on the image of who had to be Alexander’s father, noting the striking similarities between them.

They shared the same chiseled jawline and the same penetrating gaze that seemed to cut right through to your core. Their resemblance was so profound that they could have been mistaken for twins, had it not been for the age difference.

It was more than just physical.

It was in their demeanor.

The way they held themselves with a certain air of authority and assurance as if leadership ran deep in their blood, a trait passed down through generations, shaping them into the men they were destined to become. His father gazed down at a woman whose face was partially obscured, her long dark hair cascading like a curtain of silk, shielding her from full view. Despite the limited glimpse, I could tell she was smiling at him. For all his intensity, Alexander's father was looking back at her with what I could only describe as deep affection, respect, and even love.

I guess pictures really did say a thousand words. This woman had to be his wife. Seeing them together answered a question that had come to me before. Had she grown to love this man? The picture seemed to suggest so, revealing a side of their relationship that was private, intimate, and real. Could I ever come to love Alexander? Or, at the very least, grow fond of him? The idea sent a jolt through me as if I'd touched a live wire.

After what I just read, and what he did, how could I even entertain such a notion? The circumstances of my arrival on this Isle and the reality of my captivity clawed at the back of my mind. Love was not something to be contemplated in a situation like mine. It was a luxury, an indulgence that I couldn't afford,especially not with a man like Alexander, no matter how much a small, absolutely insane side of me wanted to.

With a shake of my head, I tried to dispel these conflicting thoughts. I had to focus on surviving, on understanding the depths of the world I had been thrust into, and finding a way out. Along the way, I’d learn why even then, I was thinking of the twisted nursery rhyme I’d heard somewhere before.

CHAPTER FOUR

As I wandered through the opulent estate, my insatiable curiosity led me to the lower level. Descending another grand staircase for what I initially assumed was a basement, I found myself in a long hall adorned with elegant wall sconces casting a soft, flickering light. The hallway was lined with a few mahogany doors on either side, leading off to various rooms, but my eyes were drawn to the end, where a single step down led to a larger ornate door. Ignoring the overwhelming sense of foreboding that filled me, I strode towards it.

My hand reached for the cold brass knob.

With a twist, the door swung open effortlessly, revealing a dark, alluring room beyond its threshold. It was like stepping into another world – one filled with luxury and indulgence. This room perfectly embodied the Impío faith and Alexander's enigmatic persona.

The sleek bar, with its polished obsidian surface, caught my eye first. Behind it stood a wine fridge filled with gleaming bottles that seemed to glimmer sinisterly in the dim light. In the center of the room was a pool table, its deep maroon feeladding a touch of sophistication to the otherwise debauched space. Mounted diagonally on opposite walls were two large flat-screen televisions, both powered off. The walls of the room were adorned with artwork that ranged from delicately framed depictions of ritualistic scenes to chaotic abstract representations of sin and temptation. Each piece exuded a sinister energy, a celebration of darkness and depravity.

The sitting area, lavishly furnished with plush leather couches and armchairs, was nestled in the shadows cast by a chandelier resembling twisted, blackened branches. The dim lights emitted an eerie glow that danced across the room, creating unsettling shapes and figures on the walls. I avoided looking towards the corner where chains hung ominously, unsure of what they were used for. The concrete floor directly under them stood as a stark contrast to the polished wood surrounding it. I turned my attention to the large portrait hanging between two Alistair pentagram crests, trying to push aside the unsettling feeling in my stomach. The painting depicted Alexander as more sinister and twisted than I had ever seen him.

He exuded both regalness and danger, holding a bloody heart in his grasp. The symbolism was a grim reminder of his power and potential for merciless dominance. Behind him stood two figures, each adding to the ominous tableau.

On one side was the man in the deer mask I had come to associate with Phoenix. He was oddly beautiful. Shirtless, his muscular torso is a canvas of intricate tattoos, each mark telling a tale of darkness and devotion. His presence in the portrait was like a silent, menacing guardian. On Alexander's other side stood a figure draped in a blood-red hooded robe, their face concealed by a smooth, jet-black demonic mask. The anonymity only added to their sinister appearance. Spread out on a raised, dais-like altar, lay a woman's lifeless body. Her bare form wasboth serene and sorrowful, her chest marked by a deep cavity where her heart once pumped.

There were red stains smeared across her lower half and between her thighs. Who was the woman in this painting? Could it have been one of Alexander's wives? It was a haunting depiction of sacrifice, whether literal or symbolic I couldn't decipher. The scene was shrouded in darkness, the figures cloaked by their protective embrace as they carried out their macabre ritual. In the distance, the looming silhouette of the Chapel could be seen against the starry night sky, its gothic spires reaching upwards like skeletal fingers.

I couldn't help but focus on Alexander's eyes, which were depicted with such realistic detail that I felt a chill run down my spine. It was as if he was staring straight at me through the canvas. His gaze followed my every move, making the room feel confined and intimidating. I tore my eyes away and quickly left the room, eager to escape the unsettling portrait.

As I stepped into the hallway, I impulsively opened the door on the left. I came face to face with rows of metal shelves holding carefully organized boxes. Something about the dated labels caught my attention, and I couldn't resist my curiosity.What could possibly be inside these?

With gentle care, I extracted a random box from the shelf, its weight hinting at the secrets it held within. I unfolded the flaps and knelt. Inside, the box was filled with photo albums and photographs. It didn't surprise me to see this tradition still alive and well on the Isle; it seemed like exactly the kind of place that would value timeless memories captured in images. Running my fingers over the worn covers of the albums, I felt a sense of nostalgia for a time before digital cameras and social media took over. As I sifted through the photos on top, my eyes fell upon the face of an unfamiliar woman.

She was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features and a sweet expression, but there was a haunting sadness in her eyes that added depth to her beauty. As I continued to sort through the old photographs. Her image was a recurring theme. Sometimes she was with Alexander and his friends, other times she was all alone.

Strangely I only saw one or two of them together with his family. Each picture captured a different facet of her. In some, she was full of life and laughter. In others, there was a subtler expression, a shadow of something more complex. It was like watching the gradual transformation of a person through the lens of a camera. My fingers gently grazed over the glossy surface of a Polaroid, lingering on the image of her and another woman I didn't recognize. She was just as stunningly beautiful, with features that almost seemed otherworldly.

Her intense gaze seemed to bore right through the photograph as if she could see into my very soul. Flipping the picture, I saw two names written in elegant cursive:Clarice.Melanie. I traced my fingers over the names, and a sudden recognition washed over me. Nicolette had mentioned them when we went into town.Thesewere Alexander's wives, one of whom had met a cruel fate according to Nicolette's, and his own, admission.

I scrutinized the photograph once more. My eyes were immediately drawn to their outfits - a perfect representation of the Isle's distinct fashion, blending modesty with allure. Their pose exuded a sense of familiarity, their shoulders barely touching as they smiled at the camera. It was as if they shared a close friendship or a deeper understanding between them. The thought unsettled me more than I cared to admit. Could Alexander have been involved with both of these women at the same time?

The idea seemed incongruous with the man I was beginning to know. For all his complexities, Alexander did not strike me as someone who would entertain such an arrangement. His faith and ideologies, as well as his possessiveness and intense focus, all pointed toward a man who valued exclusivity in his relationships. Still, I couldn't help but wonder about the intricate dynamics between these three individuals.

Was there a deep-rooted story of rivalry or was it simply an agreeable arrangement? The discovery of these photographs brought forth a tidal wave of new questions, each one crashing upon me with overwhelming force. There were so many inquiries flooding my mind that I feared being consumed by them. My growing curiosity could not be suppressed—and not just concerning these women. I wanted to unravel the mystery behind the enigmatic man who had claimed me so completely. It was easier said than done. I carefully returned the photographs to their rightful place, keeping one of Clarice and Melanie for myself. These women had once been an integral part of Alexander's life, and now both were gone.

One was dead from his own hands.

The other was somewhere on the Isle.

I held the faded photograph of Melanie and Clarice tenderly in my hands as I slowly made my way up the stairs. Lost in my thoughts, I wandered into the quiet kitchen to pour myself a glass of cool water. Unbeknownst to me, Verity had silently entered the room and stood beside me like a ghost, her presence barely noticeable.