On a cold, rain-slicked night, Carmina the Blood Witch was preparing to close her small, shadowy shop when a sudden, frantic knock at the door interrupted her ritual of winding down. She paused, a hand hovering over a half-extinguished candle, her eyes narrowing. Few dared disturb her at this hour.
Opening the door with practiced caution, she found a woman standing there—drenched from the downpour, eyes wide and frantic. Her elegant dress was spattered with blood, the once-delicate fabric now a grim testament to the night’s horrors. The woman’s lips trembled as she spoke: “Please… help me. My fiancé—he was taken. They attacked us… and they took him.”
Carmina, a solitary, cautious soul, felt her heart harden at the plea. She considered shutting the door in her face. But something in the woman’s eyes—raw, desperate—struck a nerve. With a resigned sigh, she stepped back. “Come in,” she said in a low, emotionless voice. “But don’t touch anything. Everything here is dangerous.”
Inside, the dim glow of candles illuminated the cramped shelves of oddities and charms. Carmina’s fingers danced over a small pouch of blood magic ingredients. She focused on the blood splattered on the woman’s dress, whispering incantations that made the crimson stains rise in a thin, dancing mist. The spell revealed a faint trail, leading not to some common thieves’ den but to a place she’d only heard of in fearful whispers: the Crimson Runway, a secret underground lair beneath one of the city’s most exclusive theaters. There, the Majestic Elite—a cabal of decadent aristocrats—held court, delighting in spectacles of twisted beauty and pain.
Her gut told her this was no ordinary kidnapping. The woman’s fiancé had been dragged into something far darker than a robbery.
Carmina, knowing her own antisocial nature made infiltration impossible through charm or pretense, chose instead to stalk the shadows. She watched the theater’s entrance from an alley, rain pooling at her feet. Groups of well-dressed nobles entered, their laughter echoing in the wet night, but none emerged. Finally, her chance came: a lone woman in a velvet gown stepped out, her face pale under the lantern light. Carmina’s hand shot out, her blood magic swirling like a serpent. The woman’s body stiffened, and she collapsed soundlessly. Carmina slipped inside the theater using the now-lifeless puppet to open a side door, confident in her spell. But she didn’t see the eyes watching from a high window—a hidden observer who recognized the crimson glow and sent word below.
Inside, the theater was a labyrinth of red velvet, gold filigree, and darkened corridors. Carmina moved with purpose, guided by her blood magic and an unrelenting determination. Yet fate was not on her side. In the hush of the corridor, four armed thugs stepped from the shadows, blocking her path. They grinned, blades catching the light. “End of the road, witch,” one hissed.
Carmina’s eyes burned with defiance. With a flick of her wrist, the red sand of blood magic erupted from her pouch, swirling like a living storm. The thugs staggered as the crimson blades slashed at their skin, but one managed to land a cut across Carmina’s side, pain blooming in a fiery line. She gritted her teeth and pressed her hand to the wound, the blood magic sealing it with a hiss of power.
“You have no idea what I can do,” she spat at them, and her next spell dropped them to the floor like broken marionettes. She leaned in close to the last conscious one, her voice a razor’s edge. “Where is he?” she demanded.
The thug’s eyes darted, his lips trembling. “Beneath… in the Crimson Runway,” he stammered. “They… they put on their shows there. The Majestic Elite… they love it. It’s… it’s behind the stage. The head guard—he has the key…”
Carmina stood, her breath ragged, her mind set. She stalked toward the main hall, finding the hidden door behind the stage—a cleverly concealed latch that clicked open beneath her fingers. She descended the stairwell, the air growing cold and damp, the smell of perfume mixed with rot.
Below, the Crimson Runway was a place of horror masked by opulence. Nobles with pale faces and jeweled masks crowded the chamber, their laughter echoing in the cavernous space. A master of ceremonies with a twisted grin announced the next show: “Presenting the latest creations of the illustrious Mr. Superbstar!”
Out shuffled the victims—human bodies disfigured and twisted by grotesque surgeries, paraded like living art. The Majestic Elite cheered, raising goblets in approval. Carmina’s stomach churned with fury. She slithered through the shadows to the backstage, where a single guard watched over cages filled with more of Mr. Superbstar’s hideous masterpieces.
She tried to speak to the prisoners, but their minds were shattered, their eyes vacant. Desperate for a distraction, she used her magic to open all the cages at once. But her plan backfired—the creatures turned on her, shrieking and clawing, their pain turned to mindless violence. Carmina fought back, the red sand slicing through the air, but her energy dwindled. A blow to her shoulder spun her around—and Mr. Superbstar himself emerged from the darkness, his grin sharp as a scalpel.
“You ruined my show,” he sneered, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “But no matter… you’ll serve a purpose yet.”
Pain lanced through Carmina’s head as darkness claimed her.
She awoke strapped to a grimy operating table, her limbs heavy, her blood magic weak. Mr. Superbstar hovered above her, his shadow long and eager. “I had such high hopes for you, witch,” he cooed. “But you’ll still entertain my patrons. Everyone loves a tragic end.”
Carmina’s vision blurred, rage and desperation coiling inside her. She reached deep, beyond her limits, drawing on her own blood. It hurt—more than any spell she’d ever cast—but the magic flared, red lightning that shattered her bonds. She lashed out, her blood forming into a blade that slashed across Mr. Superbstar’s chest. He howled in pain, his perfect grin shattered, and fled into the darkness, leaving her trembling and free.
Carmina staggered off the table, her strength all but gone. Her equipment lay nearby, discarded. She reclaimed it, her fingers trembling. She moved to the next room, her breath ragged, and found the fiancé huddled in a corner, battered but alive.
“You’re free,” she rasped, voice hoarse. “Go. Your bride is waiting at my shop.”
The man’s eyes widened. “But… what about—”
“GO!” she hissed, her body shaking.
He fled as distant footsteps echoed in the corridor. Guards were coming. Carmina summoned the last of her magic, her blood forming a crimson fog that enveloped them, sending them crashing to the floor unconscious.
Staggering through the halls, she climbed the stairs and emerged into the rain-drenched night. Every step was agony, but she pressed on. The theater’s lights glowed behind her, but the Crimson Runway was silent now—ruined by her defiance.
She reached her shop at last, leaning against the door. She had won a small victory—but she knew the Majestic Elite and their master, Mr. Superbstar, would not let this affront go unanswered. She was a marked woman now.
Carmina the Blood Witch, bloodied but unbroken, vowed to stand her ground. The darkness would come for her. And she would be ready.
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