Transmigrated as the Villainess Princess - Chapter 215

Chapter 215: The Goddess of Revenge (5)
Ahcehera moved through the ruins of the Mors Dukedom, her heart pounding against her ribs as she scanned every corner of the desolate land. The air was filled with the scent of dried blood and decay, a heavy fog clinging to the remnants of the estate.

With every step, she felt the absence pressing down on her chest. Rohzivaan was not here. No matter how many times she searched, no matter how deeply she ventured into the collapsed halls and torn-down fortifications, there was nothing.

The search and rescue teams spread across the land, their voices echoing as they called for survivors. But the deeper they went, the more their hope crumbled. One by one, they uncovered bodies, bloodied, torn apart, frozen in expressions of horror.

The stench of death clung to the air like an unshakable curse, and Ahcehera’s hands trembled as she knelt beside two lifeless forms.

Renmary and Richmartina. Rohzivaan’s younger sisters.

Their once-vibrant bodies lay cold in the dirt, their eyes empty, their hands reaching for something no longer there. Ahcehera felt her knees give out as she stared at them, disbelief strangling her like a vice. She had met them before, had spoken with them, laughed with them.

They had been so full of life, so bright despite the shadows looming over the Mors family. And now, they were gone. Her throat tightened as a painful scream threatened to escape, but she swallowed it down. Tears blurred her vision, and for a moment, she could not move.

A shaky hand reached out, brushing over the dried blood that stained their clothes. She had been too late. Too slow. If only she had searched sooner, if only she had pushed harder, maybe they would still be alive.

The duchess and the duke were nowhere to be found. That realization hit her like a brutal strike to the chest. Had they escaped? Had they abandoned their children to this fate? Or had something even more sinister occurred?

Ahcehera rose to her feet, wiping at her damp face, forcing herself to breathe through the suffocating despair. This was not the time to break. She had to keep going. She had to find out what happened, to understand why this land, once full of power and pride, had been reduced to a graveyard.

Then she saw it. Dark traces of magic, remnants of something ancient and forbidden. Her breath hitched as she moved closer, eyes scanning the symbols carved into the ruined walls, the eerie pulse of lingering energy still clinging to the air.

These markings, she knew them. She had studied them before, in the records of wars, in the texts that spoke of the fall of civilizations. How could these markings appear here?

This was demonic magic. The realization sent a violent shudder down her spine. She turned to her team, her voice sharp. “Search for any hidden chambers. Look for anything that might explain what happened here.”

They scattered without hesitation, and Ahcehera stepped forward, fingers tracing over the runes that pulsed faintly under her touch. The energy was old but potent, an undeniable sign that demons had been involved. But how? Why?

The Mors family had been a noble house of werewolves, bound by the laws of their kingdom. There should have been no reason for them to be involved in demonic practices.

Unless… someone had been hiding secrets all along. A pit formed in her stomach. Could Rohzivaan have known? Was this why he had disappeared? She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as her mind raced through the possibilities.

None of it made sense. If demons had infiltrated the Mors estate, why had they left bodies behind? Why had they not wiped out all traces of their presence? Unless they wanted someone to find this.

A cruel, deliberate message. Ahcehera exhaled shakily, steeling herself. She would not let this fear consume her. She would find out the truth. No matter what it took. Ahcehera took a deep breath and steadied herself.

The stench of blood and decay still clung to the air, but she forced herself to focus. There was more to uncover. The demonic markings left behind were not just remnants of a passing force.

Someone had practiced forbidden rituals here. Someone had tainted the foundation of the Mors estate with darkness. She moved toward the largest ruin still standing, a collapsed hall where the council of the Northern Dukedom once gathered.

As she stepped inside, her boots crunched against shattered stone and broken glass. Her team spread out behind her, searching through the rubble. She ran her hands over the cracked pillars, searching for anything that could explain what had happened.

Then, she saw it. Behind what remained of the grand seat of the Duke, there was a narrow passageway, half-hidden by fallen debris. The edges of the doorway were marked with the same eerie symbols she had seen outside.

The runes pulsed faintly, remnants of a spell that had long since been cast. Whatever had been done here, it was powerful, dangerously so. “Over here,” she called to her team.

Two of her men rushed forward and helped clear the debris. Dust filled the air, making it harder to breathe, but they worked quickly, revealing a stairway descending into darkness. Ahcehera summoned a small orb of light in her palm and stepped forward, leading the way.

The deeper they went, the colder it became. The walls were lined with old chains and rusted shackles, as if this place had once been a dungeon. But there were no signs of prisoners, only the haunting remnants of something far worse.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and a vast chamber spread out before them. The air here was thick, and heavy with magic. Strange symbols covered the floor, the markings forming a massive ritual circle that seemed to stretch across the entire chamber.

At the center of it all lay an altar, blackened with dried blood. Ahcehera’s stomach twisted at the sight. She stepped closer, careful not to disturb the markings. The blood on the altar was old, but not ancient.

This ritual had been performed recently, perhaps right before the fall of the Mors Dukedom. But what was its purpose?

She reached out and touched the edge of the altar, closing her eyes to focus. A shiver ran through her body as a wave of dark energy pulsed through her fingertips.

Echoes of past whispers filled her mind, ghostly remnants of voices long gone. A sacrifice. A curse. A desperate plea for power. Ahcehera’s eyes snapped open.

Someone, perhaps the Duke himself, had attempted to bargain with the demonic forces. And they had paid the price. But what disturbed her most was a symbol at the heart of the ritual, a crest intertwined with the sigil of the Mors clan.

A name she never expected.

Fiorensia.