Yet I couldn't look away. The details were bizarrely fascinating—the sheen of the plate, the texture of the roasted skin, the way her hair spread out like flames. It felt like I was looking into a cursed mirror—my future self as a feast. Fascination and horror wrestled within me. Who would do something like this? Why? My grandmother's neat handwriting on the folded letter beneath it now seemed almost obscene. The wax seal cracked like brittle bone when I opened it. The paper smelled of dust and dried lavender. I traced the words with my finger: *"To my descendants... I have unleashed an evil curse..."* The silence stretched on. Nicole exhaled sharply. "Sarah. That... that's you." Stefanie snatched the frame from my hands and violently turned it over. "Who the hell does something like this?"
With trembling hands, I unfolded the brittle letter further. My grandmother's elegant handwriting blurred before my eyes. Dust particles danced in the beam of Stefanie's flashlight as I cleared my throat. "To break this curse and the fate of the roasted woman," I read aloud, my voice breaking, "there are only two ways for the descendants of my line. To find the lost book of Bexter and solve the riddle..." Nicole gasped. “…or that my descendant will have children of their own, who, however, must never succumb to cannibalism.” Silence enveloped the attic. Stefanie snatched the letter from my hand and frantically scanned it. “Cannibalism? What kind of curse is this?” The words hung heavy like the dust. Cannibalism. My children? The impossibility of it—bound to this horror for a lifetime, or the hunt for a mythical book in godforsaken Romania. My gaze drifted back to the picture. The peaceful expression of the roasted woman mocked me. “Choose,” it seemed to whisper. “Freedom or fear?” Outside, the wind howled louder.


Nicole’s voice cut through the grim silence. "Romania?" Her flashlight beam trembled across the ancient symbols on the compartment lid. "Yes," I whispered, touching the cold silver coin chain around my wrist. The Roman numeral III glinted. "The lost book of Bexter. Grandma wrote it’s the key. The last trace..." My throat tightened. "...is supposed to be at Rubensburg Castle." Stefanie snorted, tossing the letter back into the box. "A castle? In Romania? Sarah, this is insane! That picture could be some sick joke!" But I barely heard her. In my mind, the roasted woman’s face shifted—older, yes, but undeniably mine. The golden-brown skin, the curve of the jaw, even the way her hair fanned across the platter like spilled wine. Terror coiled cold in my belly. Joke? No. Grandma hadn’t been the joking type. Her warning echoed: *Be careful. I’m sorry.* The apology tasted like ash.
That Halloween night ended strangely. We didn't finish watching the horror movie. Instead, the three of us huddled together in my narrow bed, our shoulders pressed close under the patchwork quilt. Nicole's breath warmed my neck as she whispered reassuringly, "It's just an old picture, Sarah," while Stefanie, in the dim light of her phone, scribbled angry wolves on the edge of her notebook. Outside, the wind scratched at the eaves like something hungry.

I stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a crooked crown. Their comfort felt fragile, a thin shield against the cold that seeped from the memories of the attic. When Nicole finally fell asleep, her fingers still tangled in my hair, Stefanie leaned close to me. Her whisper was hoarse. "When you leave... I'm coming with you." The promise pierced my chest sharply and brightly. Then, eventually, we all fell asleep.

In the following days, my obsession grew. My mother's ancient laptop became my altar, its dial-up connection sound a constant hymn. Romania. Rubensburg Castle. Cannibalism curses. The words burned through search engines clogged with pop-up ads and dead links. At sixteen, trapped behind parental filters and school firewalls, the truth felt like smoke.

Official tourism sites offered sanitized stories—"medieval fortress," "picturesque ruins"—but nothing about Bexter's book or roasted women. In forums, darker things were whispered: missing hikers, locals... A grainy photo showed stone towers clawing at the stormy sky, captioned *Rubensburg – Enter at your own risk*. I printed it out and put it under my pillow. The silver coin necklace left ghostly circles on my wrist.

Then I turned eighteen. I had a fancy new laptop. Faster internet ripped away all the filters. Suddenly, the abyss opened up. “Cannibalism” wasn't just a taboo word; it shattered into terrifying dimensions. Survival manuals detailing butchery after plane crashes.

Ritual feasts in Papua New Guinea, skulls polished smooth by reverence. Power – kings who devoured the hearts of their enemies to steal their courage. And then… Dolcett. The term surfaced in the dark corners of the internet. Artistic? Culinary? Sexual? Images flickered behind my eyelids: staged photos of women trussed up like turkeys, gleaming skewers, garnished platters.

I felt nauseous, but at first, there was also a fascination. My fingers flew – I copied URLs, searched folklore archives for sources, and sifted through obscure academic journals on anthropophagy. The topic completely captivated me. My journalistic skills certainly played a role. As editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, I was perfectly qualified and curious enough to dig up information. And then I found these images.

My eyes lingered on them. "Roasted woman." The search query yielded results that were both horrifying and strangely captivating. Graphic illustrations and manipulated photos depicting women bound and roasted. I should have recoiled. I should have slammed the laptop shut. But I didn't. Heat rose to my face, then spread through my lower abdomen. A telltale pulse throbbed between my legs. Oh God. Oh my God. Now I understood. The forbidden thrill wasn't just morbid curiosity; it was arousal. Deep, shameful, undeniable.

The image of my grandmother wasn't just a terrible prophecy; it was a grotesque reflection of a hidden part of myself. The roasted woman on the plate in my grandmother's picture wasn't just a victim; she was an object of dark desire. I was an object of dark desire. Instead of horror, a shocking wave of heat washed over me. Was this the true nature of the curse? To transform fate into a perverse fantasy?


My trembling fingers traced the cool silver chain on my wrist. The Roman numeral III seemed to faintly pulsate. I glanced at the locked bedroom door. Alone. Safe. And yet utterly exposed. An internal battle raged – deep-seated revulsion wrestled with a terrifying attraction. What would it feel like? The helpless surrender? The searing heat? The ultimate sacrifice? The thought was monstrous... and electrifying. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my sweatpants down from my hips. The cool air caressed my thighs.

My fingers slid lower, touching the damp cotton. A soft sigh escaped me. I closed my eyes. Not fleeing through the forest. Not hunted. Chosen. It was offered to me. My fingers slipped under the elastic waistband and found the damp warmth. I imagined strong hands holding me, undressing me, preparing me. The scent of herbs, the crackling of flames. The image was no longer frightening; it was profoundly erotic. My grandmother's curse whispered directly to a secret desire I never knew I carried within me.

My hips arched away from my bed. One hand pressed firmly against my mouth, muffling my stifled moans. The other moved hastily, circling the swollen bud. I was no longer Sarah, the prey; I was Sarah, the feast. I imagined the hunter – his eyes gleaming with predatory hunger as he rubbed my skin. The imagined sensation shifted: the rough chafing of the rope binding my wrists, the cold metal of the plate beneath my bare back, the sharp burning of the spices rubbed into my flesh.

A shiver ran through me. The fantasy wasn't cruel; it was full of surrender. My own arousal moistened my fingers, thick and sweet. The friction intensified, a delicious pain tightening ever more intensely. Would it hurt? Or would the heat consume me in waves of unbearable pleasure? My breath hitched, gasping. "Yes," I thought wildly, giving myself completely. "Take me. Cook me. Devour me." I climaxed violently, hoping no one had heard.

And now I was here, running for my life, but I wasn't aroused. It was different, it was real and brutal. Nothing erotic about it. Besides, I wouldn't give these creatures my body, not my flesh.

Suddenly, the roar of an engine, sharp and aggressive like a chainsaw. A loud scream! Not from me. Not from the men with the axes. A black Jeep sped around the corner, its headlights shining like angry eyes. The Jeep raced straight towards us. A splintering sound! Then a bang – not from the Jeep. A gunshot! A second one! The men with the axes stumbled back, their shadows swirling. Their silent determination shattered.

They hesitated. A window of the Jeep rolled down. An arm stretched out. A pistol! Another shot! The noise echoed between the trees like a hammer blow on an anvil. The pursuers ran off and disappeared into the black maw of the forest. The Jeep braked abruptly beside me, dust swirled up and scratched at my throat. The driver's door flew open. "Get in! Quick!" a deep voice roared over the engine noise. No time to think. I jumped in, the door slammed shut, and the Jeep accelerated so abruptly that I was thrown against the seat.

The Jeep's tires spun gravel as it almost skidded onto the narrow road. Its headlights cut through the twilight like swords. Two more sharp bangs—warning shots—echoed from the pine trees. The heavy, dull footsteps behind me fell silent. I didn't look back. In the rearview mirror, I saw the bulky figures disappear into the forest, swallowed by the shadows. The smell of pine and exhaust fumes filled the Jeep, pungent and acrid. My hands trembled uncontrollably in my lap. The coin chain felt ice-cold against my sweaty wrist.


Slowly, my pulse returned to normal, and I calmed down. Was I really safe now? I took a closer look at the man. Athletic build, black beard and short black hair. He looked well-groomed and was nicely dressed, wearing an expensive watch on his wrist. He was perhaps 35 years old, but I wasn't entirely sure. After what felt like an eternity, the man spoke to me. "My name is Egon, Dr. Egon Mars." It took me a few seconds to reply... "Sarah, Sarah Mohl, a reckless tourist, I haven't come up with a better title yet."

To be continued

Im delving into your stories now. Your world paints a world deeply divided yet having very common needs. Substance.

I look forward to reading the delicious world you’ve weaved. :)

>>31273

Have fun with it. However, it will take a while before I finish all the AI ​​images needed to post the completed stories in the new style. That’s why I recommend downloading the official version, which features images that don't look quite as youthful.

Mirror into the Future Chapter 2

Moments ago, I had likely been saved from death.
And now, I was sitting in a Jeep next to my rescuer.

A brief, faint smile flitted across his face after I awkwardly introduced myself.
"Okay, Sarah—first we’ll head to my hotel,
and then you can tell me what you were doing in this dangerous area."
Relieved, I leaned back and enjoyed the car's comforting heater.

I was still fiddling nervously with my coin necklace.
Egon drove fast, his hand gripping the steering wheel tightly.
The Jeep jolted violently over the potholes in the forest track.

"I'm hungry," he said without looking at me.
Outside, the Carpathians rose from the dark forest like jagged teeth. We didn't speak.

He navigated narrow, winding roads and finally turned into a secluded,
ivy-covered courtyard—the courtyard of a restaurant.

The old restaurant wasn't fancy; it was an ancient stone building set into the mountainside.
A single, faulty lantern flickered fitfully above a heavy, old oak door.
"The Three Coins," Egon murmured as he killed the engine.

Inside, the restaurant smelled of woodsmoke, roast meat, and centuries-old secrets.
Low, soot-blackened beams forced taller guests to stoop.
Locals, hunched over their clay mugs, eyed us with guarded curiosity before returning to their murmuring.

A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its flames casting a reddish glow across the worn stone floor.
Egon led me to a shadowy corner table, far from prying eyes.
He ordered in rapid Romanian: *ciorbă de burtă* and dark bread for both of us,
along with two glasses of *țuică*. The plum brandy arrived first.

I downed it in one gulp;
the fiery liquid burned my throat and warmed the icy fear in my veins.
Egon studied me; his gaze lingered on the silver chain hanging around my neck.
The Roman numeral III glinted in the firelight.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the scratched tabletop.
"That coin—your coin," he began in a deep, resonant voice,
"tells a story steeped in blood, betrayal, and dark sin.

That coin comes from here." The crackling of the fireplace seemed to fall silent.
"Centuries ago, Count Lukian Rubens ruled over Rubensburg Castle.

A famine ravaged the land. In desperation, he permitted... *unspeakable* acts."
Egon’s grip on his glass tightened. "Count Lukian Rubens sanctioned cannibalism.
His brother Eugen, lord of the nearby fortress of Rubensstein, condemned Lukian’s depravity."

"But Lukian was too powerful and would brook no interference.
Lukian held feasts where he indulged his darkest desires."
Behind closed doors—in secret—the populace called these gatherings the Rubensburg orgies.
It was the final day for the girls who took part in them.
Count Lukian’s greed grew ever stronger; his thoughts, ever darker.

He craved the tender flesh of the very young for his plate.
And, naturally, he wanted to feel the bodies of these underage girls beforehand.
He and his knights were obsessed with abducting virgins and dragging them into their noble beds."
It seemed to me as though Egon were telling this story
in greater detail than he perhaps had on the few occasions he had recounted it before.

He paused as steaming bowls of tripe soup and pieces of meat were set down before us.
The intense, spicy aroma filled the air. "A gift from the house," the innkeeper said—and walked away.

"Lukian had three daughters," Egon continued, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.
"Fire-haired beauties, like you. Tanja, Anja, and Sofia.
The daughters grew up believing it was the most natural thing in the world to feast on the flesh of innocent girls.
The three young princesses amused themselves at their father's orgies, too,
eating the flesh of the young, roasted girls."

"Their feigned innocence and noble status were their shield—or so they thought.
Until Eugen, driven by revenge, broke into Rubensburg." Egon hungrily tore off a piece of bread.
"He didn't kill Lukian. He stole from him the thing his brother held most dear."

My spoon hovered over the steaming soup. Egon’s gaze drifted to my neck, where the silver chain glinted.
"He took the girls," he whispered. "Dragged them with his men through moonlit forests to his fortress, Rubensstein.
Not for ransom. Not for power." His voice dropped lower. "For a feast." I froze.
The warmth of the tavern vanished. "A lavish banquet," he whispered, leaning closer.
"Eugen had the three girls roasted over a fire in his fortress courtyard."

The firelight cast shadows across his face. "Eugen served Lucian his own daughters—
roasted on silver platters. Garnished with vegetables and a savory sauce. Herbs upon their skin."
He tapped the Roman numeral III on my coin. "That inscription—it marks Sofia, the youngest.
Your likeness." My soup suddenly tasted bitter. I focused on Egon’s voice.

"Lucian screamed that night. Legend has it he forged these coins from his daughters' silver serving platters
and engraved them with the last thoughts his daughters had held.
Eugen’s victory feast became Lucian’s curse—a curse destined to ensure short lives for
Lucian’s female descendants. Yet these three coins were meant to offer protection
to the next owner—to the girl—protection his own daughters never had."

He raised his glass; the plum brandy gleamed like blood in the firelight.
Egon’s final words: "The protection works only for a girl with a pure heart."
Outside, the wind howled against the ancient stones like a grieving father.
The coin burned against my skin—a ghostly relic.
Sofia. The name echoed in my mind.

I thought of my grandmother’s warning. Did my face mirror hers? Was
my blighted future born of this ancient atrocity? Egon studied me with a sharp
gaze, sensing my fear. He hadn’t hesitated while recounting the horror; his
tone carried the grim certainty of a storyteller—an account, not a myth.
The tavern guests murmured softly; in the dim light, their faces were unreadable to me.

A grim older man briefly met my gaze;
his eyes darted to my wrist before he turned away and crossed himself. The
air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, mingled with the rich, fatty aroma of
roasting meat. My stomach turned.


My fingers brushed the coin necklace around my neck. Sofia. The name echoed within me with icy
tension. Yet another weight pressed against my thigh—the second
silver chain, deep in my pocket. Grandma’s box had held two coins: the Roman numerals III
and II.

My trembling fingers traced the outline of the coin bearing the Roman numeral II,
hidden beneath the denim. Was it Anja? Or Tanja? Why had Grandma given me *both*?
The protection was meant for a girl with a pure heart—but my desires
were anything but pure.

The face of the roasted woman flashed behind my eyelids—not
with horror, but with that telltale heat rising deep within me again.
Egon leaned back, his dark eyes fixed on mine. The firelight from
the hearth danced in them, reflecting not just flames but also an unsettling
understanding.

He hadn’t so much as blinked at the story of cannibalistic feasts and orgies;
he had recounted them with the chilling familiarity of a man who had
studied more than mere legends. My cheeks burned. My breath caught—not
just from fear, but from the dark thrill coursing through my veins.

Dolcett. The forbidden fantasies I had discovered—and indulged in—alone in my room.
The shameful arousal stirred within me by the image of my exposed body in the picture.
Had he seen it?

The flash of realization in his gaze, the slight tilt of his head—yes.
He saw the glint in my eyes, the telltale flush creeping up my neck and deepening across my face.
His awareness was not merely clinical; it was passionate. It was intimate.

A shadow fell across our table. We both started, abruptly torn from the dark intimacy of our shared secrets.
An older man stood before us, wrapped in a heavy black wool coat.
His face was deeply lined, weather-beaten like the stone walls of the tavern itself.

His gaze, sharp and penetrating, darted between Egon and me,
lingering on my neck where the silver chain gleamed.
He leaned forward, his voice a low, barely audible rasp rising above
the crackle of the fire and the murmur of conversation.

"Have you tasted the wine?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Egon’s half-empty glass of *țuică*.
"And the food?" His gesture encompassed the cooling bowls of *ciorbă de burtă*; the rich broth glistened with grease.
Egon stiffened, his hand instinctively gripping his glass.
"Yes," he replied curtly; a hint of alarm extinguished his earlier intensity.
"The innkeeper brought it. He said it was a gift."

The older man’s weather-beaten face darkened.
His gaze darted toward the shadowy bar area,
where the innkeeper stood wiping down a pitcher.
His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on us.

“A gift?” The old man spat the word out like poison. “Poisoned food and poisoned drinks. Slow-acting,
insidious. It paralyzes you, leaves you defenseless. They know you have the coins, and they want the girl.”

His urgent whisper cut through the smoky air. “You have thirty minutes—maybe less. Get out.
*Now*!” Before Egon could reply, a scream rang out from the kitchen—a panicked scream. A life-threatening one.

The heavy wooden door separating the dining area from the kitchen flew open. Stefanie burst out—
naked, stumbling; her blonde hair matted with dark sauce, her skin glistening with grease and
stained with rosemary and thyme. Her eyes were wide with panic. "Sarah!
Oh God, Sarah!" she screamed, tripping over her own feet. The kitchen behind her was a vision of hell:
butcher hooks gleaming in the dim light, a roaring fire spitting sparks, dark stains on the stone floor.

Chaos erupted instantly. The murmuring guests froze,
then sprang up as if on command, their faces twisting into masks of predatory
hunger. The innkeeper lunged forward and grabbed Stefanie’s arm. Chairs scraped loudly across the
stone floor. The tavern turned into a trap. Egon leapt up immediately,
shoving the heavy oak table aside with a strained grunt, sending steaming bowls crashing to the floor.
That created a brief barrier. His pistol was already in his hand, cocked with practiced speed.

"Stefanie! Over here!" The scream tore from my throat, raw with panic and disbelief.
How had she gotten here in the first place? Had she followed me? Stefanie rushed toward us,
slipping on the spilled soup; her legs flashed pale in the flickering firelight. The mob closed in,
grasping hands reaching for her smooth skin, their eyes fixed on her with terrifying
intent. They weren't just hostile; they looked hungry. The old man roared.
His incredibly deep and powerful voice made the low ceiling beams tremble.

"You barbarians!" he roared, planting himself directly in the path of the surging crowd.
His frail posture vanished, replaced by a towering, powerful figure radiating fury.
From beneath his heavy wool cloak, he drew a massive, weathered woodcutter’s axe.
He swung it in a wide, warning arc, forcing the nearest attackers back. "You are about to meet Mr.
Hill! You have broken the rules! This is not the Festival Night! You dare to poison guests?"

He stood between us and the mob like an ancient oak in a storm.
His axe was not merely raised in threat; it challenged them to come closer.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold," he thundered. "I hope there’s still room in the kitchen!"
Hill turned briefly toward us: "Get them out of here!"

The crowd hesitated for a heartbeat, their greedy intent momentarily checked by Mr. Hill’s defiance.
But the innkeeper snarled—"Traitor!" he spat—and lunged forward with a long,
curved butcher’s knife that flashed in the light. That broke the spell.
The mob surged forward, a wave of grim faces and flashing blades.
Knives—cleavers, hunting knives, short swords—were drawn from belts and boots, catching the firelight like glaring stars.

Mr. Hill met them head-on. His axe swung down with brutal, terrifying force.
It was no parry; it was an execution. The blade struck the innkeeper’s neck with a sickening,
wet *thud*. The innkeeper’s scream was cut short instantly as his head cleanly parted from his shoulders
and hit the stone floor with a grotesque thud, his eyes wide open and sightless.
A fountain of dark arterial blood sprayed over the nearest patrons and the worn cobblestones.
Pistol shots rang out.


The crowd recoiled; a beheaded innkeeper and two gunned-down thugs brought a momentary hush.
We ran to the Jeep. "Stefanie," Egon shouted, "can you drive a Jeep?"
Without a word, Stefanie took the wheel, and Egon and I scrambled into the back seat.
The vehicle accelerated, tires spinning. In the distance,
I saw that Mr. Hill fleeing into the woods, and the tavern burst into flames.
"Yikes—he was seriously pissed off."

Egon leaned forward toward the car stereo, pressed a button, and spoke as if addressing a hidden microphone.
"Emergency protocol 001, destination: hotel." A crisp voice replied instantly over the speakers: "Acknowledged; route calculated.
Audio instructions activated." The Jeep lurched violently as Stefanie drove over potholes.
My limbs felt heavy as lead; the warmth from the poisoned stew had given way to an icy numbness creeping up my arms.

The coin necklace burned against my skin like a brand. Egon’s hand gripped my shoulder—firm and urgent.
"Stay awake, Sarah. Focus on my voice." But darkness was encroaching on the edges of my vision.
My eyelids closed against my will. The last thing I saw was the coin in my hand.
The last thing I heard was Stefanie’s panicked gasp as my head slumped back
and my consciousness slipped away into the black void.

End of chapter.

>>31521

Your stories read like an epic adventures. Great command of the English language, translated or not, your writing style is elegantly pleasing. Your delicious Images are exciting as well. Thanks

>>31562

Thank you very much for the praise.

I'm really enjoying bringing this story back to life. The new images have a different style than those in the first version of the story. But the way the image series are arranged gives the story a greater sense of dynamism.

Back then, the first chapter was actually supposed to be a short, self-contained Helloween story. A spur-of-the-moment idea.
I'm glad I decided to continue the story. When you think about it, I'm only just getting to the character introductions in my stories—wow... this saga is going to get interesting.


That said, I'm running late—I got held up. A volcanic eruption and two damaged Celantanian U-boats threw off my schedule. Hahaha

The illustrations for the penultimate chapter are finished. I hope I'll be able to revise and proofread the text tomorrow. It's time to start on Chapter 3. :D

Chapter 3 ( Revised Version )

Silence, darkness, stillness... What had happened? Slowly, a faint murmuring reached my ears,
accompanied by the deep, steady hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of the wind
against the windows.

My eyelids felt glued shut, crusted with sleep and dried tears—
perhaps fear, too. Slowly, my consciousness returned.

A soft sensation against my skin enveloped me—a thick mattress,
fresh bed linen that smelled faintly of perfume.

I was no longer in the Jeep. No longer in the forest. The blood-stained floor of the tavern was far away.
Where was I? Panic suddenly washed over me before my gaze took in the room.

I looked around: vast stretches of light-gray carpet, minimalist
brushed-steel furniture, and a wall of tinted glass revealing a dizzying
panorama of jagged gray mountain peaks in the harsh, clear light of midday. A
penthouse suite—incredibly modern in contrast to the primal wilderness outside.

Egon stepped silently through a doorway, two steaming cups in his hands.
The sharp, roasted aroma of strong coffee filled the perfumed air and steadied me.

He looked different—his beard was freshly trimmed, and he wore an anthracite turtleneck
that accentuated his lean, athletic physique. His dark eyes met mine. There was no trace
of the predatory familiarity from the tavern in them—only weary relief and warm relaxation.

"You’ve made it through the worst of it," he said in a deep, rough voice. "The antidote worked.
How are you feeling after the antidote?"

Before I could answer, Stefanie entered behind him carrying a tray filled with pastries glistening
with honey and fruit preserves, slices of smoked ham, and soft-boiled eggs in polished silver cups.
She was wearing clean, fresh clothes, and her blonde hair shone gold in the midday light,
yet deep shadows lay beneath her eyes.

"It’s good you’re finally awake," she breathed, setting the tray down with trembling hands.
"You were completely out of it. While I was driving, Egon gave both of us an injection.
He said it would… neutralize the poison."

She shuddered visibly and avoided looking me in the eye. "Sarah… the tavern… those people…"
Stefanie fell silent.
The luxury of the penthouse felt soothing after the blood-soaked chaos.
Sunlight glared brilliantly outside the tinted window. I propped myself up against
the pillows and winced as pinpricks of returning sensation shot through my numb limbs.

“Stefanie,” my voice cracked, hoarse. “How? Why were you *there*?”
Her gaze finally met mine, filled with sheer fear and defiance.
“I followed you, Sarah! All the way to Romania!”

After we found that horrible picture and you started researching... cannibal cults,
I knew you were obsessed with it. I knew you would come here.

I thought... I thought I could help you, just as I’d promised back then.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “But I was abducted into the kitchen of that pub... and I
saw them... the hooks... the fire... the slaughtered bodies.” Her words choked off into
sobs, her shoulders trembling. The intense smell of ham suddenly turned into the sweet scent of
roasting meat.

Egon looked at us, his expression unreadable. With self-assured calm, he set his coffee cup aside.
His gaze wandered to my neck, where I was still wearing Sofia’s coin necklace. Then, slowly and deliberately,
he reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging over a chair.

His fingers closed around a thick silver chain. He hesitated briefly,
then placed another coin necklace onto the polished steel table. The Roman numeral "I" stared back at me.
Instinctively, my hands went to my necklaces; I was already wearing Sofia’s coin around my neck.
The other one—Anja’s coin, bearing the Roman numeral "II"—was still tucked deep inside my pocket.

I pulled out the chain with a jerk; my fingers trembled as I laid it down next to Egon’s coin.
Stefanie watched in silent horror as all three coins lay side by side—“I,” “II,” and “III”—gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
Egon touched his coin. “Tanja,” he murmured, his voice heavy with unspoken history.

“The eldest daughter. I am… her descendant.”
Before Tanja died, her child was taken to safety, along with a portion of the treasure.
In exile, my ancestors built a new realm in a new land. That was centuries ago.
The coins lay there—three silver coins whispering of betrayal and survival. Egon’s gaze
darted between them and then met mine.

“Your grandmother,” he began in a low, intense voice, “she was a descendant of Anja—the middle Rubens daughter,
the one who became pregnant far too soon during the orgies. Sarah—your grandmother—she fled from her husband,
taking her coin from Romania with her. But she returned… decades ago.” My breath caught in my throat.
That explained the box in the attic. That explained her warning.

Egon leaned closer to me. “She was looking for answers. She was looking for *him*. Eugen Rubens has long been dead,
and Lucian too, but his later descendants… they still guard Rubensburg Castle.
They still hold the feasts when the hunger torments them.”

Stefanie whimpered and clung to her coffee cup. “She went back?” I whispered, a shiver of horror creeping down my spine.
“Why?” Egon’s expression was grim. “To break the curse. Or to fulfill it.”

A sudden, shrill buzzing tore through the tense silence. Egon pulled a sleek satellite phone from his pocket,
glanced at the screen, and his jaw muscles tightened. "The helicopter's coming early," he announced curtly, standing up abruptly.

His dark eyes studied Stefanie's pale face. "Stefanie, listen to me." His voice was quiet and insistent,
piercing her silent panic. "I want you to go back to Germany. Immediately. Go back to your safe home, to your parents.

You were almost boiled alive in that kitchen. I saw the hooks. I saw the firebox. I can't guarantee your safety here.
Not for another minute." His piercing gaze rested on me. “Sarah and I… we have no other choice now.
We *must* sort this out together. The helicopter takes off in twenty minutes. It will take you *directly to Germany.”

Stefanie stared at him, her trembling fingers clutching her empty coffee cup. She looked at me—at my tormented eyes,
at Sofia’s coin gleaming once more against my collarbone—then back at Egon’s unwavering face.
The horrific image of that kitchen flashed between us: grease-smeared hooks, the roaring heat, the gleaming butcher knives.
A stifled sob escaped her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she nodded; her shoulders slumped in weary resignation.

“Okay,” she whispered. She knew he was right, and she accepted it with sadness.
There was no courage left, only the sober realization that she wasn’t part of this cursed lineage—wasn’t being hunted
because of her ancestry—and might not survive another encounter with the hungry locals who were hunting *us*.
She turned away, avoiding my desperate, pleading gaze. “Just survive, Sarah,” she breathed,
her voice barely audible over the rising wind outside. “Promise me you’ll survive. That both of you will survive.”

The sleek, matte-black helicopter landed exactly fifteen minutes later, its rotor wash whipping against the penthouse balcony.
Egon firmly guided Stefanie toward the aircraft. She paused at the entrance, a pale hand gripping the frame.
She looked back—not at Egon, but straight at me. Her eyes reflected the life we ​​had shared, filled with secrets held in common.
The laughter of children from long ago. Our adventures and discoveries.
But then came the dust of the attic... and now, unspeakable horror. She didn’t wave.

She just stared at me, her blonde hair whipping wildly in the downdraft, her face a mask of deep sorrow and fear.
Then she ducked inside. The hatch slammed shut with a metallic sound of finality.
The helicopter lifted off and rapidly shrank in size until it was swallowed by the glaring midday sky.
Silence descended with crushing weight.

Egon stood motionless by the balcony railing for minutes, long after the roar of the rotors had faded.
The suite’s luxury now seemed colder, emptier. The remains of breakfast lay forgotten on the tray.
My fingers groped for Sofia’s coin; its familiar weight suddenly felt cold against my skin.

The silence stretched out, filled with unspoken questions and the fleeting scent of rosemary that lingered in my memory.
Finally, I moved. I reached into the pocket of my worn jeans and pulled out the brittle, folded letter—the one that had started it all.

My grandmother’s careful handwriting, faded ink whispering of doom. My hand trembled slightly as I held it out to Egon,
who had his back to me. He turned slowly; his gaze fell immediately upon the paper.
Without a word, he took it, his fingertips brushing against mine. A strange, electric jolt shot through me.
I couldn't yet make sense of the sensation.

Slowly and thoughtfully, we walked back into the penthouse’s living area.
Egon stood by the simple steel table and laid the letter flat beside the two other gleaming coins.
He took out a pair of reading glasses—an unexpected touch of vulnerability—and sat down.

The silence deepened as he read; his expression shifted from intense concentration to fleeting signs of grim realization,
and finally to deep, weary sorrow. His finger traced a specific line:
“…if you recognize yourself in the picture of the red-haired woman, you are in danger.
The image could represent your future… You, roasted, served as a feast…”

My grandmother’s letter rustled beneath Egon’s fingers as he tapped that strange
phrase: “To bear children who renounce cannibalism and live in safety with
a clear conscience.” Egon looked at me. His gaze was suddenly filled with desire.
The air in the penthouse suddenly felt heavy and oppressive.

I lost myself in thought. My breath caught in my throat. Children? Our children?
What had made me think of that? I
remembered his hand holding mine in the Jeep, and the predatory gleam in his eyes at the tavern.
And now, here, he was hinting… that he… A flush rose from the
back of my neck to my face—hot and tinged with shame.

My thoughts raced: should I get to know Egon better? My first lover? Oh God, the man is almost twice my age!
I felt a wave of heat. This man was certainly dominant, mysterious. Exciting? Arousing?
That’s how it had been at the tavern.

Egon’s gaze drifted lower, focusing on the next crucial line: “…or look for Bexter’s book.”
I was briefly startled, snapped out of my thoughts. His brow furrowed, deep lines appearing.
He read it again in a whisper, his lips shaping the unfamiliar words. “Bexter’s book?” The name sounded rough, foreign on his tongue.

He looked up; his dark eyes met mine, filled with sudden, profound dismay.
“No,” he said firmly—his voice hard and final against the distant wind whistling outside against the tinted glass.
“Bexter’s book… it won’t be available for another decade.” The gravity of his statement stifled a fragile spark
of hope within me—one I hadn’t even realized I was clinging to.

“Richard Bexter’s book is a repository of knowledge, lost in a secret library,
but I have been searching for it for a long time,” Egon added.

His gaze lingered on the coins, then on the letter, before finally resting on my face.
It was a look that betrayed determination—and something else, too: something dark and mysterious that
made Sofia’s coin feel like a cold burn against my skin. "Sarah," he said in a deep, rough voice,
"it is no coincidence that we met and that all three coins are united here now. I need to make a call.
Get something to eat and rest."

He gestured toward the second, untouched tray Stefanie had brought in.
Without a word, he walked toward a door I hadn’t noticed before.
It opened and closed silently behind him, leaving me completely alone.

I sank back into the soft pillows; exhaustion hit me like a physical blow.
My thoughts were racing once again—the efficiency with which he had saved my life twice was impressive.
The coins gleamed accusingly on the table. Sofia, Anja, Tanja. Sisters, sacrificed.
My fingers traced the raised numeral "III" on Sofia’s coin—cold metal against my trembling skin.

Would Egon save me a third time? The silence weighed heavily and oppressively upon me. Outside, the wind howled. My gaze wandered to the untouched tray. The ham glistened, fatty and pink. Suddenly, the honey-sweet aroma became unsettlingly familiar—like the smell of roasted meat. Like in the tavern kitchen, where hooks hung from the ceiling, dripping with reddish fluid. I thought of Stefanie’s panicked scream as she had burst naked into the dining room.

I shoved the tray away violently; the cutlery clattered. The coins on the table suddenly shimmered a bright blue. All at once—like a flash of lightning in my mind—I pictured Stefanie on one of those serving platters. Stefanie, deliciously roasted, just for me. And the next moment, I was naked. My fingers wandered between my legs; I was damp—no, soaking wet. There it was: that dark passion. The passion I had been warned about, but now, I didn't care.

Stefanie. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She lay artfully arranged on one of those massive silver serving platters in the tavern. Her skin was golden-brown and crisp; the juices pooled beneath her.
Glazed honey glistened on her skin, just like on the pastries she had brought along.

Stefanie. Roasted. Prepared and delicious. The image seared itself into my mind—horrifying and yet highly erotic. Another shiver ran through me. Suddenly and intensely, a heat flared up in my loins.

I lay naked on the luxurious sofa, sinking into the soft blanket. My fingers slid impatiently between my thighs.
A shocking wetness greeted them. A soft moan escaped my lips,
involuntary. It was a raw lust for flesh—naked flesh, roasted flesh.

It wasn't just the thought of Stefanie’s
roasted body, but the act itself—the forbidden spectacle of consuming a girl—that aroused me. My
dark pulse hammered against my collarbone, echoing the moist friction of my own touch. I ignored
my grandmother’s warning. Passion and an inherited hunger had enveloped me like a dark mist.

Stefanie—I caressed her roasted skin, licked up her own delicious juices. I savored her
most intimate flesh. That forbidden, exquisite taste of her roasted pussy... I arched my
back, pressed tight against myself, chasing that electric current as my imagination
ran wild. Shame was far away, drowned out by the surging tide washing over me. I
didn't care. The curse was not merely a threat; it was a dark, seductive
passion pulling me under.

And now I saw the image of myself—roasted and basted, simply
and seductively arranged. Not my older self—no, my youthful self.
I lay beside Stefanie, breathing in the scent of my own roasted body.

I tasted my own savory flavor. It was a bizarre image; my thoughts showed me naked, standing before my own roasted body and eating myself. I came hard. A loud cry, a wet gush. Exhausted, I sank back deep into the soft, sweat-dampened blanket. I looked at my sweaty body, wet and glistening. It could have been cooking oil. How could I ever escape this dark passion? I felt trapped between lust and death.

The hiss of the automatic door pulled me back to reality. I froze,
my fingers resting on my naked, exposed pussy, my breath catching in my throat.
Egon stood silhouetted in the doorway.

End of the chapter