The Cursed Bloodline Book 1: The Guardian

Author

Salem Morgan

Reads

392K

Chapters

Author

Salem Morgan

Reads

392K

Chapters

Science Fiction Soldiers Protector Drama Aliens

In a crumbling manor filled with whispers and cruelty, Lyra endures life as a servant, always hungry, always overlooked. But when she stumbles upon a cursed blade, everything changes. The weapon does more than cut—it binds her to the ruthless commander who sees through every defense she hides behind. Now, every moment is edged with danger, every glance a spark that could burn her whole world down. Survival used to mean silence and obedience. But the blade tempts her toward something riskier: the dangerous thrill of being noticed, of claiming her own power, of reaching for a desire that might destroy them both.

Chapter 1

LYRA

The basement reeked of rot and mildew—the kind of stench that clung to your skin, your hair, your breath. I didn’t want to be down there. But when you’re the lord’s bastard and the lady’s favorite reminder of everything she hates, you go where you’re told.

No matter how bad it stinks. No matter what waits in the dark.

She hated me. Always had. My face, my voice, the shape of me, the fact that I existed. But mostly, she hated the blood in my veins—proof her husband once wanted someone else.

My mother. A woman she despised enough to let die slowly. It was curable. The physician had whispered it quietly, when he thought no one could hear.

But he took orders, and the lady told him to look away. My mother screamed for days, until she didn’t.

The illness struck me weeks later. I should’ve died too. Maybe I did, in some way.

The fever hollowed me out, leaving something strange behind. Since then, pain had left me. Heat, cold, pressure—I felt them all, but not real pain.

You know, the kind that lanced through you, that made people cry out or double over. It was gone. Just like her.

I shoved the bucket into the first room and winced. The air hit me like a wall—thick, sour, stale.

It tasted old, like the air had been exhaled a hundred years ago and forgotten. Dust coated everything like ash after a fire, and the cobwebs hung like curtains, veiling corners where light didn’t dare reach.

If I could get the window open, maybe I could breathe again, if only a little. It took all my strength—more than it should’ve—to force the rusted frame to shift.

The hinges screamed in protest, like they didn’t want to let go, but finally, a crack opened, and cold air rushed in like it had been waiting. It carried the scent of wet earth and the river down the hill, just faintly sweet beneath the rot.

Almost enough to feel human again. Almost.

“Better get on with it,” I muttered, dipping a rag into lukewarm water. My hands moved automatically, relentlessly.

Movement meant life. I’d learned to measure my existence in motion a long, long time ago: if I was scrubbing, I wasn’t dying. If I was moving, I was still here.

Upstairs, the manor groaned with activity—clattering trays, barking orders, servants rushing about like rats on a sinking ship. They were preparing for something grand.

A celebration, they called it. Lord Peter’s guests were due by nightfall—warriors returned from war, men who’d survived horrors I couldn’t imagine.

Not that I’d ever see them. Not really. Not unless they wandered somewhere they shouldn’t, like down here.

I didn’t see what was worth celebrating in war. Nothing about it seemed triumphant to me.

But it wasn’t my place to ask questions. It never was.

I dragged the rag along the wall, watching it darken with grime. The mattress was riddled with holes, stuffing spilling out like something gut-shot.

Leaning closer, I poked the seam—and something skittered across the floor. Too fast to identify—rat, spider, shadow. My breath caught briefly, then steadied.

Rats didn’t scare me. Not like the creatures from the sky, the ones who didn’t blink when they killed.

I shoved the mattress off its rickety frame, and it hit the floor with a flat, heavy thump, releasing fresh decay. I gagged but pushed on.

The next room was worse. The air pressed against my skin, my lantern barely piercing the gloom.

Shelves lined warped walls, loaded with forgotten junk. Everything felt…wrong. Like something old curled in corners, waiting.

But I couldn’t afford fear.

I tossed broken glass, rusted tools, unidentifiable metal into a growing pile. My hands didn’t hesitate until the far shelf, where faint symbols had been carved.

Not letters, but pulsing, shifting shapes. My fingers traced them, and a shiver—not from cold—ran through me. Something watched.

I stepped back cautiously. Silence enveloped me, heavy and waiting.

“Just a basement,” I whispered, gripping the shelf and yanking it down. It crashed loudly. The lantern flickered, nearly extinguishing before sputtering back to life.

I waited. Silence returned, but not safe silence. It had presence.

I kept moving and the pile of junk grew, but then—near the bottom of the last shelf—I saw it. A small, tarnished box. Half buried in a nest of rusted wire and shredded cloth.

I brushed it off and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. The kind of cold that didn’t come from stone or metal.

The surface was etched with more of those symbols.

I should’ve left it. I didn’t.

My fingers moved before I could think, unlatching the clasp. The lid creaked open like it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years. Maybe longer.

Inside, folded cloth. And beneath it, a dagger.

Not steel. Not anything I’d seen before. It shimmered like liquid caught in moonlight.

The hilt was wrapped in something that felt…wrong. Like it remembered things.

I didn’t think. Didn’t question. My hand just moved.

I slid it into my apron pocket.

It was almost weightless. But somehow, it pulled at me. Heavier than my clothes. Heavier than it should be.

I didn’t know why I kept it. I just did.

My pulse quickened as I glanced over my shoulder at the door, the feeling of being watched having not gone away in the slightest. If anything, it was worse now, heavier, like the walls themselves were leaning closer.

But I had work to finish. The lady’s warriors would arrive soon, and if the rooms weren’t ready, she’d make me bleed for it.

Symbols, shadows, strange blades—none changed what I was.

A servant. A bastard.

A girl who knew better than to look too closely.

***

The pile of junk grew higher as I worked, each broken piece a reminder of how long this place had been forgotten. Dust clawed at my throat, stung my eyes, and the damp air soaked through my clothes like it intended to stay.

I grabbed an old broom and began sweeping, the rhythmic scrape grounding me.

When most of the filth was gone, I turned my attention to the lanterns I’d dragged from the main house earlier—dented, mismatched, chipped, but functional. Like me, I supposed.

Stringing them up took effort. The walls were uneven, ceilings low. I balanced on a rickety stool, praying the hooks hadn’t rusted through.

The first lantern flared with a faint hiss, its amber glow cutting into the dark. I exhaled, testing the hook. One down. Five more to go.

Habit made me glance over my shoulder constantly, but each time, it was just me and the flicker of flame on stone. Silence pressed close, thick and oppressive, so I hummed one of my mother’s old lullabies—soft, frayed with memories.

It didn’t chase away shadows, but it reminded me who I was. Who she’d been.

By the last lantern, the room seemed almost livable. Rough, cold, yet no longer actively hostile.

I set a fresh bucket of water by the third room, ready to continue, when heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs. Slow. Heavy.

Not the lady—her heels had a vicious, clipped rhythm that made most of us flinch by instinct. This was different.

I straightened immediately, brushing my apron nervously.

Mrs. Branth emerged from the shadows, looking like she’d been carved from stone. “Lyra,” she snapped. “How much have you finished?”

“Just two rooms,” I said, gesturing behind me. “The second was slow going. There’s more junk than I expected.”

Her eyes flicked over the lanterns, the half-swept floor, the pile by the door. She sniffed. “It’ll have to do. The lord and lady want these rooms ready within the hour.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

The hour. Of course.

Mrs. Branth raised an eyebrow, like she’d heard my thoughts anyway. “I’ll send one of the younger girls to help. But don’t expect miracles—they’re all running ragged with the feast preparations. You’ll have to make do.”

“Yes, Mrs. Branth.”

She lingered a second longer than she needed to, watching me like she was trying to figure out if I’d survive the night. Then she turned and left, her footsteps fading back into the bustle upstairs.

As soon as she was gone, I exhaled slowly.

The junk waited. So did the carvings I was pretending not to see.

I stepped back into the room, lantern in hand. The shadows twitched in the corners as if they had breath.

As if they noticed me. I kept my eyes on the floor—not the markings, not the shape of the blade in my apron pocket, pulling at me like a tether.

But I couldn’t stop myself. Not really.

When the pile by the far shelf was cleared, I sank to my knees behind it.

The dagger practically hummed against my ribs. I hesitated only a second before slipping it free.

It shimmered in the lantern light, slick and luminous. The symbols on the blade matched those on the box and shelf.

I turned it slowly in my hand, watching it catch the glow, and that was when it happened—

A sting. Sharp, sudden.

“Shit,” I hissed, jerking back.

A thin line of red welled on my palm.