Virgins Blood
Virgilius
The Endless Trade of Torment Manor
The halls of Torment Manor never slept. Its windows, shattered centuries ago, glowed faintly with the sickly green pulse of ectoplasm. Inside, Dario the Ectoplasmic Spectre worked by candlelight, his tendrils whispering like snakes as he filled another syringe, drop by crimson drop.
The blood he drew was not ordinary. It was the blood of maidens taken from villages that dared wander too close to the Manor’s shadow, each vial saturated with the essence of innocence and unbroken spirit. Dario had discovered long ago that this blood carried a power beyond spells and charms—it opened doorways. It allowed him to barter with forces that should never have been given a tongue.
At first, it was a single vial, traded across the astral plane to a faceless broker who promised him relics from forgotten kingdoms. Then came another request, and another. Soon the bargains became ceaseless. The demons of the Deep Fog, the collectors of the Silent Market, the wraiths of the Outer Hells—all clamored for more. Each drop of blood was worth a library of secrets, a weapon lost to time, or a vial of poison brewed from angelic hair.
But the more he traded, the more they asked. “More,” they whispered in his dreams, their voices gnawing at his sanity. “Bring us more.”
The Manor grew into a slaughterhouse of ritual, its floors slick with offerings, its walls groaning beneath the weight of endless bargains. Dario became less sorcerer and more merchant of the damned, bound by a contract he had forged unknowingly: a trade with no end, a demand that could never be filled.
And so Torment Manor became infamous not just for its ghosts or its master, but for the unholy economy of blood that flowed through its chambers. Villages learned to fear the purple glow on the horizon, for it meant another girl would vanish, another vial would be filled, and another treasure would slip into Dario’s grasp—while the endless requests only multiplied.
Featured in
Virgins Blood
Virgilius
The Endless Trade of Torment Manor
The halls of Torment Manor never slept. Its windows, shattered centuries ago, glowed faintly with the sickly green pulse of ectoplasm. Inside, Dario the Ectoplasmic Spectre worked by candlelight, his tendrils whispering like snakes as he filled another syringe, drop by crimson drop.
The blood he drew was not ordinary. It was the blood of maidens taken from villages that dared wander too close to the Manor’s shadow, each vial saturated with the essence of innocence and unbroken spirit. Dario had discovered long ago that this blood carried a power beyond spells and charms—it opened doorways. It allowed him to barter with forces that should never have been given a tongue.
At first, it was a single vial, traded across the astral plane to a faceless broker who promised him relics from forgotten kingdoms. Then came another request, and another. Soon the bargains became ceaseless. The demons of the Deep Fog, the collectors of the Silent Market, the wraiths of the Outer Hells—all clamored for more. Each drop of blood was worth a library of secrets, a weapon lost to time, or a vial of poison brewed from angelic hair.
But the more he traded, the more they asked. “More,” they whispered in his dreams, their voices gnawing at his sanity. “Bring us more.”
The Manor grew into a slaughterhouse of ritual, its floors slick with offerings, its walls groaning beneath the weight of endless bargains. Dario became less sorcerer and more merchant of the damned, bound by a contract he had forged unknowingly: a trade with no end, a demand that could never be filled.
And so Torment Manor became infamous not just for its ghosts or its master, but for the unholy economy of blood that flowed through its chambers. Villages learned to fear the purple glow on the horizon, for it meant another girl would vanish, another vial would be filled, and another treasure would slip into Dario’s grasp—while the endless requests only multiplied.
