The Black Inheritance: The Vestalis Game

The door to the study creaked shut behind Angela, sealing her in the room with the twins. No more speakers. No more distance. Just them, and her.

Eleanor leaned back against the bookshelves, arms folded. "You're not like the others. They ran. You calculated."

Evander stepped closer, slow and silent. "You used the dog."

Angela didn't speak. She didn't need to.

"You're not family yet," Eleanor continued, her voice quieter now. "You survived one night. Let's see if you can survive us."

Angela met her eyes, still and unflinching. No allies. No promises. Just time. And as long as she could keep breathing, she could use that.

"Goodnight, Angela."

She was led back to what they called her bedroom, but everything about it felt foreign. Too clean. Too still. Angela stood in the center of the room after the door closed behind her, scanning every detail: floorboards slightly uneven, dresser drawer not fully shut, one curtain swaying faintly despite the sealed windows.

She didn't sleep deeply. She didn't trust the bed. It was too soft, too luxurious—a distraction more than a comfort. The silence in the house wasn't peaceful. It was waiting. She lay still for a long time, wrapped in blankets she didn't trust, listening.

Then, a creak. Not the kind houses made. This one was deliberate. Her doorknob twisted. She tensed. Before she could sit up, a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Good reflexes," Eleanor whispered beside her ear. "Let's see how long those keep you alive."

Evander stood at the foot of the bed, placing something down with careful precision. A candle? It flickered once, revealing both twins, barefoot, dressed in black, almost soundless.

Angela's pulse spiked. "You said goodnight," she whispered.

Eleanor smiled coldly. "We lied." Evander struck a match. The candle flickered to life.

Then, without a word, he blew it out. Darkness swallowed the room. A moment later, click. The lock. She was sealed in. Alone.

Angela rose quietly, but as soon as her foot slid forward, shhkk. A hair-thin wire grazed her ankle. She froze.

Not a simple tripwire. No, too thin, too delicate. This was a bell wire, triggering the sound, not the fall.

She dropped to the floor, her breathing shallow, and began sweeping the area around her with slow, methodical hands. Her fingers grazed cold metal—a small box, barely raised from the floorboards, placed right in front of the door. A pressure plate, rigged with wiring.

Not one trap. Not even two. They'd turned her entire room into a web of triggers. And they'd done it silently.

Angela sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. She began building a map in her head.

Pressure plates. Bell wires. Hidden strings across furniture. Multiple heights. Low traps for ankles, mid-height for drawers. Tripwires designed not to injure, but to bait. Confused. Test her instincts.

They were watching her. Maybe through cameras. Maybe through cracks in the walls. But definitely watching.

This wasn't a test of escape. This was a test of awareness. Of control.

She moved slowly toward the window, where she'd noticed a loose edge of the curtain earlier. Her foot brushed something soft. Fabric.She reached out and found a pouch. Small. Leather. Inside: a penlight and a note.

Survive till dawn. No sound. No light. Don't bleed.

Her grip tightened around the note. Don't bleed? Why phrase it like that? Not "don't get caught". Not "don't move". Don't bleed.

Which meant, some traps were designed to injure. Lightly, maybe. A cut. A graze. Enough to mark her. Track her. Maybe poison. Maybe not.

She crouched, back against the wall, and tried to recall everything she had seen in the room earlier. One drawer slightly open, a lamp with a frayed cord, the rug bunched up in one corner, a missing slat beneath the dresser - a perfect place to slide a wire beneath, invisible from standing height.

Angela took a deep breath. If I panic, I'll trip something. If I move too quickly, I'll bleed. If I try to outsmart them too loudly, I'll lose.

She moved toward the open drawer, then stopped short. There. In the moonlight creeping through the window, she caught the faintest glint of tension wire. It stretched from the bottom drawer leg to the bed frame. Just a thread of metal, but strong enough to catch her ankle or pull a knife from a hidden hinge.

She backed away. They want me to investigate. They want me to make the first move.

She scanned the ceiling. One vent cover was missing two screws. Could be a hidden camera. Or a gas release. She kept her distance from it, hugging the cold edge of the wall.

The candle they'd brought still sat at the edge of the table. Maybe another trap. Maybe irrelevant. Angela slid down and curled up beneath the window, light in hand, but off.

She slowed her breathing. She counted the seconds. She listened to her own heartbeat. Then she waited.

Time passed, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed four times. Still no movement. Still no sound. She wondered how many others had failed that night. How many bled. How many screamed. She wouldn't give them that.

At the first glow of light through the window, a soft knock came. The door creaked open. Eleanor leaned into the frame, her silhouette sharp against the hallway light.

"Well?"

Angela stood up. Her posture was steady. Her face was unreadable. "I slept fine," she said.

Evander entered after her, gaze sweeping the room. Every wire was intact. Every bell was silent. The pressure plate was untouched. He looked at his sister. "She didn't set off a single one."

Eleanor's eyes gleamed with something colder than pride. "No more beginner games then," she said. Her voice was smooth. Final. "Tomorrow, the real lessons begin."