Far beyond the sunlit kingdoms, where the stars hung low and the wind spoke in forgotten tongues, lay the Hollow Vale — a realm untouched by daylight. Its skies shimmered with violet dusk, and its rivers ran black with memory. Here ruled Prince Balthazar, a solitary figure of haunting grace.
His eyes, olive green with hazel flecks, held the weight of centuries. His long, raven hair fell like silk over vanilla-pale skin, untouched by warmth. He was the last heir of the Umbracline line, sovereign of a kingdom steeped in dark magic — not evil, but ancient, elemental, and misunderstood.
The people of Hollow Vale did not fear shadows. They wore them like cloaks.
Balthazar's castle, Noctis Spire, rose like a shard of obsidian from the valley floor. Its halls whispered with enchantments, and its mirrors showed not reflections, but truths. He wandered them alone, speaking to ghosts and listening to the silence between spells.
But the silence broke when Hazel arrived.
She was no princess. Just a mage from the kingdom of Lysoria, where light magic bloomed in gardens and spells were sung like lullabies. Hazel had grown up with Toya, her closest friend, both raised by mothers who never spoke of their homeland — only of dreams, of twilight, of a place that felt like memory.
One day, Hazel found a letter hidden in her mother's spellbook. It spoke of Hollow Vale, of bloodlines, of a pact made long ago. Toya's mother had written a similar one. The truth was clear: they were daughters of the dark.
Hazel crossed the borderlands alone, drawn by a pull she couldn't name. She arrived at Noctis Spire with wind in her hair and magic in her veins. She had warm vanilla skin tone, beautiful brown eyes, dark brown hair, soft rosy pink lips and a softness to her appearance.
The castle stirred. Balthazar descended.
"Why are you here?" he said, voice like velvet over stone.
"I have questions and my mother grew up here" Hazel replied.
Their meeting was not fate. It was reckoning.
Hazel stood in the grand hall of Noctis Spire, her breath shallow, her fingers curled around the edge of her mustard-yellow cloak. The air was thick with enchantment, humming low like a distant choir. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, and the stone beneath her boots pulsed faintly with old magic.
Prince Balthazar watched her in silence.
He was taller than she imagined — impossibly tall, like a statue carved from night itself. His olive green eyes, flecked with hazel, held no warmth, only a quiet storm. His long black hair fell over his shoulders like a velvet curtain, framing skin so pale it seemed kissed by frost.
Hazel, barely five-foot-one, felt like a flicker beside him. Her white dress, simple and soft, fluttered slightly as a breeze passed through the hall — though no windows were open.
Without a word, Balthazar turned and raised one hand.
From the shadows, a mist began to stir.
It coiled around Hazel's feet, cool and sentient, then rose in a slow spiral. She gasped, stepping back, but the mist did not threaten. It shimmered, thickened, and then sank inward — folding into itself until it took shape.
A woman emerged.
She was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. Her skin was pale as ice, her lips painted black like the void between stars. She wore a flowing black dress that moved like smoke, and her white hair was tied back into a low ponytail, sleek and severe. Her eyes, pastel pink, glowed faintly in the gloom.
She stood at five-foot-six, elegant and still. Balthazar towered over her at six-foot-six, yet she did not shrink beneath his gaze.
Hazel stared, heart thudding.
The woman inclined her head. "I am Lysithea," she said, voice like silk over glass. "I will prepare your room."
Balthazar said nothing. He turned and walked away, his cloak trailing shadows.
Hazel watched him go, unsure whether to feel dismissed or protected.
Lysithea gestured for her to follow.
They moved through winding corridors, each lined with mirrors that shimmered but did not reflect. Instead, they showed flickers — a child running through snow, a woman weeping beside a black river, a hand reaching for fire. Hazel looked away.
The castle was alive.
At last, they reached a door carved with runes that pulsed faintly as Lysithea touched them. The door opened with a sigh.
Hazel stepped inside.
The room was dark and quiet. Heavy velvet curtains hung from the tall windows, and the walls were painted in deep charcoal, etched with silver vines that glowed faintly in the dim light. A chandelier of black crystal hung from the ceiling, its candles flickering with blue flame.
The bed was large, draped in midnight linens. A single chair sat by the window, carved from bonewood and cushioned in plum velvet.
Hazel walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Outside, the farmland stretched into the distance — a patchwork of shadow and ruin. Half of it was scorched, the earth blackened and cracked, remnants of a fire long past. The other half grew strange crops: silver-leafed vines, dark wheat that shimmered under moonlight, trees with bark like obsidian.
It was beautiful. And broken.
Hazel pressed her fingers to the glass.
Lysithea stood behind her, silent.
"Was it war?" Hazel asked softly.
"yes." Lysithea replied. "It was grief too."
Hazel turned. "Whose grief?"
The woman's pastel eyes flickered. "The prince's."
Hazel said nothing. She felt the weight of the room settle around her — not oppressive, but expectant. As if the walls themselves were waiting to see what she would do.
Lysithea stepped forward and adjusted the cloak on Hazel's shoulders. "You wear light," she murmured. "But you carry shadow."
Hazel met her gaze. "I came to find the truth."
Lysithea smiled faintly. "Then you are in the right place."
She turned and left, the door closing behind her with a whisper.
Hazel stood alone, wrapped in mustard yellow and moonlight, staring out at a land that had once burned — and a prince who had never healed.
Hazel sat on the edge of the velvet-cushioned chair, her fingers tracing the silver etchings on the armrest. The room was quiet now, save for the occasional creak of the castle settling into itself. Outside, the scorched farmland lay still beneath a sky of bruised violet.
She had unpacked nothing. Her cloak still hung loosely around her shoulders, and the white dress she wore felt too soft for a place so heavy.
A knock echoed from the door — soft, hesitant.
Hazel rose and opened it.
A young woman stood there, no older than twenty-one. Her dress was half-ripped, the hem frayed and stained with ash. Her left eye was covered by a white patch, and her skin had the pallor of someone who hadn't seen sunlight — or nourishment — in weeks. Her hair was thin, blonde, and hung in limp strands around her face.
She held a folded dress in her arms — black with silver embroidery, delicate and haunting.
"I made this for you," the girl said, voice barely above a whisper. "Dinner begins soon."
Hazel took the dress gently, her fingers brushing the girl's. They were cold. Too cold.
"Thank you," Hazel said, then paused. "Are you… alright?"
The girl looked up, her uncovered eye dull and distant.
"My sister," she said, "the princess of your kingdom… she did much to this place. To the prince. I helped her. So now I am forbidden to eat."
Hazel's breath caught.
"I must starve myself to death. This is my punishment."
Before Hazel could speak, the girl turned and walked away, her bare feet silent against the stone floor.
Hazel stood frozen in the doorway, the dress heavy in her arms.
She stepped back into the room slowly, the door closing behind her with a soft thud. The shadows seemed deeper now, the silver vines on the walls pulsing faintly as if listening.
She laid the dress across the bed, its fabric catching the blue candlelight.
Then she whispered to herself, voice trembling:
"What the hell did the princess do to this kingdom?"
The mirror across the room shimmered — not with her reflection, but with a flicker of something else. A woman's silhouette. A crown. A scream.
Hazel turned away.
The castle was watching.
And somewhere deep within its walls, the past began to stir.