Hazel stood before the mirror, the black dress draped across her arms like a whisper from the past. Silver embroidery curled along the hem and bodice in delicate, thorn-like patterns — elegant, dangerous. She slipped out of her white gown and into the new one, the velvet cool against her skin, the weight of it grounding her.
She tied her mustard-yellow cloak around her shoulders, the only piece of home she still wore.
The mirror shimmered faintly, showing not her reflection but a flicker of something else — a woman in the same dress, standing in firelight, her eyes closed, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Hazel looked away.
A knock came, firm and deliberate.
She opened the door.
The man who stood there was striking — tall, muscular, and dressed in a sleek black mage's outfit that clung to his frame like shadow. His skin was deep brown, smooth and radiant against the gloom of the corridor. His haircut was sharp, elegant, every line precise. A single gold earring shaped like a heart hung from his right ear, catching the candlelight.
His eyes were pure white — and they glowed faintly. When he smiled, his sharp fangs gleamed, and hunger flickered behind his gaze.
"Good evening, Hazel," he said, voice smooth as silk. "I am Hex. I will be guiding you to our feast this evening."
He extended his arm.
Hazel hesitated, then placed her hand on his forearm. His skin was warm — surprisingly so — and his nails, long and claw-like, curled slightly as he adjusted his grip.
They began to walk.
The castle's corridors stretched endlessly, lined with flickering blue candles and mirrors that pulsed with memory. Hazel's footsteps echoed softly beside Hex's, her heart thudding louder with each step.
She glanced at him.
"Are you planning on sinking your fangs into my neck?" she asked, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Hex chuckled, low and amused.
"Only if Balthazar requests me to," he said. "You do smell delicious, though. Like cinnamon… and a hint of marshmallow."
Hazel inhaled sharply, her breath catching. Her heart began to race.
Hex turned his head slightly, his white eyes gleaming.
"Calm your heart down," he murmured. "I may be able to control my hunger, but the others… cannot."
Hazel swallowed hard.
"Is everyone here a vampire?"
Hex smiled again, but this time it was softer. "No. Only a few of us."
Hazel tightened her grip on his arm.
They passed a tall mirror that shimmered as they walked by. Hazel saw herself — but not quite. Her reflection wore the same dress, but her eyes were black, her mouth stained with blood.
She looked away.
Hex glanced at her, sensing the shift.
"You're brave," he said. "Most who come here tremble before they reach the gates."
"I'm not most," Hazel replied.
"No," Hex said. "You're not."
They reached a tall set of doors carved from bonewood, etched with runes that pulsed faintly. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine drifted through the cracks.
Hex paused.
"Once we enter," he said, "you are part of the feast. Not just a guest. Be careful what you say. And what you feel."
Hazel nodded, her fingers still curled around his arm.
The doors began to open.
And the shadows inside stirred.
The doors opened with a low groan, revealing the grand hall of Noctis Spire.
Hazel stepped in beside Hex, her hand still curled around his arm. The room was vast, lit by floating lanterns that glowed with violet flame. The ceiling arched high above, carved with constellations that shimmered faintly, as if breathing. Long tables stretched across the marble floor, draped in black silk and set with silver goblets and obsidian plates.
The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air — rich, intoxicating.
Steak, turkey, and whole roasted pig glistened beneath candlelight. Buttered bread steamed beside bowls of cabbage and carrots glazed in honey. Red wine flowed freely, poured into crystal decanters shaped like twisted vines.
Hazel's entrance did not go unnoticed.
Heads turned.
Citizens of Hollow Vale and guests from only two kingdoms — Lysoria and Viremont — watched her with wide eyes and parted lips. Her soft beauty, wrapped in black velvet and mustard yellow, seemed to glow against the gloom. Her skin, warm and golden, contrasted the pale elegance of the Vale's people. Her eyes held curiosity, not fear.
Some whispered.
"She's the one from the light."
"She wears the cloak of the sun."
Others stared with hunger.
Men and women alike leaned forward, their gazes lingering too long. One noble from Viremont licked his lips. A mage from Hollow Vale tilted her head, eyes gleaming with desire.
Hazel felt the weight of their attention press against her skin.
Hex leaned in. "You've made an impression."
She didn't reply.
At the head of the hall sat Prince Balthazar.
He was draped in black and silver, his long hair tied back with a ribbon of shadow. His olive green eyes watched Hazel with unreadable intensity. He did not smile. He did not blink. He simply waited.
Hazel stepped forward, her heart thudding.
The crowd parted as she approached the prince's table. Hex released her arm and bowed, then faded into the shadows behind the throne.
Hazel stood before Balthazar.
He rose slowly, towering above her. The room fell silent.
"You wear the Vale well," he said, voice low and resonant.
Hazel met his gaze. "It fits."
A flicker passed through his eyes — not warmth, but recognition.
He gestured to the seat beside him.
Hazel sat.
The feast resumed, but the tension did not fade. Forks scraped against plates. Goblets clinked. Laughter echoed, brittle and sharp. Hazel ate slowly, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted her glass.
Balthazar did not eat.
He watched.
Hazel turned to him. "Why invite me here?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "To see if you belong."
"And do I?"
His lips curled faintly. "We'll find out."
Across the table, a woman with pastel pink eyes — Lysithea — raised her glass. "To the guest who carries both light and shadow."
The crowd murmured approval.
Hazel felt the pulse of magic beneath her feet.
She was not just a visitor.
She was a question.