Aster opened his eyes slowly.
Something had pulled him from sleep—a smell. Wonderful and familiar, wrapping around his consciousness like a warm blanket. It was the scent of his favorite meal being prepared, rich and inviting, seeping up through the floorboards and into his dreams.
He could feel it somehow, deep inside him. Could imagine every detail—the spices, the way the ingredients blended together, the exact moment when everything would be perfectly cooked.
His eyes fluttered open reluctantly, and immediately he regretted it.
They *hurt*. A dull, scratchy ache that came from far too little sleep. The morning light filtering through the gaps in his curtains felt like needles stabbing into his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut again, then forced them open more slowly.
The clock on his nightstand read 5:23 AM.
Far too early. Much too early after the night he'd had.
Aster pushed himself up to a sitting position, and immediately another discomfort made itself known—his throat. It felt raw and dry, as if he'd been breathing through his mouth all night or maybe screaming in his sleep.
He touched his throat gently and winced. "I need water," he croaked, his voice barely recognizable.
The moment he moved to get out of bed, cold air rushed over him. He shivered violently, goosebumps rising across his skin. The blanket had provided a cocoon of warmth, but beyond it, his room was freezing.
He reached for his jacket hanging on the chair beside his bed and pulled it on quickly. "Winter is getting started, it seems," he muttered, fumbling with the buttons.
Then he noticed the source of the cold.
His window was wide open. The curtains billowed slightly in the morning breeze, and frost had formed on the windowsill. Had he opened it before going to bed? He couldn't remember. The previous night was still a confused blur of strange images and half-remembered fears.
Aster shuffled toward the window, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself. Just as he reached for the frame to close it—
*"Achoo!"*
He sneezed hard, his body protesting the cold air. Quickly, he pulled the window shut and locked it, cutting off the icy breeze.
But the damage was done. He was awake, cold, thirsty, and increasingly aware of how hungry he was. That smell from downstairs was getting stronger, more enticing with every breath. His stomach growled audibly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten much at the party last night.
"Who could be cooking this early in the morning?" he wondered aloud, his voice still rough.
The maids, presumably. But it was only 5:26 AM according to his pocket watch, which he picked up from the nightstand. He turned it over in his hands, checking the time, checking the date mechanism, watching the second hand move smoothly around the face.
Working perfectly. No longer stuck at 11:30.
He stared at it for a moment longer, remembering his panic from last night, then shook his head and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He'd been exhausted and paranoid. That was all. Everything was fine now.
Aster moved toward his bedroom door and opened it carefully, stepping out into the hallway.
The second floor of the Thornwood mansion stretched out before him in both directions. Directly across from his room was his sister Lily's room—currently quiet, as she was probably still asleep. To his right was the storage room, its heavy wooden door closed and locked as always. To his left, the hallway extended toward the massive library that occupied an entire wing of this floor.
The whole space was lit dimly by expensive crystal lanterns hanging at intervals along the ceiling, their magical flames providing just enough light to navigate by. The lanterns cast complex shadows on the walls, making the expensive paintings and tapestries seem to move slightly in the flickering light.
The smell of food was definitely coming from downstairs. Aster moved toward the grand staircase, his footsteps soft on the thick carpet runner.
But walking was harder than it should have been. His legs felt heavy and uncoordinated, as if he'd run for miles in his sleep. Each step required more effort than normal. His breath came out in small visible puffs—even inside the mansion, it was cold enough to see his breath. And his heart... his heart still felt strange. Not painful exactly, but worried. Anxious. As if some part of him was still afraid, still waiting for something terrible to happen.
He gripped the polished wooden railing and descended the stairs slowly, carefully.
The ground floor opened up before him as he reached the bottom—the massive entrance hall with its marble floors reflecting the early morning light coming through the tall windows. The chandelier above was dark, unnecessary in the growing daylight.
And there, in the formal sitting area off to the side, he saw a figure.
A man sitting in one of the high-backed leather chairs, holding a newspaper up in front of his face. A glass of juice—orange, by the look of it—sat on the small side table beside him. The man wore a brown suit with a black tie, and Aster could see dark hair above the edge of the newspaper.
His father. It had to be his father, home from his trip.
"Dad?" Aster said, moving closer. His voice came out stronger now, though still rough. He circled around to approach from the side. "How was your trip?"
No reply.
The newspaper didn't lower. The figure didn't move. There was only the faint sound of pages being turned, the slight rustle of paper.
Aster frowned but decided not to press the issue. His throat was too dry to keep talking anyway. He needed water first, then he could have a proper conversation.
He turned away from the sitting area and headed toward the kitchen, following that wonderful smell that was growing stronger with every step.
He pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen—a large, professional space with multiple stoves, preparation areas, marble countertops, and cabinets filled with dishes and cooking implements.
But despite the overwhelming smell of food being prepared—he could practically taste it now—the kitchen was completely empty.
No maids. No cooks. No pots steaming on the stoves. No ingredients laid out on the counters. Nothing.
Just empty, clean, silent.
"Where is the smell coming from?" Aster whispered, confusion mixing with the first tendrils of unease.
His hands began to shake slightly—whether from the cold or from something else, he wasn't sure. He moved to the sink and grabbed a glass from the nearby cupboard. His fingers fumbled with it for a moment before he managed to fill it with water from the pump.
He drank deeply, the cold water soothing his raw throat. But it did nothing for the growing knot of anxiety in his chest.
He set the glass down and looked around the kitchen more carefully. Everything was spotlessly clean and perfectly organized. As if no one had been in here for hours. As if no one was preparing breakfast at all.
But the smell was *right here*. He could smell it so clearly—his favorite dishes, cooked exactly the way he liked them, so close he should be able to see them.
Something was wrong.
Aster backed out of the kitchen, his heart rate increasing, and returned to the entrance hall.
The figure was still sitting in the chair, still reading the newspaper, still completely silent and motionless except for the occasional turn of a page.
Aster approached again, but this time he came around to face the figure from the front rather than the side.
The newspaper was held up high, completely obscuring whoever was behind it. The brown suit looked expensive, well-tailored. The black tie was perfectly straight. The hands holding the paper were pale, with long fingers.
"Dad?" Aster said again, more uncertain now.
No response.
Slowly, carefully, his own hand shaking, Aster reached out and pushed the newspaper down.
His heart stopped.
Where his father's face should have been, there were only two sharp, gleaming eyes—too large, too bright, unnaturally reflective—staring out from what appeared to be a carved pumpkin.
Not a human head at all. A *pumpkin*, expertly carved to resemble a face, with those horrible glowing eyes set into the holes where the real eyes should be. The mouth was carved in a wide, mocking grin.
Aster jerked backward with a gasp, stumbling over his own feet.
Then he felt it.
Hands on his shoulders. Warm, solid hands, gripping him from behind.
Every muscle in Aster's body locked. His breath caught in his throat. That same terrible feeling from last night rushed through him—the sensation of something wrong, something evil, standing right behind him, touching him, breathing down his neck.
But the hands felt... warm. Not cold like he expected. Almost comforting.
Slowly—his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst—Aster forced himself to turn his head and look.
There was a figure standing behind him.
Smiling softly, kindly.
And it was his father. His real father—flesh and blood, perfectly normal, looking exactly as he always did. Strong features, dark hair with touches of gray, sharp green eyes filled with amusement.
Before Aster could process what was happening—
*BOOM! CRACK! POP!*
The sound of fireworks exploding outside shattered the moment. The front door burst open, and suddenly the entrance hall was filled with people—maids rushing in from every direction, throwing colorful party poppers that filled the air with confetti and streamers.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" they all shouted in unison, their faces beaming with joy and excitement.
His father's soft smile widened into a genuine grin. He squeezed Aster's shoulders affectionately. "Happy birthday, son."
Aster stood completely frozen, his brain struggling to catch up with reality. The relief that crashed over him was so powerful he felt dizzy.
Birthday?
His birthday?
He fumbled for his pocket watch with trembling fingers and checked the date on the small calendar dial.
October 28th.
It *was* his birthday. His eighteenth birthday. How could he have forgotten?
The terror drained out of him, replaced by weak laughter. "Thanks, everyone," he managed to say, his voice shaking. He looked at the maids, who were still celebrating. Then he looked at his father. "But that... that almost gave me a heart attack."
His father chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. "That was rather the point. You should have seen your expression when you pulled down the newspaper."
Aster tried to smile, but it came out shaky and strained. "Yes, well... after last night, my nerves are a bit on edge."
"Understandable," his father said, guiding him gently toward the sitting area. The pumpkin-headed dummy had already been whisked away by one of the maids, and the furniture was being rearranged back to normal. "Come, sit down. Catch your breath."
Aster sank gratefully into one of the leather chairs, his legs still weak. So that's what it had all been. The strange occurrences last night—the books falling, the lanterns breaking, the eerie sounds. All part of his father's elaborate birthday surprise.
It made sense.
Sort of.
His father settled into his own chair and picked up the newspaper again—the real one this time—and resumed reading while sipping his juice.
After a moment of silence, his father glanced over the top of the paper. "So, how did you wake up this early in the morning? I expected you to sleep until at least nine after attending that party."
Aster shifted in his seat, trying to organize his racing thoughts. "Last night didn't go very well," he admitted carefully. "I had to attend that party because you were out of town." He forced a smile. "And your surprises during the night didn't exactly let my sleep be peaceful."
The smile was exaggerated—too wide, too bright. The kind of smile that didn't quite reach the eyes. The kind people wear when they're trying to convince themselves everything is fine.
His father's expression changed. The amusement faded, replaced by something more serious. He lowered the newspaper and looked at Aster with those sharp green eyes. "I'm not sure what you're talking about. What did I do last night?"
The words hit Aster like a bucket of ice water.
"What?" The word came out as barely a whisper.
"I only arrived home about an hour ago," his father said slowly, his voice matter-of-fact. "I came straight from my trip. This birthday surprise was arranged with the staff weeks in advance—they executed it this morning after I returned. But last night?" He shook his head. "I was still traveling. I wasn't here."
Chills ran down Aster's spine. His heart, which had just started to calm, began racing again. The warmth he'd felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by that familiar cold dread.
No.
That couldn't be right.
If his father hadn't been home last night, then what had caused all those strange things? The fallen books. The broken lanterns. The clock that stopped at 11:30. The overwhelming sense of being watched. His sister coming into his room—had that even been real?
He wanted to argue, to insist that *something* had happened. But looking at his father's serious, questioning expression, Aster decided to drop it.
Maybe his father was still playing along with the joke somehow. Maybe he was testing Aster's reactions. His father had always been fond of elaborate games and tests of character. This could be another layer to the surprise.
Yes. That had to be it.
Aster forced his smile to return, though it felt more like a grimace. "Right. Of course. I must have been dreaming."
His father studied him for several long seconds, his sharp eyes seeming to see right through the lie. But finally, he nodded and returned to his newspaper. "So, how was the party?"
The question pulled Aster's thoughts backward, and immediately his mind hit a wall.
The party.
He tried to remember specific details—what conversations he'd had, what the decorations looked like, what food had been served, who he'd spoken with. But it was all... blurry. Indistinct. Like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.
Except for one thing.
That figure. The man in the black suit with the blood-red tie. Those eyes that hadn't looked quite human—too bright, too aware, too *wrong*. The moment when the ring had fallen on the marble floor with that clear, ringing sound. The sudden rush of evil presence that had made his mind go numb and his hands start trembling.
*That* he remembered with perfect, horrifying clarity.
"It was... fun," Aster said slowly, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
Before his father could ask any follow-up questions, the smell returned—that wonderful, rich aroma of food being prepared. Aster's stomach growled loudly despite his anxiety, and without thinking, he sniffed the air more obviously.
His father looked at him with an expression of mild disgust. "Where are your manners, son?"
Aster gave another forced smile—this one even more exaggerated than before. "Sorry. I'm just really hungry."
He stood up quickly, needing to move, needing to do something other than sit under his father's scrutinizing gaze. He headed back toward the kitchen, half-expecting it to still be empty.
But when he pushed through the door this time, the kitchen was alive with activity. Three maids were working at different stations—one chopping vegetables, another stirring something on the stove, a third pulling fresh bread from the oven. Pots were steaming. The smell was real now, coming from actual food being actually prepared.
Aster let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
*Real*. All of it was real this time.
He returned to the sitting area, feeling slightly more grounded. His father was still reading the newspaper, but Aster noticed the headline now, visible above the fold: "DISTURBANCES IN THE CAPITAL."
Curious despite himself, Aster picked up the remote control from the side table and turned on the television mounted on the wall. The morning news came on, and the anchor was discussing something with a serious expression.
"—multiple reports of unusual phenomena throughout the capital last night. Residents in several districts reported feelings of sudden, inexplicable dread. There were numerous sightings of shadow-like figures in the streets, and some witnesses claim—"
Aster watched for a moment, his unease returning. Then he muted the television and turned to his father. "Is someone coming today? Some special guest? The maids are preparing a lot of food—even all my favorite dishes."
His father lowered the newspaper and nodded calmly. "Yes. An old friend of mine from another kingdom is visiting. He's quite important, and he specifically asked to meet you as well. So I expect you to be here in the evening to greet him properly."
He looked directly at Aster, and there was something in that look—an expectation, a weight of importance.
"Of course," Aster agreed. "But I can't wait until evening for the food to be ready. I'm starving."
He sniffed the air again, more deliberately this time.
His father gave him another strange look—part concern, part annoyance. "Instead of waiting inside making a spectacle of yourself, why don't you go out and have a walk? Winter has just started. Perhaps you'll find some interesting specimens for your magical studies. Fresh air would do you good."
Aster perked up slightly at the suggestion. Getting out of the house suddenly seemed very appealing. "That's a fantastic idea."
He stood and headed toward the front door. When he pulled it open, a blast of cold morning air rushed in, making him shiver despite his jacket.
He looked out at the frost-touched gardens and the street beyond. "This year, winter is going to be tough. Can't believe this is just the start."
He stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him.
---
The Thornwood mansion was located in one of the most prestigious districts in the capital—the kind of neighborhood where wealth was as visible as the massive buildings that lined every street.
Aster stood for a moment on his front steps, looking around at the familiar scene. Huge buildings with elaborate architecture rose on all sides, their expensive materials gleaming in the morning light. Shops with polished windows displayed luxurious goods. Everything was pristine, orderly, a testament to old money and established power.
It was still early—barely past six now—so there were only a few people on the streets. But even those few seemed to immediately recognize him. They smiled and waved as he passed.
"Good morning, young Master Thornwood!"
"Happy birthday!"
"Lovely morning for a walk!"
Aster waved back politely, maintaining the practiced social smile he'd learned to wear in public. This was normal. This was his life. Everyone in this district knew who the Thornwoods were. One of the old families, one of the powerful families, one of the magical bloodlines.
He continued walking without any particular destination in mind, just letting his feet carry him. The cold air felt good after being inside—sharp and clean, clearing some of the confusion from his head.
---
**Back at the Thornwood mansion...**
The television was still playing, though muted.
Aster's father lowered his newspaper and glanced at the screen. The news anchor was interviewing someone—a city official, by the look of their formal clothing. Behind them, footage played of empty city streets at night, with strange shadows visible in the darkness.
The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: "DARK SPIRITS REPORTED THROUGHOUT CAPITAL - AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING."
His father stared at the screen for a long moment, his expression growing darker. The sharp green eyes that could be so kind when he smiled now looked cold and calculating.
"I can see what Aster felt last night," he murmured to himself.
As he spoke, his eyes seemed to grow even darker—the green becoming deeper, almost black at the centers. When he blinked, just for a split second, something else was visible in those eyes. Something that wasn't entirely human.
Then he blinked again, and they were normal once more.
He raised the newspaper back up in front of his face and continued reading, as if nothing had happened.
But in the sitting room, the temperature had dropped several degrees.
And the shadows in the corners seemed just a little bit darker than they should have been.