"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...she was the fairest of them all."
Bathed in hush of moonlight, Havynlee moved through the east wing corridor like a whispered spell, her silk-red night dress flowing behind her.
It clung to her figure in soft devotion, long and robe-like, as if stitched from shadows and seduction. The fabric shimmer with every sway of her hips, trailing her like a secret.
She was not herself or perhaps, she was finally becoming.
Something about the stillness of the night had shifted. The air felt thicker, slower as if it was watching her. Her hum —low, hypnotic — slithered through the silence like an old lullaby. The tune had no name, but it was haunting —old, almost ancient —something a soul might remember from a dream it never had.
The palace lamps along the corridor dimmed one by one as she passed, not by design, not like design, but like they too surrendered to her presence.
The Havynlee who dined politely at the court or curtsied before foreign royals did not exist in this hour. This one…..This version….was otherworldly.
Dreamlike.
Unreachable.
Her porcelain skin gleamed pale beneath the silk, untouched by time. Her hair, midnight-dark and loose, flowed down her back like spilled ink. And in her silver eyes shimmered something not quite human. Not glowing. Not monstrous. Just…veiled.
As if the truth of her had only ever been sleeping.
She didn't know what had stirred her from bed or why her limbs moved as if guided by memory not her own.
But tonight, her blood hummed with something ancient.
Something working….,,,
....
Somewhere deep in the Palace, a grandfather clock, moaned midnight.
And still, she walked —slow, fluid, possessed by a grace that wasn't taught, but inherited. The silk of her dress trailed behind her, like a burning ribbon, the shadows drinking it in. She turned a corner, and a vase cracked behind her without touch. A mirror, she passed fogged at the edges. Another blinked dark, like a watching eye retreating into sleep.
She didn't notice.
Or perhaps, she couldn't.
Her face was soft – too soft – as though caught in a dream she hadn't woken from. Her silver eyes normally guarded, now shimmered with an empty glow, half-lidded and lost. Her lips parted slightly, as if trying to whisper a name….or warning.
A painting on the wall shuddered as she passed, it's oil-cracked eyes flickering with static. Beneath the carpet, a hairline crack formed, slithering like a serpent across the floor, unnoticed. Something – somewhere – stirred.
The air grew colder. Not the kind of cold that prickled the skin or kissed the neck like winter, but something deeper, older. The kind that curled around bone and whispered into marrow. The cold of memory….of….exile….of a grief that never spoke its name.
Havynlee kept walking, her bath feet ghosting across the chilled floors. She was already in the eastern wing of the palace – where only royals of blood and favour were given rooms. But not many wandered pass this corridor anymore. Not since the day her mother, Seraphielle had been cast out. No maid dared venture there at night. Whispers said the hall was cursed, haunted by sorrow and rage. A place abandoned by warmth, by light…..by mercy.
Once, it was the sunniest part of the palace. Now the moonlight never fully touched it.
The air there hung heavy, unnaturally cold – even in the thick of summer.
But that wasn't always so.
That wing had belonged to a maid.
Not just any maid – her mother had been the king's favored.
She was given a chamber in the royal quarters, a place no maid had ever dared dream of. The king loved her deeply, openly . It was scandalous.
It was grander than even queen Iridessa's. And that alone had been enough to light hatred in the queen's veins.
But when war called him away. Iridessa acted. She had Havynlee's mother, Seraphielle – the woman he loved, the woman whose beauty outshone the moonlight – was thrown out of the palace like filth.
And that very night, a strange, sorrow – soaked wind that howler through the palace halls for hours —wild and grieving, as though the walls themselves wept. It crawled through the windows and twisted down the corridors. The air turned biting cold, unnaturally so, and the goblets along the banquet hall cracked – some shattered into glittering dust without a single hand touching them.
But it wasn't the first time something unnatural had whispered through the palace halls.
There had been signs before. Ominous ones.
On the day the king married Iridessa, the skies had blackened far too early. The rain that fell that night was not soft or gentle. It poured the earth with fury relentless and wild, drowning out the choir's songs. They said it was as if the heavens grieved. As if the skies themselves mourned.
Even the stained-glass windows of the royal chapel began to crack mid-ceremony – quiet, fine fractures that webbed across the glass like a warning. Whispers had followed. Whispers of omens. Of curses. Of wrong choices.
And now, after Seraphielle's banishment, it returned.
The wind was heavy that night – so strong thst guards stationed outside the palace struggled to remain at their posts. Some claimed they heard voices in the gate. Some claimed they saw shadows move where there was no one. And some…..never spoke of what they felt at all.
When Iridessa attempted to claim Seraphielle's vacant chamber. In the eastern wing, she had marched in with pride. It was larger than her own, grander. She ordered her gold vanity wheeled in, her perfumes arranged, her silks steamed and laid out with elegance. The queen declared it hers.
But that night, she hadn't slept a wink. Not a breath of rest.
Before dawn, the chamber door slammed open, and Iridessa emerged wild-eyed and raving. Her royal gown wrinkled, her feet bare.
Her lips trembled as she waved wildly at the air around her, sobbing and stammering.
"There were hands – invisible hands – they touched me, they gripped me. I was being watched," she whispered, voice cracking.
"Something…..in the walls. It's cold….. it's angry….it's..."
Her voice broke off into sobs. Some maids rushed to attend her. They saw no bruises, no lashes on her skin – only the queen's trembling frame, her mouth slack, her red-rimmed eyes darting around as if still being followed.
But the strangest part – what chilled the servant most – was that she hadn't screamed during the night. Not once.
Later, Iridessa claimed she couldn't. That her throat locked. That her voice had vanished. That she had opened her mouth to cry out and nothing came out. As if something had sealed it shut.
Maids whispered among themselves that she was going mad, that the queen had finally broken. But non dared to speak it aloud. Not truly. Not where the shadows might listen.
The king dismissed it. He said Iridessa was dramatic, always seeking attention. But even he never stepped foot in that room.
And after that night, no maid dared enter again. The chamber was sealed. No one cleaned it. No one guarded it. Not even the boldest soul crossed its threshold.
The eastern wing remained royal….but that room?
That room was forgotten by day.
And feared by night.
And tonight as Havynlee stood before that very door….It did not feel like the past was resting.
It felt like it was waiting.