The news came one quiet morning, delivered by a maid whose eyes never blinked.
"Lady Wisteria, you have been cordially invited to the royal ball."
Wisteria held the card in her hands, the golden crest glimmering faintly under the morning light.
"The Royal Family cordially invites Lady Wisteria De Altherra to attend the Annual Moonlight Ball."
Her violet eyes darkened. "A royal ball…" she murmured.
Her maid, Elise, smiled nervously beside her. "My lady, perhaps this is a chance to change your reputation. If you appear at the ball, everyone might see you in a better light."
Fiona gave a small laugh—soft, but cold. "Or they'll see me as the villainess I'm supposed to be."
Still, she agreed. Because deep down, she had a feeling that this ball wasn't just a social event—it was another piece of the world's riddle.
By noon, she and Elise were walking through the bustling streets of Aldervane City, the capital of the empire. The markets were alive with chatter and color. Merchants called out, carriages rolled past, and nobles strutted in silk and perfume.
But Wisteria attention drifted.
She noticed how the sky above the city never changed—it was always the same shade of soft blue, the clouds always in the same place.
It made her skin crawl.
"My lady?" Elise asked, breaking her thoughts. "Should we visit the Silver Lace Boutique? They have the finest gowns for the ball."
Wisteria nodded, forcing a smile. "Lead the way."
They visited one shop after another, but none of the dresses felt right. Too bright. Too hollow. They all seemed designed for someone else—for the real Wisteria, and not for her.
Midnight came quietly to the capital, wrapping the city in velvet darkness. The streets, once bright with lanterns and laughter, had grown silent.
Wisteria moved through the fog like a ghost.
Her violet hair was hidden beneath a dark cloak, her face half-covered by a simple black mask. No one who saw her now would think she was the infamous Lady Wisteria De Altherra, the noble villainess everyone whispered about.
Tonight, she wasn't a noble.
She was a seeker.
The rumors had reached her days ago — whispers of a shop that appeared only when the moon was high, where one could buy a ticket to the underworld's black market. A place where forbidden books, cursed artifacts, and truths that shouldn't exist were sold to those brave—or foolish—enough to look.
Wisteria didn't believe in coincidences. If she was trapped in this strange world, then somewhere within its shadows lay the truth she needed.
And tonight, she intended to find it.
She turned into a narrow alley that smelled faintly of rain and smoke. The cobblestones beneath her feet gleamed silver in the moonlight.
Then she saw it — at the very end of the path.
A small shop, built of black wood, with no sign above its door. Its windows were dim, but faint light flickered inside, like candle flames caught in glass.
Her heart quickened.
She pushed open the door.
A low chime rang, soft but strange — as if the air itself had whispered her arrival.
The scent of old parchment, herbs, and smoke filled her senses. Shelves crowded the walls, stacked with potions that glowed faintly, locked tomes with runes etched across their covers, and strange trinkets that pulsed faintly with energy.
It was beautiful — and dangerous.
Then she heard a voice.
Calm. Deep. Almost lazy.
"Not many dare enter this place twice."
Wisteria turned sharply.
Behind the counter stood a man — tall, broad-shouldered, his long black hair tied loosely at his neck. His eyes, deep crimson like dying coals, glowed faintly in the candlelight.
He looked young, but something in his gaze felt ancient — a predator wearing human calm.
"You've been expecting me?" Wisteria asked, keeping her voice stea dy but low.
He smiled faintly. "No. I rarely expect anyone. But those who come here usually have the same look."
"What look?"
"Desperation."
She didn't answer.
Instead, Wisteria stepped closer, the hem of her cloak brushing the dusty floor. "I heard you sell things that don't exist."
"Depends on who's asking," he replied easily. "And what price they're willing to pay."
"I'm looking for a ticket," she said. "One that leads to the black market."
At that, his eyes sharpened. "You're either brave or reckless, masked lady. The black market isn't a place for the living to walk freely."
Wisteria's tone turned cold. "I didn't ask for your warning."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the space between them. Then, slowly, the man chuckled — low and amused.
"You remind me of someone I once knew," he said. "Fine. I'll play along."
He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small, black envelope sealed with crimson wax. A strange symbol — an eye within a circle — was carved into it.
"This," he said softly, "is what you're looking for."
Wisteria reached for it, but his hand moved first, lightly tapping her fingers before she could grab it. His touch was brief, but enough to make her flinch.
"Careful," he murmured. "That ticket doesn't take just anyone. It marks you. Once you enter that world, it will recognize you as one of its own."
She hesitated for a moment. Then she looked straight into his red eyes and said,
"Let it."
His smile deepened, unreadable. "Very well."
He handed her the envelope. For a moment, their eyes met — hers gleaming behind the mask, his reflecting quiet interest.
Something flickered there. Not recognition, not yet — but curiosity.
"You wear your fear well," he said softly.
"And you talk too much," she replied.
He laughed — a sound sharp and surprisingly warm. "Touché. Then I'll see you again soon, masked one."
"Don't count on it."
She turned, cloak flowing behind her, and pushed open the door. The bell chimed again, and the air outside was colder than before.
When Fiona looked back, the shop was gone.
Only the black envelope remained in her hand — and a faint scent of smoke, like magic fading into the night.