A boy sat alone on a velvet bench, knees locked, fists clenched, his black suit swallowing him whole. Eight years old, and already fluent in silence. The storm outside clawed at the stained glass, thunder rolling like distant drums. The room around him was a mausoleum of forgotten grandeur — oil paintings with eyes that followed, statues with heads missing, and shadows that moved when they shouldn't.
He didn't cry loudly. Just enough for the tears to leave trails. Just enough for grief to feel like a secret.
Then the door creaked.
Pale skin, raven hair, and purple eyes, she stepped in like a flame refusing to be extinguished.
Crimson satin clung to her body like it had been poured there, the mermaid cut flaring into a train that slithered behind her — not quite a tail, but close enough to make the statues flinch. Her heels clicked against the marble, each step a punctuation mark in the boy's mourning.
The fascinator tilted over one eye, black lace veiling half her face. Two crimson feathers curved upward from it, elegant to the inattentive, unmistakably horned to the cursed. Her gloves were black leather, gleaming like fangs. Her gold choker sat heavy at her throat — not jewelry, but a collar of dominion. The clutch in her hand was black satin, its clasp the color of fresh blood. Her earrings dangled like corrupted pearls, gold settings catching the lightning outside.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
The room changed when she entered — the air thickened, the shadows recoiled, and the boy's sobs stopped not because he was comforted, but because something more powerful than grief had arrived—Fear.
"Oh? You're still here?" the woman said, her voice flat, almost bored, as though his existence were nothing more than an afterthought. She didn't slow her stride, crimson satin whispering across the marble as she moved deeper into the room.
The boy just stared at her, trembling, his soft eyes wide and wet.
"It's been a week since your father died," she said without a hint of grief in her voice. "Why are you still in that suit?"
"I—N-no one has given me anything else to wear," he answered softly.
The woman sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose with gloved fingers. "You're eight years old, and you don't know how to dress yourself?" she chastised.
"T-the servants normally lay my clothes out," he stammered.
"You mean my servants?" she replied condescendingly.
"T-they're my father's—"
"Your father's dead!" she snapped, her voice exploding with sudden anger.
The boy sniffled, tears spilling freely.
"He had no living will, so his estate goes to me. They're my servants! Mine!!" she roared, her words echoing against the stone walls.
"I-I just..." he tried to speak, but emotion strangled his voice.
"What?! What?!! Spit it out!!" she demanded.
"I'm hungry." His stomach growled, betraying him.
The woman's gaze dropped to his belly. "Oh, has no one fed you?" she asked, her tone dripping with cold sarcasm.
"No," he whispered, falling into despair.
"Poor boy," she replied sarcastically. "Let me get you something to eat."
She turned sharply to the door and clapped her hands twice. "Jeffry!"
A balding butler hurried in, pushing a dining cart with a covered plate. He leaned close to the boy, whispering with genuine sorrow, "I'm sorry, Master Alam."
"Don't waste time, you fool!" the woman snapped. "The child is hungry." A sinister grin slowly crept across her face. "Feed him," she whispered, her voice carrying the echo of one thousand haunted souls.
The butler froze, staring at the boy. Then he looked at the woman, then back again, before turning his head away in shame. With trembling hands, he lifted the cover from the plate.
The boy's breath caught in horror.
"What's the matter, Alam? You don't like rabbit?" she teased.
"B-Bumi?" he whispered, collapsing to the floor with a blank stare.