“We Are Never More Ourselves Than When We Think People Aren’t Watching.”

Venatio

Men are simple creatures. Base and transparent, like mutts panting after scraps of meat. Rosa had long since deciphered their nature—pliant, lust-driven, leashed by sinew and want rather than reason or virtue. From the dust-creased palms of a Moravian wheat-thresher to the gilded fingers of a newly knighted lord, she had known them all, some intimately, others merely through their desperate attempts to impress. At first, she had sought disproof with the fervour of a scholar chasing lost pages of De Rerum Natura, hoping for her thesis to be flawed.

But each encounter etched the truth more deeply: men were canes domiti—nothing but tamed dogs, slavering beneath a lady's table, ever loyal so long as their lusts were sated.

Young and decrepit, serfs and scions, those who could quote Seneca in Latin and those who could scarce scrawl their own names in the dirt—all bore the same hunger in their eyes. Rosa had yet to meet the exception, though her vanity whispered always that such a man must exist, if only to prove her worthy of one.

Was the Skalitz boy different?

She dared hope so. A village-born son of a blacksmith, raised not on scripture or scrolls but soot and swordplay, he should have been like the rest. Yet he listened. Not with the feigned patience of the lustful, but with the attentive silence of a man who wished to understand. He had brought back the book she had spent years writing, wrapped in cloth to preserve the binding. He had slain the raiders who defiled her estate, though he made it known that he took no pleasure in senseless slaughter. It was not just the deeds, but the manner of them.

And yet, even he—even he—waited like a patient mastiff, biding his time for the kill.

He struck not when her strength was at its fullest, but when sorrow made her limbs slow and her thoughts scattered. Her father taken, her halls pillaged, heirlooms broken or carried off—what was left to her but grief? And in that moment, Henry moved, not as a knight defending honor, but as a hunter who senses the faltering gait of his prey.

But Rosa was no wounded roe, bleeding prettily in the thorns, awaiting the mercy of death. She was a huntress herself—one who had tasted conquest as well as being conquered. Perhaps she allowed the moment. Perhaps she welcomed it. A distraction, after all, was not unwelcome when the world itself seemed to unravel. The embrace of another, even a hound’s, could warm the chill left behind by treachery.

Still, a question lingered: had he come to her aid out of care, or calculation?

She could not say.

Illustration from The Two Brothers for Grimm's Fairy Tales by Elenore Abbott (1920)

Saturnina Canaleta de Girona (detail), Federico de Madrazo y Kuntz, 1856.

potentia

The first months at Hogwarts are equal parts disorienting and exhilarating. The castle itself is a marvel—vast, breathing, alive in a way no place you've ever known could be. The classrooms are strange, the subjects stranger, and the rules seem to change depending on who’s watching. It's quite a lot to take in.

But like they say: one bad apple spoils the bunch.

And, apparently, that apple is you.

Being raised as a muggle—a word spat more often than spoken—has a way of turning wonder into sourness. Professor Fig filled your head with stories, and maybe that’s what set you up for disappointment. You expected awe. Instead, you got thinly veiled condescension and a rotating cast of classmates who smile at you like you're part of a long-term charity project. You have acquaintances in spades. Friends, not so much. You’ve stopped being picky.

One of the few who seems indifferent enough to treat you like an equal is Sebastian Sallow. Whether that’s a blessing or a curse depends entirely on the day.

You met him on your very first afternoon, partnered off for a Defense duel. You followed Professor Hecat’s instructions to the letter—protego, stupefy, disarm, repeat. You broke his shield, lifted him clean off the floor, and just as your next spell formed on your tongue—

A red spark flew towards you, exploding in your face with a loud, deafening bang.

You don’t remember hitting the ground. Only the jolt of stone against your spine and the copper tang of blood at the back of your throat. Somewhere above you, Hecat’s voice snapped through the ringing in your ears, full of fury and disbelief.

"Absolutely not—Bombarda is prohibited, Mr. Sallow!"

From the ground, the world spinning, you wondered if this “Hogwarts Welcome” was improper without a possibility of being shipped home in a casket before the first week was out.

Hecat kept him after class, though not before he sauntered over to where you were still catching your breath.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, his brow furrowed in a cartoonish imitation of concern. “You’re practically a first year. Would’ve looked proper shite if I lost.”

He was strong—you couldn’t deny that, and strength was what you needed. That’s why you begged Professor Weasley to let him come with you to Hogsmeade, yanking him out of detention with Hecat. He repaid you by inviting you to some underground dueling club as if it were a fair trade. With Sallow, it’s always a transaction. Always one thing for another.

The boy is proper insane, you quickly learn —charismatic in the way a collapsing building is: destructive and impossible to ignore. The girls gawk but never approach, the professors uphold the rules but don’t provoke. Even his own house keeps its distance.

On the pitch, he’s no different. A Beater with a blunt weapon and no restraint, he barrels through players with no regard if they are opponents or teammates. The team’s been winning more since he joined, though whether that’s due to skill or sheer intimidation is anyone’s guess. You wonder if the matron gets paid extra on match days—she probably spends half the afternoon restocking potions and preparing for broken bones when she knows Sallow’s playing.

Still, his grades are pristine. It’s less an accident and more a calculated offering—his way of buying just enough tolerance to stay enrolled. But the patience of the staff is wearing thin. You once overheard the Deputy Headmistress warning him, after a particularly nasty fight with some seventh-year Gryffindor, her voice clipped and barely restrained, that from that point on, he’s on probation. One more outburst, and he’s done. No appeals. No indulgence.

Some compare him to Headmaster Black. You disagree. Black is pompous, yes. Unbearable, often. But at least he's grounded—chained by his name, title, reputation. Sallow is a different kind of scum. He is feral, unburdened by pedigree, unrepentant in every way that matters. Dangerous not because he’s cruel—plenty people are—but because he doesn't see cruelty as a problem.

Better with him than against him, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Which is why it surprises you when he finds you after fall break, shoulders slouched and that ever-present smirk nowhere in sight.

“Oi, a word?” he calls out, catching you halfway through a paragraph in the common room.

You glance up from your book. “Sure.”

He waits until you’re standing, leans in close—his tall frame towering over you, as you straighten your back to the best of your ability in attempt to level with him. His robes reek of cigarette smoke—an unpleasant, and yet oddly nostalgic reminder of the world you left behind.

“It’s about my twin. Anne,” he says, voice low, unusually serious. “Saw her over the break. She’s in a bad way—worse than before. I don’t know how much longer she has left.”

Sebastian doesn’t like many people. He barely tolerates most. But Anne—you know enough to understand she’s the exception. His better half. He’s mentioned her only in passing, just enough to paint a vague picture: a dark curse, cast last summer, left her bedridden ever since.

“How can I help?” you ask, watching his hand fiddle with the wand at his side.

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes darting around the room to make sure no one’s listening in.

“Have you heard of Slytherin’s scriptorium?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“When Salazar was still headmaster, it was his private chamber—or so the rumors say.”

“And you think it has something to do with Anne’s condition?”

“I think it might have answers,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “I don’t know where it is, but Ominis might. His family knows the Slytherin house from the inside out. If the Gaunts know anything, he does.”

“Right,” you deadpan. “But Ominis is your friend. Why not ask him yourself?”

“I did,” he says, a twitch of annoyance flickering across his face. “He said he didn’t know anything about it.”

Sebastian’s eyes glint then, sharp and certain. “But I know he’s lying. So—please? Hm?” He tilts his head, a caricature of innocence curling at the edges of his mouth.

There it is. A favor. You know this dance all too well.

Even in sadness, he scares you. Not in the way monsters do, but in the way nature does—a storm you see forming but are too late to run from. His stare is heavy, calculated, like he’s already carved your answer out of you with nothing but willpower.

And he has.

“Okay,” you say.

· · ·

You wait for Ominis at his usual spot on the staircase landing, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. When he finally arrives, you reach out and awkwardly tap his shoulder.

He startles slightly—then calms as his wand twitches once in your direction.

“It’s you,” he says, sounding both relieved and weary.

“Hi, Ominis,” you say, desperately hoping your voice doesn’t give out your anxious mood.

You and Ominis are hardly close—acquaintances by proximity, maybe, but Sebastian is the only link you have in common. More often than not, you feel like the third, distant point of a crooked triangle—an outsider looking in.

You wouldn’t mind you two becoming friends, if only Sebastian didn’t make Ominis so hard to approach. There’s something strangely possessive in the way he treats him—like a child with a precious toy no one else is allowed to touch. You’ve seen it. The sharp glances he casts across rooms when Ominis speaks to someone new are way too obvious. Their relationship is hard to define. They are friends, yes—but calling them that feels like trying to describe a wildfire as simply warm. Where an untrained eye sees tenderness, those who truly observe see a parasite and its victim, tangled in an unbreakable symbiotic bond.

Ominis isn’t stupid. He knows you wouldn’t have sought him out unless you were put up to it. Before you can even open your mouth, he exhales through his nose, as if bracing himself for the inevitable. He sits with a tired sigh, lowering himself onto the stairs and smoothing his robes across his knees like a man preparing for bad news.

“Did Sebastian send you?” he asks, and his voice is already frayed at the edges.

You shift under the weight of it—of the truth behind your ribs, guilt blooming sharp and sudden. “No,” you say. “It was my decision.”

A pause. He turns his head just slightly in your direction, his sightless eyes blank and unreadable, though his expression betrays no such mercy.

“Really.”

“I want to help him,” you say. “Anne’s getting worse.”

“But there must be ways to cure her that don’t involve dark magic,” he snaps, all softness gone. His hands curl into the fabric of his robes. “I know it feels impossible right now, but there are other paths.”

You see his patience exhausting by the second—likely already worn thin from Sebastian’s attempt to probe the secret out of him. And still, you push.

“Ominis, please—”

“I don’t know!” The words detonate, louder than he intends. They bounce off the stone walls, sharp and startling. Color surges to his face, blotching his pale cheeks with hot, humiliated red. You can see Ominis bite down on the inside of his lip, furious with himself for the outburst. “I don’t know where it is, alright? Leave me alone.”

Your head turns instinctively, scanning the corridor. But the air here is still. Silent. Deserted. You have learned that this tucked-away corner of the castle is nearly always empty—maybe that’s why Ominis favors it. Intended or not, it’s the only place you can speak at without fearing who might be listening.

You steady your voice. Try a different tack—a gentler one.

“Then let’s go together,” you say, quiet but firm. “Just you and me. We’ll look, nothing more. If there’s anything useful, I’ll tell him after.”

He flinches. “No.” The word is clipped, immediate, as if scorched into his throat. “If Sebastian finds out we went without him, he’ll kill you.”

You hesitate—then lay down the last card you have.

Your next words come slower, heavier. “He was in tears this morning, Ominis. Wrecked. He begged me. I’ve never seen him like that. It—” Your voice hitches. “It really feels like Anne’s out of time.”

And that does it.

Ominis’s entire body seems to crumple inward, like something inside him has snapped quietly in two. He draws his knees up, wraps his arms around them, and bows his head with a sigh that drains the air from the room.

“Fine,” he says. The word is small, frayed, almost lost in the hush of the hallway. “We’ll go together. You and me. He can’t know.”

“Okay,” you say softly, but do you really mean it? Now that the secret is yours, it feels like a betrayal simply waiting to hatch. If Sebastian finds out you went behind his back—even for his sake—it won’t end with just a wound.

Ominis straightens slightly, voice returning with brittle resolve. “Meet me after curfew. By the Slytherin entrance.” He tilts his head toward you, the air between you thickening. “And don’t tell him I told you anything.”

“I won’t,” you say, your voice quick and too ready.

“I’m serious,” he says, turning toward you sharply. Even without sight, his gaze has weight. “You don’t understand what you’re getting into. And if you breathe a word of this to him—”

“I won’t,” you repeat quietly. You glance away—you can’t face him. “I promise.”

Ominis rises without another word—his rest ruined. His footsteps fade, and soon all that’s left is a loud slam of a heavy wooden door.

A quiet rustle from above prompts you to look up.

There he is—Sebastian—at the top of the staircase, one elbow resting on the railing, chin lazily propped in his palm. His posture is relaxed, casual. His lips are curled into a smile—the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He nods to you slightly, satisfied with the outcome. See?—you can read from his expression—I knew he’d say yes.

You wonder if he ever left you alone with Ominis at all.

· · ·

You pace restlessly in the dim corridor, veiled beneath the shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm. The torches flicker low against the damp stone walls, casting long shadows across the floor.

Then it happens—the sound of shifting stone. A massive serpent, carved into the wall, slithers mechanically across the surface, revealing the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room. The heavy door grinds open, and Ominis steps out into the corridor.

“Come,” he says without missing a beat, his wand twitching subtly toward your presence. He doesn't stop walking. His pace is quick, tense, purposeful—he clearly wants this over with. You jog to catch up, trailing a few steps behind, struggling to match his stride.

The route he leads you on is narrow and winding, a twisting maze of passages that seem to fold in on themselves. You lose track of direction quickly, landmarks vanishing into shadows. You try to keep mental notes, but it’s hopeless. Wherever he’s taking you, it’s nowhere you’ve been before.

Finally, you reach a dead end. The silence feels louder here.

“We’re here,” Ominis says, his voice low. “Wait—”

You feel it before you hear it—the unmistakable presence behind you. Your pulse spikes as you brace yourself for what is about to transpire.

“Sebastian,” Ominis says. It’s not a question. It’s an accusation wrapped in disappointment.

Then he turns sharply on you, his eyes finding yours with surprising ease. “How could you?” He hisses out.

“I pried it out,” Sebastian cuts in before you can speak. “I’m sorry, Ominis, but I can’t let the two of you go alone. What if something happens?”

“That was the entire point!” Ominis snaps, voice echoing harshly in the stone tunnel. “For you not to go!”

“It’ll be fine,” Sebastian says, more force than comfort in his voice.

“No, it won’t be fine!” Ominis shouts. “This was a mistake. I’m done. I’m leaving.”

You feel the need to step in, a desperate instinct to stop this from unraveling completely.

“I’ll supervise,” you say. “I’ll make sure nothing happens—”

“Shut up!” Ominis whirls on you again, voice shaking with fury. “You know nothing! I should’ve never agreed to this.”

Sebastian tries again, his tone firmer now, more grounded. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I’d let you get hurt?”

Ominis’s voice trembles. “I know what dark magic does, I’m already involved. I won’t let you drag yourself in it too. Not even for Anne.”

You say nothing, but in your heart, you agree with Ominis. It isn’t Sebastian’s safety you fear—it’s what he might become. He’s already volatile, already dangerous. If he gets his hands on the wrong manuscripts, you worry not just for him, but for the wizarding world. Had you thought it through more carefully, you doubt you would have agreed to any of this.

You stand, helpless, as the exchange of words turns into an argument. Sebastian is calm, but Ominis is quickly losing control of his emotions.

You can see it happening—Ominis is spiraling, unraveling by the second. His breathing shortens. His fingers twitch. His expression crumbles beneath the weight of fury and dread and helplessness.

“Hey—” Sebastian’s expression changes—you could have sworn you saw a flicker of concern on his face. Quickly, he closes the distance between the two of them, cupping Ominis’s face gently in his hands. “Ominis. Hey—”

His thumbs brush across Ominis’s cheeks in a slow, grounding motion.

“Hey, listen to me, alright?”

The gesture catches you off-guard, too intimate to comfortably observe. You quickly avert your eyes, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You take a few steps away, giving them space—giving Ominis the chance to breathe, giving Sebastian time to calm him down.

You only approach when Sebastian gives you a slight nod, signaling that it’s safe. Ominis is calm again, or calm enough, and this time, he's ready to enter the Scriptorium.

Wordlessly, he raises his wand and lights the three braziers in succession. As the flames flare to life, the wall groans open, stone folding inward to reveal a hidden passage. What lies beyond hardly resembles an office. The room is dark, damp, and impossibly cold. You turn to check the door behind you. It’s sealed shut.

Together, you deduce the purpose of the chamber—some kind of test, a trial meant to weed out the unworthy. A puzzle.

Ominis doesn’t contribute much, but you don’t blame him. He’s pale and rigid, his silence edged with dread. You take the lead, methodically working through the relief on the wall, its once-broken patterns slowly beginning to form under your hands. Piece by piece, you repair it, fully absorbed in the task.

But when you look up—ready to share your progress—neither of them is beside you.

Following the low murmur of voices, you find them at the far end of the room, tucked into a shadowed corner.

You freeze.

Sebastian has Ominis pinned, body pressed flush against him, murmuring something into his ear. His back shields Gaunt’s slighter frame entirely, but the intimacy is unmistakable. He isn’t helping. He’s rutting.

You inhale sharply through your nose. Trapped in a sealed, black tomb, and he’s preoccupied with that?

Disgusted, you turn away, focusing instead on the final piece of the relief. Whatever game Sebastian is playing, you want no part of it. Good Lord. What an animal. You don’t understand him at all.

Eventually, the last piece clicks into place, and the next door creaks open—leading you into a narrow corridor, barely wide enough to fit all three of you. The moment you cross the threshold, the stench hits you like a wall. Thick, rotting, unmistakable.

You gag.

Looking down, the source becomes clear. A pile of corpses—some still rotting, others long-since reduced to bones—lies heaped in the center of the floor. The dampness in the air has quickened their decay, turning flesh to sludge, puddled beneath brittle limbs. You step over them gingerly, trying to fight the rising nausea, and try the door.

“I presume it’s locked,” comes Sebastian’s voice behind you, dry and sharp. “Otherwise, why would there be a welcoming committee? Or do you think they just came here for a nap and forgot to leave?”

“What?” Ominis’s voice wavers from behind. “Sebastian, what’s going on?”

You scan the room quickly, pulse hammering in your ears. You can’t end up like them.

“What do we do?” you ask, trying not to sound as panicked as you feel.

Sebastian nods toward the far wall, where a word is scrawled in what can only be blood: Crucio.

You blink at it, then look at him. “Crucio? What does that mean?”

He half-smiles, wand already raised. There’s no time to react.

The pain is instant—like a thousand knives driving into you all at once. Your limbs seize, your body convulses, and then collapses. It’s sharp, numbing, then dull and throbbing, rolling through you in awful, lingering waves. The sounds blur, distant and suffocating—until suddenly, Sebastian’s voice cuts through.

“—ey! Hey!”

You blink your eyes open. He’s crouched beside you, shaking you by the shoulders.

When you finally move, he hauls you upright and props you roughly against the wall.

“Here,” he says, slapping your shoulder in encouragement with enough force to bring the pain rushing back. You wince.

“The door opened. Come through when you feel better.”

No apology. No explanation. Just like that, he’s gone.

You press a hand to your forehead—and freeze. It’s wet. Sticky. Your fingers come away coated in something slick and foul. Corpse remains. Smeared across your face. Your robes are soaked too—Sebastian struck you while you stood directly in the middle of them.

Bloody hell.

You swallow a gag and force yourself upright, legs shaking as you stumble toward the chamber.

· · ·

Rolls of mysterious parchment and countless books on dark magic from the scriptorium seem to have consumed Sebastian entirely—you barely see him anymore. In fact, you can hardly remember the last time you did. You sometimes wonder if anything he found in that crypt of a chamber helped Anne at all—if any of it was worth it.

Garreth Weasley—your partner in Potions—is a surprisingly perceptive character.

He catches you staring blankly into your cauldron and nudges you with an elbow. “What are you thinking about?”

You hesitate before answering. “Have you seen Sebastian lately?”

“Sebastian?” He raises an eyebrow. “What do you care?”

“I wanted to ask him about his twin—last time we talked, he seemed wrecked.”

“Anne? What about her?” Garreth makes a half-hearted attempt to brush his wild hair out of his face, only for it to fall right back into place.

“I just feel bad. I wish I could help her.”

Garreth gives you a look—somewhere between confusion and amusement. “Help her with what?”

You sigh, irritated by the endless back and forth. “Are you daft? She’s unwell. Cursed by a goblin.”

He blinks. “What are you on about? She’s at Ilvermorny. Transferred last year. My family helped sort it—Aunt Mathilda’s got connections in America.”

You stare at him. “What about the curse?”

“Oh, that? Wasn’t even that bad,” Garreth says with a shrug. “They took care of it straight away at St. Mungo’s, I reckon. Her uncle got spooked, though—shipped her off the first chance he got.”

Well, you think to yourself, shit.

“Nastassja Korolevichna” and “Maria Swan White” by Sergey Solomko

April's harvest. Not much, but honest work.

Beware of Pity was an easy, effortless winner. What an amazing book, and a great introduction to Zweig. It inspired me immensely—I have pages and pages worth of notes and quotes, and I'm so very excited to read more.

Possession can easily count as two separate works, and, therefore, was twice as taxing to read. It was alright, really, and the author was brilliant for coming up with so much "lore," but it was simply not my cup of tea. Where people see great romance, I see a self-centered man whose actions are destructive to the point of ruining lives. I understand that humans are flawed, I do! But I don't like a story full of bad actions and worse consequences of those extremely flawed beings to be presented on a plate with gold rims and called something it's not.

I have the most to say about Daisy Miller, but, perhaps I'll save it for later—a long thinkpiece, likely. It's a short story, but I just adored it. I love love love a tragedy, and it really scratched all the right spots. It's a very thought-provoking piece; it had me thinking and pondering on its meaning for days.

O Caledonia was recommended to me by positively everyone, and glazed from every angle, so I will just say that I went into it with expectations raised a bit too high. It's good for what it is, but I can't call it a revolutionary work. It's a cute coming-of-age story with a great setting that I, personally, couldn't relate to, but I know many people did and will.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,"

knight fairy

Bargain

“Go now, be useful for once,” Mother said before shutting the door behind me, leaving no time to say my goodbyes.

I didn’t blame her—she did what needed to be done. Our family was abundant: me, my seven siblings, Mother and Father, and our remaining grandparents, all cramped within the confines of our modest home. Our so-called estate wasn’t much to speak of—a few sheep, a handful of goats, and two geese that were nearing their imminent death due to a hole in the shed, barely standing against the cruel winter winds.

The countess didn’t pay much for me, but it was just enough to get the family through the winter. I was to stay at the estate and serve her until I reach the age of twenty, but deep in my heart, I knew that I would never return home. I didn’t mind the arrangement, I was somewhat happy to not be a burden any longer. Mother tried time and time again for a son—a strong pair of hands to share the weight of the farm—each time she was met with another daughter. Among ourselves, we’d joke that she will keep going until the animal barn is occupied. Mother’s womb was cursed, but resilient as she was, she refused to give up.

I stood outside the door for a moment, shivering as the cold gnawed through my thin coat. I allowed myself one fleeting moment of sadness, one brief pang of longing for my sisters’ familiar chatter, only while I was still close to my home. Once I began my journey up to the mountains, there would be no room for such indulgence.

I took a step, then another, and then another, slowly starting to make my way through the village, eery silent on this cold winter day. My shoes were not nearly sturdy enough to withstand the slush and wetness of the melting snow, and so my feet felt cold and slippery inside of my boots. I told myself it was fine—the Countess’s castle was sure to be warm.

I knew the way well. As little girls, my sisters and I would venture towards the castle on playful escapades, pretending we were princesses invited to a grand ball. The construction loomed over the village, a monolith of cold grey stone crowned with towers so tall they would often pierce the clouds.

The Countess herself never descended to the village. Her affairs were conducted through written correspondence with the chief, and though no one had ever seen her, she was regarded with a mixture of reverence and gratitude. Food, money, and work trickled down from her estate, and as long as those needs were met, her anonymity was unquestioned.

At last, my long journey came to an end as I stood before the grand entrance of the castle. I reached for the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. The door creaked open almost instantly, as if the mistress herself had been standing just behind it, awaiting my arrival.

“Welcome, girl.”

Before me stood an impossibly tall woman, her presence commanding and severe. I had to crane my neck just to meet her piercing gaze.

“My lady,” I stammered, dropping into the deepest curtsy my frozen knees would allow. Mother had insisted I show gratitude, no matter how much my pride might protest.

“Come in, now,” she hurried me inside, no doubt after seeing my red cheeks and blue hands, bitten by the frost.

The castle’s interior was nothing short of magnificent. Ornate rugs cushioned every step, golden trim gleamed on every surface, and a grand piano stood in the corner of the vast entry hall.

“Let me help you with your coat,” the Countess said, a faint smile curling her lips as she tugged the coat from my shoulders and let it fall carelessly to the floor. “Shall I toss it? You’ll be given new clothes, of course.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

I didn’t care. Had she told me to strip naked and burn every scrap I owned, I would’ve gladly complied.

“Now,” the Countess continued, her tone clipped but not unkind, “your room is prepared, with your uniform and other necessities waiting inside.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

A question lingered on my tongue, and I couldn’t go any further without my curiosity being unfulfilled. “Will I be sharing my room with the other girls? When will I meet the rest of the help?”

The Countess paused mid-step and turned her head slightly toward me, her voice soft but final. “There are no other girls.”

I dared not ask more.

She led me down a series of silent corridors, the only sound our footsteps against the polished stone floor. The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were listening. The Countess moved with fluid grace, her steps purposeful, until at last, we stopped before a wooden door tucked away in a secluded wing.

“This will be your room,” she said simply, opening the door and stepping aside to let me enter.

The chamber was modest but clean—a narrow bed, a small writing desk, and a wardrobe stood against the stone walls. On the bed lay a neatly folded uniform.

“Rest. I will call for you when I require your presence.”

With that, the Countess turned on her heel and shut the door behind her, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing faintly in the still air.

I was left alone.

***

The next day I waited and waited, but the servant bell never rang. Mother had always told me that the help should neither be seen nor heard, so I remained hidden in my room until I the relentless growling in my stomach became unbearable. It was when the night befell that I decided to exit my room and make my way downstair to fetch a bite to eat. Thankfully, my mistress had walked me through the kitchen the day before, sparing me the need to trouble her.

The kitchen was located in the basement, to the left of an expansive wine cellar. On the far side stood a large entrance framed by double doors. The air grew colder as I descended, and shadows danced along the stone walls, cast by flickering sconces.

In the kitchen, I rummaged through the pantry and cabinets, but to my dismay, I could not find so much as a loaf of bread. It struck me as odd—peculiar, even—considering the Countess's tall and robust figure.

Resigned to another night of hunger, I turned to leave, the cold flagstones chilling my bare feet. But just as I reached the doorway, I froze. The faint sound of shuffled footsteps echoed from beyond the double doors, followed by the creak of one slowly swinging open.

A rancid stench hit my nostrils, making my stomach lurch violently. I kneeled above a cauldron, gagging and retching, but with nothing in my stomach, I could only produce bile, burning my throat and mouth as it went up and out.

Then I saw it.

A figure stood in the entrance of the kitchen, looking not at me but past me, its eyes milky and unseeing. Its skin, sickly pale and stretched taut over sharp bones, looked as though it might tear with even the faintest movement. It swayed slightly, head twitching with an unnatural rhythm. Its skeletal frame was draped in a garment I recognized instantly—a black dress, identical to the one I wore.

I couldn’t scream—the bile in my mouth sealed it shut. With every ounce of strength I had left, I scrambled upright, my feet slipping briefly on the slick floor. I bolted for the stairs, shoving past the creature with my elbow as I fled, its frail frame giving way beneath my desperate push.

I fled upstairs, breathless and desperate to escape the oppressive confines of the castle. The grand front door loomed before me, heavy and unyielding, refusing to budge no matter how I tugged and clawed at its gilded handle. Behind me, a faint rustle stirred the silence, and I turned sharply—there she was.

The Countess was poised elegantly, half-lying upon a couch, a glass of deep red wine balanced delicately in her pale hand. Her presence, though unexpected at this late hour, brought me relief. Whatever horror lurked in the shadows of the basement seemed distant in her commanding presence.

"There you are," she said, her lips curling into a serene smile. "What has frightened you so, my dear?"

I tried to respond, but my voice faltered, choked by the sobs racking my chest and the tears streaking my cheeks.

“You look terrified, girl,” She said, putting her glass aside. “Come on, sit with me.”

I sat down beside her, struggling to contain my shaky hands.

“I saw…” I began, my voice quivering as I struggled to produce a sentence. “I saw someone in the kitchen.”

The Countess's smile did not waver, her emerald eyes studying me with detached amusement. "Oh? Did you now?”

"It—it looked human," I stammered, my voice cracking under the weight of my fear. My arms wrapped around my torso as though trying to physically restrain the terror bubbling within me.

"Hush now, child," she cooed, reaching out to stroke my hair with a gloved hand. "There are no monsters in this castle. Perhaps some warm chocolate would soothe your nerves. Would you like that?”

“If you’d be so kind,” I managed. She was not surprised in the slightest, and I began to think that perhaps it was my exhausted and hungry body was the one playing tricks of me.

She reached for a small bell and gave it a faint ring. The chime echoed through the halls, fading into an uneasy silence. Time stretched unbearably, the stillness gnawing at my frayed nerves.

After a glance at the clock, the Countess sighed lightly. "You'll have to forgive my maid. She's unwell."

I smiled. It wasn’t a servant’s place to judge the quality of the help.

At last, footsteps echoed from below—slow, uneven. From the shadows of the basement stairs emerged a frail figure, clutching a tarnished silver tray with an unsteady grip. The dim light revealed her hollow eyes, sallow skin stretched tight over sharp bones, and the unnerving twitch of her head with every step.

I sprung up, my body trembling as it slowly approached us. The Countess’s plump hand tugged on mine, forcing me back down on the couch. She didn’t let go, her fingers tightening with surprising strength.

"There," she said with an air of finality as the creature set the tray before me. "Your chocolate.”

The cup was chipped and stained, its contents a vile concoction of yellowed milk and clumped cocoa powder. A foul smell wafted up, coiling into my nostrils and threatening to turn my stomach.

“Go on,” the Countess urged, nodding at the cup, her smile sharpening at the edges.

I looked at the monster, flailing and struggling to maintain its balance. My body once again betrayed me, my hand shaking so violently the drink almost spilling on my dress.

With a deep breath, I forced myself to take a sip. The sour tang hit my tongue, mingling with the bile already souring the insides of my mouth. I gagged, barely managing to swallow.

"Not to your liking?" she asked, her eyes alight with amusement, like a child observing a caged animal.

She plucked the cup from my shaking hands and handed it back to the creature, who accepted it with jittery fingers.

"Well," the Countess said lightly, her voice carrying a chill that cut through the suffocating warmth of the room. "You've had your treat. Now, it's my turn."

Without hesitation, she tightened her grip on my hand and yanked me closer. Before I could scream, her teeth sank into my neck. A sharp, searing pain shot through me, and I cried out, my voice breaking into gasps and sobs. My limbs felt impossibly heavy, and my eyes could no longer see, as my body slumped into the Countess's arms as she finally pulled away.

The world swam in and out of focus. Distant voices murmured, but their words were hazy and disjointed.

"If she dies, you may have the scraps," the Countess's voice floated through the fog.

"If she survives... well, you might just have yourself a little friend."

I took a painful breath.

Hans/Henry fanarts with Galehaut quotes from Lancelot-Grail