I continue down the corridor,which bleeds into a great hall. Faceless servants glide besideme, carrying trays that steam and drip. Their silence is a presenceonits own,heavy aschains as they robotically move about the room.
The hall itself isvast,its roof lostto theshadows above. A table stretches the length of the room, adorned with more food than I could everhaveimagined: fresh fruit splitting open under its own weight, meat leaking juices that glisten like fresh wounds,andgoblets overflowing with wine as dark as ink.
All around the table, the courtiers gather, but they are notcorporealmen and women.They arespiritsdraped in lavish silks andbrocades,their jewels glinting like embers in the candlelight. Their faces, though striking, bear an unnatural pallor. Their cheekbonesaresharp,eyesringedwith shadows from too many sleepless nights. Some lean in, eyes narrowed with curiosity or veiled contempt. Their whispers rippleacrossthepolished silver as they watch me, andtheir scrutinyfeelslike a chill wind.
Each gaze measuresmy vulnerability, hungry for a crack in my composure. A woman in emerald lace taps crimson-tipped nails against herwinegoblet. Her lips, blood red,curl into a knowing smirk, whilesitting next to her,a gentleman with a silver monocle and a scar bisecting his brow regards me as though I am an exotic specimen.
Is this real?I close my eyes.Thishas gotto be ahallucination.The question echoes in my mind, the spectacle sovivid,it blurs the line between nightmare and waking terror.Opening them again, I realize the sight before me is as real as the searing painonmy wrist.
At the head of the table,Lucienpresides like a sovereignking, his silhouette sharp against the flickering candlelight. The chair he occupies is no simple seat.Twisted branches and thorns entwine its back and arms.He sits ramrod straight, regal and imposing. Eyesaround the table dart from the glint of jewels onhisvelvet sleeves to the chilling precision of his gaze.
His horns crown him in shadow,curling likeblack crescents against the firelight. Claws rest on the arm of his throne,flexing idly. His eyes burn, molten and unblinking, locking me in place before I can look away.When his eyes meet mine, the room contracts. His stare slices through every layer of braveryIpossess, leaving me exposed and trembling, as powerless as silk beneath a blade.
“I thought I would give you a party,”he says smoothly,“to welcome you.”His words are laced with sarcasm.He gestures towardthe table.“Now servemy guests,”he commands, his voice low and relentless, his words reverberating through the great chamber like the peal of a bell at midnight.
The order does not merely reach my ears. It pierces melikean electric currentand racesthrough my veins.I force my feet to move, fighting the urge toshrink beneath their hungry stares.Atthe serving table,I brushmytremblingfingersalong thepolished wood and wrap them around the handle of a heavy silver pitcher. Its weight is unforgiving in my grip, and for a moment, I steady myself with a deep, silent breath. Thechilledwine inside glimmers, rich and dark, promising comfort yet carrying the threat of spectacle. Gathering every shred of composure, I turn back towardthe awaitingguests,the pitcher held firmly as both shield and offering.
My hand, usually steady, shakes with a traitoroustremor,the porcelain jug of wine threatening to slip from my grasp. All eyes follow my movements as I step forward, my feet sinking into the thick carpets, every inch of me aware of the scrutiny.I advance down the length of the table, pouring wine intothegobletsthat areeagerly thrust out with expectation and veiled malice.The courtiers are no longer distant shapes; theyappear to beflesh andblood,but I know what I see is merely a deception.I watch them more closely.
A woman in ivory lace watches me with predatory delight, and a gentleman in a slate tailcoat murmurs a jest to the man next to him as I refill his cup. They laugh coldly at me as if they knowsomething I do not. Do they know my fate? Are all the guests at this table past victims of the Beast? Are they here to show me that their fate is my own? Whispers snake through the air, hungry for me to misstep, falter, spill. They are here to unnerve me, and I refuse to submit to their pleasure. I refuse to submit to his pleasure.
When I reachLucienat the head of the table, the temperature drops, as if his presence alone summons the cold. He extends his goblet,itssilver rim catching the candlelight. His clawed hand hovers inches from mine, and the tension is palpable. If I move evena hair’s breadth,he willbrushhisskinwithmine. Theroomsuddenlyfeels poised on the edge ofdisaster.
The courtiers leanin,breaths held in collective suspense.Anticipation sharpens their features.The silencebecomes a living thing, pressing in from all sides, demanding a resolution. All around us,thespiritswatch. Some curious, some cruel. Othersarefearful, theirinhumanity amplifying the dread that pulses between us.They feel it.I feel it,and worse, he feels it.
Lucienleans in, his presence closing the distance between us until I can feel the warmth of his breath,smoke and spice edged with an intensity that is purely human.My body betrays me as desire pulsates at my core.His words are meant for my ears alone, spoken low, his voice a gentle pressure against the sensitive hollow of my neck.“Show them how much you fear me andsubmitto me. Kneelbefore me like a good little girl,”he demands.
My stomach tightens, anxiety rising, my fingers growing slick around the goblet’s stem.Every fiber of my being wants to do exactly as he commands, but Iknow what I must do if I am ever going to have a chance of surviving him.Alltheeyesof the courtiers whose mouths hunger for dramabore intome, anxiously awaiting my submission. Ican’tlet myself yield tohim, notif I ever want to be free of him. Swallowing hard, Isteadymy hand and set the goblet on the table, careful not to let his fingers brush mine.He smiles, a look of triumph across his face.Little does he know I am about to disappoint him.The room holds its breath alongside me.
I lift my gaze and meet his—two haunted eyes, sharp with ice and fire.“It is not necessary for me to show them,for they can already see,”I say, each word a challenge that scrapes my throat raw but rings out clear and defiant for every soul present to hear.The vine on my wrist sears with pain, but I ignore it.I straightenmy shoulders with confidence, anda comforting feeling consumes me.It is nice to know I can still control my will if I try hard enough.
The tension breaks. The courtierswith theirpainted lipsandpowdered cheeks shift in their seats with audible disappointment. Some hiss openly, their wishes for a spectacle dashed. Others exchange glances, their contempt obvious; they wanted to see me falter, to seeLucienbreak me.They want to see him control me as I am guessing he controls them.Instead, I catch the fleeting hesitation inLucien’s smile. Alongingwasleft unsatisfied,andfrustration flickersacross his features, making his expression almost striking in its vulnerability.
Lucienseems to let it go as the feast carries on, but something tells me this is not over. Iwithdrawto the edge of the chamber,myjaw clenched. The courtiers cluster in groups,casting sidelong glances, their whispersskirtingacross the table. A woman with garnet earrings sneers, her lips curling as if my defiancelefta sour taste. Arobustman watches me with blunt curiosity,hisfingers drumming a restless rhythm on a golden plate.I refuse their invitations, their mockery,andtheir pity; I refuse to eat or speak.I make myself a statue,frightened yet unbroken.
I will not break.
Suddenly, the room grows colder,as if reacting to my will.Lucienstands, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table. Goblets and platters disappear in the darkness; candles tremble, their flames shrinking low. He does not raise his voice, but the command is absoluteand heard throughout the room,“Enough!”
Without a word, as if somesignalweregiven, everyspiritat the table rises in perfect unison. Silk and brocade rustle, jeweled clasps flash in the dying candlelight, and chairs scrape and groan against the marble floor with asound likebones grinding. The courtiers do not so much exit asevaporate,their forms unraveling into drifting shadows that slither along the walls, leaving only the chill of their disappointment in the air. The servants movemore quickly, sinking into hidden seams in the stoneorvanishing behind panels Ididn’t seebefore.They arelike phantoms returning towhere they camefrom. Their absence is so sudden, socomplete,it is as if they were never truly here at all.
The great feastremainsbehind, grotesquely untouched, plattersof meat congealingandjuices pooling in crimson stains acrossthewhite linen. The splitfruitoozesas if freshly wounded, and thegobletsarehalfdrained, wine alreadythickening toblood in the candlelight. I stand frozen, watching the spectacle decayand the rotted world that once was. The airisheavy with the echo of obedienceasthe shadows crowd in to devour whatever warmthis left.
Lucienwalks toward me,and I know punishment is coming.As he approaches, he seizes my arm andmoves incloser.The mark on my wrist burns as the heat of him folds around me.“You play well before my court,”hesays,hisvoice roughened.“But how long before you play true?”
I swallow, my throat dry, as I force its steadiness.Standing tall, shoulders back,I reply,“As long as I have breath.”
The pause from him is terrifying. And then he smiles.Not a triumphant smile, not even a cruel one.No, thissmileis unsettling, as if I hadvexedhim in some way he refuses to admit.And then his words cut the warmth like an icy knife.He leans in and whispers in my ear,“Then breathe carefully,my pet.”He turns,takeshis wine,and vanishesintothe shadows.
Onceheis out of view, I run from the great hall back to my room,surprised at how easily I find it.The door to my chamber slams shut with a force that rattles the stone, though no handtouchedit. I lurch against its coldsurface,mybreath ragged, my entire body quivering with the fear I refused to let him see.The illusion that hecan’tseeme inhere allows me to now show my fear.But somehow in the back of my mind,I know he can see everything,and he knows.The mark on my wrist throbshotandurgent,like a second heart, its pulse echoing the thunderstorm in my chest.
I stagger to the narrow window and stare out, desperate for a sign of escape.Beside the garden below,I see nothingoff in the distance.There is no forest, no distant village, not even the promise of dawn…only a suffocating blackness, as if the world itself has been devoured. Behind me, the castle feels enormous and alive, its ancient walls closing in,and all that is left is this castle in all its darkness and ruin.Every shadow stretcheslongerandheavier, charged with the secret presence of those who watched me fall and rise tonight.I know they are out there in the hallways and chambers,spiritswith breath and bonewhispering, waiting.Their eyesareeverywhere.
Memories of his voice slice through me like glass.
“Breathe carefully, my pet.”
I press my palm to the burning mark, anchoring myself in defiance. My whisper is a rebellion, meant for the living walls and any soul wholistens.“Then I’ll breathe to defy him.”
