The silence after Hazel's defiance hung heavy in the air.
Balthazar stood motionless, his eyes locked on hers, unreadable. Around them, the feast had resumed in hushed murmurs, but no one dared speak above a whisper. The tension between prince and guest was a storm waiting to break.
Then Balthazar took a breath.
Slow. Deep. Controlled.
Hazel felt the shift before she saw it — the air thickening, the shadows deepening. A dark mist began to rise from the floor, curling around her ankles like smoke. It spread fast, swallowing the light, wrapping her in a cocoon of cold.
"Balthazar?" she whispered, stepping back.
The mist climbed higher, reaching her waist, her shoulders, her throat.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice trembling.
No answer.
The mist grew thicker, pressing against her skin, her lungs, her thoughts. She couldn't see the table anymore. She couldn't see him. Only the dark. Only the cold.
"Stop," she said, louder now. "Please—stop."
Still, no answer.
She reached out, but her fingers met nothing. The mist swallowed her whole.
Then — silence.
The mist vanished.
Hazel gasped, stumbling forward.
She was in her room.
The velvet curtains. The bonewood chair. The silver-etched walls. The view of scorched farmland beyond the window.
She spun around.
No one.
She ran to the door and grabbed the handle.
Locked.
She pulled harder. Nothing.
"Let me out!" she shouted, pounding the door with her fists. "Let me out!"
No answer.
She stepped back, breathing hard, her heart racing.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Hazel turned to the mirror.
It shimmered faintly.
Her reflection stared back — pale, shaken, eyes wide with fear.
But behind her, in the glass, the mist still lingered, watching.
Hazel sat cross-legged on the velvet floor, her fingers glowing with soft light. She whispered the incantation her mother once taught her — a spell of connection, of memory, of warmth. The light gathered between her palms, forming a bubble that shimmered like moonlight on water.
Inside it, a face appeared.
"Toya," Hazel breathed.
Her best friend smiled from within the light — radiant, familiar. Her long, curly kinky hair framed her chestnut skin like a halo. Her dark brown eyes were wide with concern, her white dress glowing against the gloom of wherever she was.
"I'm almost there, Hazel," Toya said, her voice echoing gently through the bubble.
Hazel's throat tightened. "I don't like it here anymore. They burned a servant alive."
Toya's expression darkened. "I know. I felt it. The magic trembled."
Hazel nodded, tears threatening. "It's cruel. It's cold."
"Hang in there," Toya said. "We have to get answers. About our mothers. About why they left this place. I should be there by morning."
Hazel swallowed. "Alright."
The bubble pulsed once, then popped — vanishing into a shimmer of light.
Hazel sat in silence for a moment, then rose and walked to the bathroom.
The room was ornate, unsettling in its beauty. The sink, bathtub, and toilet were all golden, trimmed with delicate butterfly carvings. The butterflies' wings shimmered faintly, as if alive. Hazel reached for the white string beside the tub and pulled.
Hot black water poured in.
It wasn't clear. It swirled like ink, thick and slow. It smelled faintly of metal and moss. Hazel remembered seeing citizens drink it — their lips stained, their eyes glowing faintly afterward.
She hesitated.
Then she stripped out of her dress, her long hair falling forward to cover her chest. She stepped into the tub, the water lapping at her ankles, her knees, her waist. It was warm — too warm — and it clung to her skin like silk.
She lowered herself slowly, her back pressing against the cold tub.
Outside the window, the farmland lay quiet beneath the violet sky.
She looked down at the water.
A face stared back.
Small. Pale. A boy — no older than seven. His eyes were hazel, just like hers. His hair was long, floating around his face like seaweed. But his cheeks were hollow, his skin sallow, his lips cracked.
Hazel gasped.
She reached out, trembling, her fingers inches from his face.
Then the boy's eyes turned black.
His mouth split open, revealing rows of jagged teeth.
His face twisted into something monstrous — a demon, hollow-eyed and grinning.
He lunged.
Hazel screamed, stumbling out of the tub, slipping on the wet floor. She fell hard, her back hitting the tiles, her breath knocked from her lungs. She scrambled backward, covering her chest with one arm.
The creature sat up in the tub.
Its claws curled around the golden edge, its grin wide and cruel.
It laughed — a sound like broken glass.
Hazel pressed herself against the wall, heart racing, eyes wide.
The water rippled.
And the butterflies on the trim began to twitch.
Hazel scrambled backward across the cold tile, her breath ragged, her body trembling. The demon-like creature sat in the golden tub, claws curling around the edge, its grin wide and cruel. Its laughter echoed through the bathroom like shattered glass.
She stood, naked and shaking, her long hair clinging to her damp skin. Her fingers sparked with light as she summoned every ounce of magic she had — incantations whispered through tears, sigils traced in the air, light spun into blades.
None of it worked.
The creature stepped out of the tub, black water dripping from its limbs. Its form shifted, bones cracking, red flesh , bone like Horns extends from its skull-like face, and its eyes glowed red.
Hazel backed into the wall, her magic flickering.
"I banish you," she cried. "By light, by blood, by name—I banish you!"
The creature laughed again.
"I want the prince." It said.
Hazel's heart stopped.
Then the door exploded open.
Balthazar stood in the threshold, his cloak billowing, his eyes burning with fury. He stepped between Hazel and the creature, shielding her with his body.
"I am here," he said, voice low and lethal. "You foul demon."
The creature snarled.
Its body twisted, forming a bone-like exoskeleton, jagged and sharp. Its face was a skull, hollow-eyed and grinning, with horns that scraped the ceiling. Its nails grew long, curved like blades.
" You've grown stronger. You're body will be a perfect host for me." The demon hiss.
Hazel froze.
Balthazar's jaw clenched.
"Never." he said, voice trembling with rage.
The demon stepped forward.
Balthazar raised his hand.
His eyes glowed — not with light, but with power. Ancient, dark, and absolute. The air around him cracked, the walls trembled, and the candles in the room extinguished.
Balthazar whispered a word.
The demon screamed.
A vortex of shadow erupted from Balthazar's palm, swirling with violet fire and shards of obsidian. It struck the creature with a force that shattered the tiles beneath its feet. The demon writhed, its armor cracking, its horns splintering.
It reached for Balthazar.
He didn't flinch.
The spell consumed the creature, burning through bone and mist, tearing it apart piece by piece. Its scream echoed through the castle — a sound of rage, of memory, of something ancient dying.
Then silence.
Nothing remained but ash.
Hazel slid to the floor, her body trembling, her eyes wide.
Balthazar turned slowly, his gaze falling on her.