Hazel sat trembling on the cold tile, her breath shallow, her skin damp and bare. The air still pulsed with the remnants of dark magic, and the scent of scorched bone lingered faintly in the room.
Balthazar knelt beside her, his expression unreadable. He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a towel — soft, black, and warm from his body heat. Without a word, he draped it gently around Hazel's shoulders, shielding her from the chill.
She clutched it tightly, her fingers trembling.
Lysithea entered the room, her steps silent, her pastel eyes glowing faintly. Behind her, two maids followed — one carrying a silver bucket, the other a broom carved from bonewood. They bowed to Balthazar, then began cleaning the shattered door and the black water that still pooled across the floor.
Lysithea knelt beside Hazel.
"Come," she said softly.
Hazel nodded, allowing herself to be lifted. Her legs were weak, her body sore, but Lysithea's grip was firm and graceful. Together, they walked slowly to the bed, the towel still wrapped around Hazel's frame.
Once seated, Lysithea raised her hands.
White moths emerged from her palms — delicate, glowing, silent. They fluttered around Hazel, landing gently on her skin, her shoulders, her thighs. Their wings shimmered, then dissolved into silk.
A nightgown formed — white, silky, and ethereal. It wrapped around Hazel's body like moonlight, pressing against her curves, hugging her slim thick figure with quiet elegance.
Hazel stared at Lysithea, eyes wide.
"You made this?" she whispered.
Lysithea nodded. "You deserve softness."
Hazel looked down at herself, the fabric cool and smooth against her skin. She felt exposed, seen, but not violated. Just… vulnerable.
Lysithea turned to one of the maids. "Bring her warm cocoa, bread, and tea. She needs rest."
The maid bowed and left swiftly.
Hazel sat quietly, her fingers brushing the edge of the nightgown.
Then she looked up. "What was that demon? Why did it want the prince?"
Lysithea's expression darkened.
"The same demon spoke to him when he was nine years old," she said. "I don't know where it came from. But this is its third time showing itself."
Hazel's heart tightened.
"What did it say to him the first time?"
Lysithea didn't answer.
She stood and walked to the door.
The maid returned with a silver tray — steam rising from the cocoa, the bread warm and buttered, the tea fragrant with herbs. She placed it gently on the table beside Hazel's bed.
Then, without a word, Lysithea and the maids exited the room.
Hazel sat alone.
She reached for the cocoa, her hands still trembling, and stared out the window at the scorched farmland.
The Vale was quiet.
But its ghosts were not.
The fire in Balthazar's chamber burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The room was silent, save for the occasional crackle of embers and the soft rustle of velvet curtains stirred by unseen wind.
Balthazar stood near the window, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. The moonlight painted his pale skin in silver, but his eyes were darker than ever — unreadable, storming.
Behind him, Hex leaned against the wall, arms folded, his white eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
"She's not ready.," Balthazar said, voice low.
"She didn't flinch," Hex replied. "Even when it lunged."
"She panicked."
"She survived."
Balthazar turned, his cloak sweeping behind him. "It went after her."
Hex nodded. "Because she carries light."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Balthazar's eyes narrowed. "You're certain?"
Hex pushed off the wall and stepped closer. "Demons don't like light. They're drawn to it, yes — like moths to flame. But they hate it. It burns them. It unmakes them."
"She's not from here," Balthazar muttered.
"No," Hex said. "But she's tied to this place. Her blood. Her mother. Whatever pact was broken ten years ago — she's part of it."
Balthazar looked away.
Hex watched him carefully. "You think it's coincidence that the same demon who whispered to you as a child now comes for her?"
"No," Balthazar said. "I think it's a message."
Hex's jaw tightened. "Then we need to ask the right questions."
Balthazar turned back to the fire. "Why now?"
Hex stepped closer. "Because she's here. Because she's light. And because something in this castle remembers her."
Balthazar didn't speak.
Hex's voice dropped. "You said it spoke to you when you were nine. Then again at fifteen. And now it returns when she arrives. That's not a pattern. That's a ritual."
Balthazar's eyes flickered. "You think it's trying to finish something."
"I think it never left," Hex said. "I think it's been waiting."
The fire cracked, sparks leaping into the air.
Balthazar stared into the flames.
"She's not safe here," he said.
Hex raised a brow. "You want her gone?"
"No," Balthazar said. "I want her watched."
Hex nodded once. "I'll stay close."
Balthazar's voice was barely a whisper. "If it comes again… I won't hesitate."
Hex studied him. "You hesitated tonight."
Balthazar's jaw clenched. "Not next time."
The fire flared, casting their shadows high against the wall — two men, cloaked in darkness, standing at the edge of something ancient and unfinished.
And somewhere deep in the castle, something stirred.
The morning mist clung to the castle walls like breath held too long. The sky above Hollow Vale was a soft violet, the stars fading slowly into the hush of dawn. At the gates of Noctis Spire, Hex stood tall, his black mage robes catching the wind, his white eyes glowing faintly.
A carriage approached, drawn by two silver-eyed horses.
Toya stepped out.
She wore a long white cloak over her dress, her curly kinky hair cascading around her shoulders like a crown. Her chestnut skin glowed against the pale light, and her dark brown eyes scanned the castle with quiet intensity.
Hex bowed slightly. "You must be Toya."
She nodded. "I am. My mother was born here."
Hex's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his gaze. "Then you already carry the Vale in your blood."
"I came for answers," Toya said. "And for Hazel."
Hex gestured for her to follow. "Prince Balthazar is expecting you."
They walked through the winding corridors, past mirrors that shimmered with memory and walls that pulsed with quiet magic. Toya said nothing, but her eyes missed nothing — the runes etched into the stone, the scent of ash still lingering in the air.
They reached Balthazar's chamber.
He stood near the fire, his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him. When Toya entered, he turned slowly, his olive green eyes sharp and unreadable.
"You're Hazel's friend," he said.
"I am," Toya replied. "But I'm also here for my mother. And for my kingdom."
Balthazar raised a brow. "Speak."
Toya stepped forward. "The princess of Lysoria — she removed all books from our schools about Hollow Vale. She erased your history. Your magic. Your name."
Balthazar's jaw tightened.
"She said it was dangerous," Toya continued. "That your kingdom was cursed. But she kept one thing — the golden apples."
Balthazar's eyes narrowed. "The apples?"
"She sells them to other kingdoms," Toya said. "For profit. The queen forces our farmers to grow them without rest. No seasons. No soil renewal. Just demand."
Balthazar's voice dropped. "I taught her how to make those golden crisp apples."
Toya nodded. "She took your knowledge. And turned it into currency."
Balthazar stepped forward, his cloak trailing shadows.
"The queen is not giving the farmers enough time to grow them," Toya said. "They're dying in the fields. That's why I'm here. To question. To understand."
The fire flared behind him.
"She was a child," Balthazar said, voice low. "She came here with her mother. She learned from our orchards. She tasted our magic."
"And now she sells it," Toya said. "Without honor. Without truth."
Balthazar's eyes burned.
"She stole from the Vale," he said. "She stole from me."
Hex stepped forward. "And now her daughters return."
The room fell silent.