(Short Story) Halloween Special - "Familiar"

Hello, everyone, and happy Halloween 🦇✨

This short story started as something simple and cute and ended up becoming something completely different (although still cute xD haha). You'll see a little more about Mand, Val, and a very special character that I love to death, but who can't really show at all most of the time (and for good reason).

I hope you'll enjoy these 5.6k words of supernatural-tinged fantasy that gives "a visit from beyond" a little taste of familial wonder, haha ;)))

Big hugs.

Familiar

Year 8:40, one year after your Graduation at the Dragon Order Academia of Opala.

— Halloween Special —

It’s close to three in the morning when Mandra shakes you awake, widened eyes filled with urgency. The night is still cold with the last remnants of winter, but not cold enough to justify lighting the hearth in the half-abandoned winter palacete. Because of that, your widened eyes search the room for any signs of danger, yet find nothing but darkness and a narrow slice of moonlight. Behind you, much closer, people snore softly.

A fire striker hits a flint, and the gale outside pushes a tree branch against the window full force, making your shoulders jerk and your muscles jump into action.

Your body moves before you can think, automatic in that way that dangerous situations require, so you place a hand on Mandra’s shoulder and pull them down to the floor beside you. With a frown, you twist your body to jab a knee on the ground and put yourself in front of them, all but straddling their waist—but when you reach for your sword, ready to defend your royal, it isn’t there anymore.

Before you can despair, there’s a chuckle somewhere to your left.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing on fire.” Valência’s voice. Close to where it came from, a small puff of sparks finally manages to light one of her favorite brands of scented purple candles. “There. Is it better?”

The smell of clove and bergamot reaches your nose.

“By a very small margin,” you say in a groggy voice, sitting back to rest on Mandra's stomach (they scoff underneath you). The light is just enough to see something in the room. A few unlit candles, a forgotten cheese board, cushions positioned in a circle, two bodies slumped behind you. You blink slowly and rub your eyes. “What’s happening?”

Mandra grabs your arm, and with a very hard—and very precise—open-handed strike to the inner part of your elbow, they rob you of your balance, and you fall on their chest with an undignified oomph.

The brown in their eyes seems even warmer from this distance. “One year has passed since you stopped your daily training, and you’re already getting rusty. That’s what’s happening.” Mandra nudges you to the side, one hand lingering on your arm as they stand.

“Or maybe I just wanted you to tuck me in bed again, have you considered that?” You’re still in your Hematitian pirate costume, so you have to brush the feathers of your cravat away to avoid eating them as you yawn.

Mandra scoffs, their eyes lingering on yours for a heartbeat. “Right.” And pointing at the cushions, “Can you move? We’ll lose our window.” Mandra adjusts the whiskers in their cat costume and sighs. “I doubt we’ll be able to wake Mattie and Mel up, so it’s up to us three.”

And then it comes back to you. The winter palacete, the people sleeping on the cushions at your back, the candles.

You, Mandra, Mathias, Mel, and Valência came here for a séance-turned-party.

But, well, despite the noise, the costumes, the food, and the very reason you came here in the first place, it’s still late night on a Wednesday. It’s way past Mel’s bedtime, and Mathias must be exhausted after what happened at court today with Ser Féres. They’ll be passed out until morning.

If only the other people in the palacete were doing the same. Sleeping.

There are others spread throughout the old house—it was the only way to make Your Majesty Yvana allow your group to enter this “cursed” place, after all. The people who accepted the invitation—a few courtiers Mathias invited, some knights Mandra knows from the Academia, one or two (very) distant cousins, an artist, two musicians, and a few servants—are here to party at the expense of the royal siblings. And considering the crash coming from somewhere in the house and the laughs it elicits, it seems like they’re all having the time of their lives.

Mandra groans and stares toward the noise as if the daggers in their glare could pierce through walls. “They really won’t shut up, will they?”

You stop a yawn. “There’s enough fruit and cheese for an army and an entire wine cellar that only the Queen used to have access to—so no, I don’t think they will.”

“Goddess, this is infuriating,” Mandra whispers. “Someone give me a sword and sic me on those beasts.”

“There’s one right there,” Val pointed at something in the dark. “Have fun,” she adds with a wink.

Mandra lets out a dramatic sigh. “Let’s just begin. We’re losing time.”

“Okay,” you mumble. You pivot around to tug Matt’s and Mel’s blankets up to their chins, then walk toward Mandra. “Do any of you know how to conduct a séance? Our two arcanos are asleep—can we do this without them?”

Mandra tugs at the rucksack at their side and pulls a book from it. It’s old, it’s thick, and it’s so dusty that the title is hidden beneath a white layer of dehydrated allergy.

You glance at Valência, who’s already rubbing under her nose. When Mandra is about to blow on the book, you don't think; you stick a finger into their puckered lips. They gasp and curse, aiming a hard punch at your arm.

“Ouch!” and as vengeance, you try to plug your wet finger in their ear, which then turns into a short wrestling match that ends with you locked in a naked rear choke, your back pressed tight on Mandra’s chest, your cheeks growing hot for, maybe, more than one reason.

Valência lets out an exasperated sigh. “Can you two stop? Goddess is my witness, every time you meet, it’s like going back to the Academia.”

You twist an arm around Mandra’s leg to reach behind their knee and tickle it. They let you go with a sharp, muffled laugh.

“Mand was going to blow a cloud of dust in your face,” you say in a loud whisper. And to Mandra, “Val becomes unwell when there’s too much dust.”

“Oh.” Mandra clears their throat. “I didn’t know.”

Valência brushes the thought away. “Can we start? I’m sleepy.”

Mandra nods and cracks the book open; the dry leather of the cover and the thick glue inside the spine complain whenever they turn the page. “Here. How to conduct a séance.” Mandra runs a finger across the text. “We have the candles, the bare minimum number of participants, and the time—”

“Five minutes to three in the morning,” you provide.

“And we almost have the right time.” They sit back and look at Valência. “Are we still missing something?”

“The wine?” Valência asks.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

The full-bodied wine hits the bottom of the chalice in your hands; the scent that reaches your nose is rich, herbal, buttered—a good wine, like the ones your mother used to drink on cold nights, sitting by the fire of your small townhouse in the heart of Opala. She used to caress your hair and read for you when Father wasn’t around. She almost acted like a good mother when he wasn’t looking.

You set the first chalice down and take another with a deep breath.

Nights like these are often more trouble than they’re worth. For whatever reason, you always seem to remember shreds of the past during the night of Everysaint.

There’s a cold breeze coming from an open window in front of you, so you finish filling the second chalice and lean in to close it.

Maybe… just maybe you should try visiting your mother one of these days.

With the three filled chalices in hand, you sit down on the cushion across from Mandra.

“Thank you,” Valência mutters, helping you put the chalices down on the rug. She hums and lights the final candle. “Mand? Did you bring the object?”

Mandra nods and stops reading the book to fish for something in the rucksack again. They take a big conch from it, worn at the edges as if it were someone’s favorite keepsake. Valência points at the center of the circle of chalices and candles, and Mandra carefully places the conch there.

“Is it cleansed?” Valência says.

“I did as you asked. Salt, clean water, and moonlight.”

“Perfect.”

You know this conch—you’ve seen it in Mathias’s room, in Mandra’s bookshelf at the Academia, and you remember little Melike walking around the castle hugging it tight, talking to it as if it were a doll. You know it’s important for them, but you never really wondered why.

With the way they treasure and share it between them, you’ve never really felt comfortable inviting yourself into that secret.

That, apparently, changes today.

You pluck a grape from a nearby plate. “Are we ready, then? And where did you find that book, anyway?”

“I asked the Sand Manor to find it for me.” Mandra narrows their eyes and twists the conch this way and that, until they’re satisfied. “There. Now we’re ready.” They crack the book open again.

“Wait. Did you say you asked The Sand Manor for it?” You scoff, staring at them for a heartbeat. Then, lips pursing, you try to snatch the book away, but Mandra frowns and outstretches an arm, keeping it away from you. You continue, “You know what happened the last time we tried a spell from one of her books, Mandra.”

“Well, it will be different this time.”

“Mandreis.”

“How long ‘till three?” Valência cuts in.

“It should be time,” Mandra says, motioning you to sit. “We should start.” They narrow their eyes at you. “Unless you have a problem with the owner of the book?”

“Oh, I have several.” You frown. “But I’ll leave that choice to you, Your Highness. If some monster threatens to devour us again, though, then I’ll—”

“That won’t happen. Now shh.”

Mandra shares a look with Valência; she nods, reaching for the book. Val narrows her eyes, twists her nose this way and that, takes a deep breath, and starts reading.

“Oh Anhangá, monarch of the forest, heart of the dark. Oh defender, oh light.”

The words don’t mean much, but the shiver on your spine every time you hear that name surely does.

Mandra continues, taking the book from Valência, “Anhangá, protector and killer, warrior King, Queen of all souls, we ask you to heed us. ”

Outside, the wind grows stronger; branches bend and snap, hitting the glass. The sound of cicadas fades away. Another shiver, more intense this time. Mandra passes you the book and taps a specific verse for you to read.

You swallow.

“And if the memory we seek is near, oh Anhangá, we ask you to point it to us.” Your voice cracks a little, so you clear your throat and continue, “Anhangá, with this wine, we ask your permission.” You lift your chalice and, mirroring Mandra and Valência, take a small sip.

Together, the three of you complete, “In this night of Everysaint, allow this spirit to touch us.”

What happens next feels like a scene from a bad comedy novel.

Two things happen at the same time.

First, an especially strong gust of wind bashes the palacete windows, causing a loud crash down the hall. Second, your shoulders jump when a heavy hand rests on your back, and the movement is enough to make you spill most of your wine, locking a shriek of horror in your throat.

“What in the ashes?” Mandra stands and frowns at the closed door. “Those damned vultures—that’s enough.”

In the same heartbeat, Valência gasps. “The book!”

And your eyes widen. “Goddess. It’s my fault, Val, I’m so sorry!”

There are large wine stains on its open pages. You tug your feathery cravat free to clean it while Mandra marches out the door, already barking questions to the guests. In your rush to dry the wine, your hand hits one of the purple candles, which falls on the rug and comes to a stop near the book, the edge of its pages growing dark.

Valência gasps again, and you slap it to safety, but the feathers on your other hand catch fire instead.

“Shit!” You stand and toss it aside, extinguishing the fire under your boot as Valência blows at the still-lit candles, then put out the fire starting to consume the rug—and the book.

Behind you, Mathias and Mel groan; Mathias shifts, rolling around until his back is turned to you.

You sigh.

The room is back in semi-darkness, nothing but a dim light now pouring in through the open door. Your eyes meet Valência’s. Both of you do your best to hold back your laughter.

She smiles and takes the book. “I’ll look for a way to clean this.”

You nod. “There must be an initiate among the servants. One of them will know what to do.” You hum, scratching at the back of your neck. “Should I… go instead? I’m to blame for all this.” You gesture at the spilled wine, the scorched rug, and the singed book in Valência’s arms.

She smiles and shakes her head. “There are way too many guests coming and going—stay with your highnesses; I won’t be long.”

You nod and sigh, stepping back. She gestures at the door, and you nod. It closes behind her back with a soft click.

“That was…”

“Great inspiration for Mandra’s next play,” you answer without thinking. “If they want to write something ridiculous, that is.”

And then you frown.

You turn around slowly, already stepping toward Mathias and Melike to protect them, but what you see makes your shoulders relax.

There’s a tall man in front of you, sporting an expensive-looking cape and the type of ensemble you’d expect to see in a play rather than a party. A frilly shirt laced all the way up, proper white gloves, black hose, polished shoes, and that type of ridiculous, long socks one usually sees in children’s portraits from the past century. The only thing that is remotely scary in his costume is the crown of dried-out roots around his forehead.

“I’m a—wait.” He hums and, carefully, removes an odd porcelain denture—nothing but two very long, pearly canines tied by a metal thread—then massages his gums. When he smiles, it’s with white, perfectly human, if a bit crooked teeth. And when he speaks, his voice is much clearer, smooth, and kind. “I’m a vampire king,” he explains with an amused smile, showing you the denture. “I made these myself, especially for today. They clip to the teeth; very comfortable.”

“Huh. Did you?” Rich people. You glance at the door, wondering when the man had time to enter the room.

“I’m sorry for startling you earlier,” he says.

Of course. This is the person who touched your back and made you cause this whole mess. “That’s okay. Although you should know I’m a Knight; had I been armed, I might’ve hurt you by mistake, so be more careful next time.”

He hums, eyes narrowing, lips curling up. “Ah, yes, Knights can be a little jumpy in dark, scary nights like this one, can’t they?”

And something about the way he says it makes the tips of your ears grow warm with embarrassment. “That’s not what I—I just meant… that we’re trained to act on instinct, so… you know.”

He laughs, a cheery and musical laugh that itches something in your memory. “I know.” His sweet smile turns into a smirk. “I was trained in the art of sword combat as well.”

The art of sword combat. That’s what someone who has never trained for war would say.

You lick your lips and clasp your hands at your back. There’s a spell of silence, in which you glance at the man and then at everything else around you. Every time you look at him, he’s already looking at you, the intensity in his eyes growing every time.

Finally, the man takes a deep breath and rocks on his heels, turning to the side to look at Mathias and Melike’s sleeping forms. His expression softens, lips bending into a smile.

“I’m M—Mathias’s old friend. We grew up together until I had to depart from Opala. I was hoping to talk to him, and maybe to his sibling and sister as well, but it seems I didn’t have much luck this time.”

“Ah, I see. Val, well, Knight Valência will be back soon, My Lord. She can keep you company while I search for Your Highness if you wish. Highborn Mandreis is still awake.”

He grins. “Oh, that’s marvelous news.”

Silence. Stillness.

His gaze remains locked on yours, that soft smile still on his lips. He reminds you of someone—or several someones. Warm, naturally-tanned skin, deep brown hair, thin lips, and a nose that begins very angular and slowly curves into an upturned, squared tip. If you glanced at him quickly enough, you could mistake him for the brown-haired version of Mathias, with a build that reminds you of Mandra when they were younger, and a kind, intelligent smile that you only ever saw on little Melike.

You click your tongue. “I am sorry, My Lord, but it does feel like we know each other.”

His smile broadens. “We should have, that’s for certain.” He takes a deep breath and pivots around. “Come.”

You hesitate. “I can’t let Your Highnesses alone.”

He doesn’t turn back. “We won’t leave this room.”

The man walks up to the closest wall, directly to the left of the door, and reaches for an unlit torch.

“How is little Ms. —— doing?” When he tugs at the torch, a wooden panel on the wall opens with a soft click. He slips his fingers beneath it and tugs the secret entrance open.

You school back your confusion in time to arch your eyebrows in surprise. “I’m sorry. What did you say? And how did you know there was a room there?”

He chuckles; something crosses his expression, too quick for you to recognize. “I’ve spent many winters in this place when I was younger. Father and I adored to adventure together, so I’m pretty sure we’ve found all the secret rooms in this house.” He pats on the open door. “This one is my favorite. I used to spend so much time in here, drawing plans. Here, I’ll show you.”

The man slips into the room, and something within you urges you to follow. Still, as you do, you stay between the stranger and the door, making sure he wouldn’t be able to separate you and the royals.

“So you visited the winter palacete when it was still lived-in?”

“Mhm. Mathias did too, in fact, although I’m not sure how much he remembers—he was much too young at the time. I’m four years older. Well, for most of the year.”

That earns him a smile. You nod. The man doesn’t seem much older than you (around five years if what he said was right), but there’s nostalgia laced in every one of his words. The Everysaint Day surely must have a magic of its own to make people want to remember the past so much.

“Then—do you know who it belongs to? No one does nowadays, all the records of the original owners were burned.”

His smile shrinks a bit. “I do, but this is not my secret to share. Instead, here.” He motions you closer, expression softening when you step toward him. “Come closer and feel this.” The man flicks a—what’s that?—a little handle (button?) beside the door. Gently, he takes your hand and places it on the dark, worn wallpaper. His skin is smooth, soft, and impossibly cold. “Wait for it.” An odd noise fills the room, mechanical, whirring, like the opening of the old gates in the castle, and arcano, like the weaving of a spell. “It’s collecting unused particles of mana in the ambiance. There.” Another clack. “Now… it’s not ideal, but it needs some time to charge. There we go.”

With an especially loud noise and a clack, something purrs under your hand. Light flickers above you, coming from a round opal on the ceiling, in the very center of the room. You gasp. Sun-golden light, dim and flickering, fills the place, revealing a collection of canvases, puzzle-like statuettes, and an alchemy workbench, all of them covered in dust.

Your eyes go back to the opal. “What is this? Is it magic?” You turn to the man, but something twists within you when you meet his face.

Dead serious as if in a trance, eyebrows lowered, shoulders tense, lower lip stuck between his teeth. His eyes, darker than before, are set on your touching hands as if that touch were a mystery to be solved. Slowly, he brushes a thumb on your knuckles, spreading a shiver down your arms. The coldness from his hand spreads, reaching down your wrist with a wave of… what is this feeling?

He clears his throat and whispers an apology, stepping away.

“Uhm.” There’s some color back in his face, you notice. He takes a deep, calming breath. Huffs out a little laugh. “Sorry. Yes.” And with a louder voice, “There!” He points at the light. “Impressive, is it not? The perfect mix of magic, alchemy, and engineering.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, very impressive.” You rub the hand he touched. It’s taking much longer than normal to warm up again.

The machinery grumbles, sputtering like a dying animal. With a curse, the man rushes to a closet beside the entrance. He finds a three-candle candelabra and sticks half-molten candles in each of its slots. Not a second later, the machinery gives another loud clack, and the room grows dark.

He sighs, long and pained.

“It’s… not perfect, of course. Probably won’t be for a few decades still.” He lights up the candles. “What happens is that—and this is my current theory—we don’t have a way to store unused mana, which means the arcane machine uses the ambient mana all too quickly, leaving nothing behind. But if we manage to, chemically, I’d wager, develop a strong enough—”

Whatever words leave that man’s lips after that, they sound like ancient Common to you. He gestures wildly and walks around the room massaging his chin, and you have a feeling that he completely forgot the reason why he brought you here in the first place.

So, instead of paying attention, you study the room itself. As he passes by you, blabbering about “batteries” and “the perfect metal for the tubes,” you take the candelabra from his hands. He gives you a smile and a thankful look, now using both hands to make grand gestures at the crystal on the ceiling. You can’t help but smile at his excitement, nodding along as if any of what he’s saying makes sense.

The paintings, though… they’re something else. They aren’t covered or missing, like those in the rest of the house, meaning that no one knew to check this room. And some of them are big, standing on the floor and all but reaching the ceiling. Besides a hidden laboratory, this place looks like a store room.

Or maybe a treasure room.

You place the candelabra on the nearest surface and leaf through the paintings like you would a book. Eyes narrowed, you tug at one in the middle. It’s smaller than the others, possibly the type of painting one would see in a study.

Something cold upturns in your stomach. You’ve… never seen a painting like this in the castle.

Queen Yvana and King Elias rest on a settee surrounded by their kids. You see Mandra in the center, maybe two or three years old, sitting on the Queen’s lap and wearing a frilly green dress. Mathias, five, stands on King Elias’s thigh, dressed as a small copy of his father, grinning. And beside them, with a soft smile on his lips and a full living crown around his head—

“Crown Prince Murdoch,” the strange man whispers. “These are all good mementos, wouldn’t you say?”

Another shiver, this time from how close he’s standing, his breath cold against your neck, the vibrations of the voice in his chest causing a tingle down your back. He slides a gentle hand on your shoulder and outstretches the other in a silent request. You let him hold the painting, and the time he takes to grip the frame and step back is exactly how long you manage to suppress a sharp breath.

The man tries to smile again, but a silvery tear runs down his cheek—one he is quick to dry with the back of his hand. He offers you a sad smile.

“Look at them,” he says. “It’s… hard to accept how much everything changed. I understand why someone would want these paintings removed from sight.” With a heavy sigh, he brushes his fingertips on Mathias’s and Mandra’s faces. The man places the painting on the workbench and steps back as if to properly look at it. “The only thing that comforts me is to see that you’re now in their lives, Commander.”

You frown, your cheeks growing a bit hot. “You mistake me for someone else. I’m a knight, not a Commander.”

He chuckles. “I’m sorry.”

You two share a long look, studying each other. It is… odd for a stranger to make you feel so comfortable and (weirdly) so tense at the same time. You swallow, words forming in the base of your throat.

“And…”

You hesitate. The man notices it and turns around to look at you. He waits, his gaze kind, his hands clasped at his back.

“I don’t think it was a fair... trade,” you say. “Murdoch. I heard stories about him.”

“Did you?” he says, eyes narrowing with a smile.

“Considering what Mathias and Mandra told me, he was a joy to be around, if only a bit… strict at times. Maybe a little weird." You smile; he chuckles. "Above anything, he was their brother.” Your gaze must grow too intense, because, for the first time that night, the man averts his eyes.

He lets out a hum. “I don’t know—at least you’re better with people. I… I don’t think Murdoch was.” He looks down, fidgeting with his hands. “At ten, his only conversation topics were his favorite alchemical reactions and the Sixth Lineage of Opalean History; I’m not sure how much fun he was to be around.”

You can’t hold back a laugh. “I don’t know about you, but I like seeing people who are passionate about things. I’m sure he was a good kid—I wish I had met him before... well.” You shrug, palms facing up, then falling heavily at your side. “Or maybe I wish it hadn’t happened at all.”

With a sigh, you lean back on the wall beside the door. Maybe the man can read your expression. Maybe he knows that your wish is for Mandra, Mathias, and Melike's sake, not for yourself.

The man smiles, and you catch your gaze lingering on his face.

“Tell me something,” he says, almost whispers. “What are they like today?”

You arch an eyebrow. “The royal siblings?” He nods, and you frown, thinking. “I’m not sure if I should—”

“Please.”

That simple word twists something within you. It’s the desperation lacing it. The open, raw vulnerability you see in his eyes.

Such familiar eyes.

You weigh your choices. And in the end, you decide to answer him—nothing you say here will make your shield crack or your blade lose its edge.

With a sigh, you relent. “Very well. Hum. Melike is… brave. More than her siblings, I believe. She knows herself, her shortcomings, and most of all her strengths. She does what needs doing, faces who need facing. She can also be a little headstrong at times, mainly when she’s risking herself too much. Oh, and she clings to Mandra and me like a baby sloth and treats us as her personal servants.” You chuckle. “Worst of all, she does it in a way that I like, for some odd reason.”

The man grins. “She does have a way with words.”

You agree, your smile widening. “I’ve once read that you don’t need to know everything, you just need to know who to go to for whatever knowledge you need—that’s Melike.”

He whistles an impressed si, eyebrows all but touching his hairline. “That’s impressive for someone so young.”

“That’s impressive for anyone.” You smirk a little, maybe with a hint of pride for the little one sleeping in the other room. “Then there’s Mathias, but you know him already. He didn’t change much from when he was a child, at least not since I’ve met him—and I met him when I was six.”

His head tilts back in surprise. “That’s a really long time.”

“It is. And he’s still kind and curious like a boy. Lazy, sometimes, but not to the point of skipping whatever practice he must finish.” Your smile softens. “He knows what fairness looks like, and he wants to become a good leader. For that alone, I believe he’ll be a good king when the time comes.” The edges of it harden a little, growing sharp. “If he learns to think before he acts, that is. And if he manages to win over his fears.” You hum and cross your arms. “Mathias can be very short-sighted when someone he likes is… suffering.” A deep breath. “He has a really long way to go before finding out the type of Monarch—the type of person—he wants to be.”

“Don’t we all?” the man whispers with a smile.

“And then there’s Mand.” Your hands meet at your back; the pads of one hand feeling the hardness of the fingernails on the other. “Mand is… kind when there’s no one looking. Intimidating when they want to. A little unhinged at times,” you say with a chuckle, cheeks warming up. “They once stopped a fight between the King and Queen by putting fire to one of the curtains of the room. It… didn’t work well at all. They also…” Your voice loses strength, dipping into a whisper that is every bit certain, but maybe not ready to be said aloud. “They’re the one person in this castle who sees me. Fully. Who trusts me to stand on my own—and who steadies me when I falter without even an ounce of judgment.” Shit. You said too much. “I…” Clearing your throat, you scoff. It’s hard, but you manage to school your expression.

“You love them,” he says.

At length, you nod, not sure if they’re talking about Mandra alone or about the three siblings.

“Which is why I agreed to go through this stupid séance in the first place.” You tug at your neckline; without the feathery cravat, your neck is defenseless against the coldness in the room. “Mandra thought they could find a memento of their deceased brother if they managed to contact a spirit—but that’s not what spirits do, is it?”

The man’s grin turns sharper, impossibly wide.

Your shoulders quiver as the room turns even colder.

“I don’t know.” He gestures at his surroundings, one long finger stopping at the paintings beside him. “Is it?”

The muscles on your face slacken. You glance from the man to the paintings, the alchemy workbench, the button (switch?) beside the entrance, the toys, the dolls, stuffed animals, then stop at the painting behind him.

Your eyes are attracted to two very dark ones on the canvas. Eyes that are also staring at you right now, glued to an older face that, logically, makes little to no sense at all.

The crease between your eyebrows deepens. When you gaze at the dried-out crown around his head, you shiver again.

Somewhere in the house, a clock announces four in the morning. How. It doesn’t. Make. Sense!

Murdoch chuckles, scratching the back of his neck as if he knew what’s going through your head right now. As if enjoying the sight—the taste—of it. When he stops, his hand resting on his chest, he straightens, an easy smile covering his lips.

In that moment, you see a King.

“Ah. I can’t say I like having to go, but… at the very least,” the man—Murdoch—says, smiling, “I heard a little about them.” He narrows his eyes. “And about you. It's good that my siblings don't have any more competition." He laughs.

The door to the room opens.

“I think you’re just in need of a nap, Your Highness,” Valência says.

“But don’t you think it’s odd, Val? I could swear we left the room at three. How is this possible?” comes Mandra’s voice.

You turn toward it, throat dry, voice weak. You feel Murdoch’s presence at your back, and pin it with your mind, wanting to keep him in place—to show him to Mandra, to help them meet.

They stop talking when they see you stumbling out of the secret room. Mandra and Valência rush to you, clasping your arms, cupping your cheeks. What happened? You’re pale. Let’s bring them closer to the fire. Light it, Valência. We should brew them tea. We should bring her home!

You stop them with a shake of your head. You grab Valência’s arm with one hand and the front of Mandra’s cat costume with the other, dragging them both into the secret room.

Murdoch is not there anymore.

Still, the opal above you flicks and buzzes, shedding light onto the painting atop the alchemy workbench for a few brief seconds. You’ll have a lot to explain and even more to ask them, but there’s one thing you know for certain:

“Val, Mand—congratulations, that séance worked." And looking at Mandra, "Here are the mementos you wanted.”