The shadows creep closer, drawn to Muriel's distress like moths to a flame. I can sense them about to crackle and explode, until Leonora steps in, her eyes locking onto Muriel's. "Muriel," she says softly, her voice soothing like a gentle breeze on a warm day. "Please calm down. Maybe she will come, maybe she won't, you know how it is with her. Just tell me what you need."

The shadows disappear as quickly as they came, and Muriel's face relaxes. She glances at me briefly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, averting her gaze. She clings to Leonora's sleeve.

"Can you do the introduction instead?" Muriel asks Leonora, barely above a whisper. "Sure, I can do it. Do you have some kind of script?" Leonora responds, ever the picture of grace.

Muriel bites her lip and presses a finger to her temple, deep in thought. "I'm going to need paper. Can you help me write it? I won't lie... It’s long." My heart sinks as Leonora turns to me. "Do you mind going back to your table for a moment while I help Muriel?" she asks.

"No, it's fine," I mutter. Of course, it's not bloody fine. I don't want to be left alone again. What's wrong with this Muriel? So much drama for a play…?

"And you," Muriel snaps, pointing an authoritative finger at the singer. "Do something useful and sing a couple of songs until everything is ready." Wow, talk about entitled, I think, inwardly rolling my eyes.

Ophelia, still polite despite Muriel's rude manners, bows and apologises before returning to the stage. Leonora, Nyx, and Muriel – with her crow familiar now perched on her shoulder in animal form – walk away through the crowd and I sigh.

Here I am on my own again... I guess Nyx was right, Muriel is a bit weird. And bossy. And somewhat unpleasant. Poor Ophelia, I think, as I absentmindedly fix my hair. Unsure of what else to do, I glance around the room. My eyes land on an empty table nearby, where a tray of abandoned wine glasses catches my attention. A brilliant idea strikes me: maybe if I bring a few glasses of wine to our table, Astrid will stop questioning me and focus on something else... And I do need another drink. With determination, I stride towards the table, my gaze locked on the target.

My preoccupation blinds me to the fact that I'm passing Freya Oak's table. I don't notice the stocky woman holding two wine glasses, about to cross my path. Inadvertently, I collide lightly with the muscular witch, causing her to stumble and the contents of the wine glasses to splash directly onto the Summer Queen's face.

Freya gasps, stunned as wine drips from her hair. She pats her cheeks and peels off her soaked shirt, looking furious. The stocky subordinate, holding now-empty glasses, attempts to make herself small by taking a few steps back. The Queen's left eye twitches and her body tenses as she rises to her feet, advancing on the muscular woman. And then she raises her hand to slap her hard.

But her hand never touches the woman's face. I act almost reflexively, surprised to find myself holding up Freya's hand. She shoots me a hateful look, and in that instant, I know the entire room is watching us. The music stops, leaving an eerie silence.

"How dare you?" Freya snarls, her voice laced with contempt as she jerks her hand away from my grasp. "You dare to lay your filthy hands on me?!"

"I…" I stammer, stepping back. My words stick in my throat as she stalks towards me, my blood running cold. She gets so close that I can feel the heat radiating off of her, the veins bulging in her neck as she clenches her jaw, ready to strike.

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"Don't you ever touch me again," she hisses, her face inches from mine, every muscle tense and taut with rage. "Don't talk to me. Don't look at me." Her voice grows louder, reaching a fever pitch that echoes throughout the room. "You're nothing but scum, just like your mother. A blood witch's daughter, a murderer who killed her own mother and the woman who ruined my life."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. The weight of the witches' gazes is heavy, suffocating.

"Leonora is the only reason you're tolerated here," Freya continues, her sneer vicious. "But don't forget: you'll never truly be one of us."

My heart hammers against my ribs, my ears ringing as the room falls silent. My mother, a murderer? A blood witch? The words echo in my head. What does that even mean? Did she murder my grandmother? Did Dad know? Why didn't anyone tell me?

I struggle for breath, my chest tight and constricted as I stare into Freya's hateful eyes. Leonora would have told me if it were true, wouldn't she...? I can't think. This is too much. Despite my internal turmoil, I hold the Queen's gaze. The smirk on Freya's face is unbearable. I want more than anything to wipe it off, to show her that I won't back down.

"Y-you shouldn't hit people," I manage, my voice shaky but defiant. "Even if you think you can." My knees had turned to jelly but I won't give her the satisfaction of knowing. The muscular woman's eyes show a glimmer of appreciation and that's enough. If I stay here any longer, I'll break down in tears.

With feigned poise, I spin around and rush away from Freya and the now buzzing crowd of witches, their whispers growing louder like a rising tide. My steps quicken until I go through the door and I'm finally out of sight. I sprint through the halls, tears streaming down my cheeks as I finally escape their judgmental stares.

I burst into my chambers, not bothering to check if anyone followed me, and slam the door shut. Shit! That was bloody awful! Did that actually just happen? I don't want to think; I long for sleep to envelop me, to sink into nothingness and forget this nightmare. Could Freya's words be true? Or was it just spiteful venom? Why would she concoct such a vile lie?

"Get a grip, Eileen," I mutter to myself as I pace back and forth, trying to process what just transpired. Anxiety gnaws at me, but I refuse to let it consume me entirely. Leonora would've told me, wouldn't she? I just... Should I ask her?

Collapsing on the bed, I let the sobs wrack my body, the tears streaming down my face. I hate crying – it makes me feel weak and ashamed. "This is stupid," I groan.

It's been ages since the last time I cried. I don't even know why exactly I weep now. Crying is not something I do. I didn't shed a single tear during that argument with my father. I was always supposed to be the one who held it together, unbreakable. Yet here I am, sobbing uncontrollably. Like a child.

I should've known the handsome man who I met this morning, Adrian, was trouble. If I did maybe I wouldn't be in this mess. Did I let his smile cloud my judgment? His grin flashes through my mind, but the memory only fuels my self-doubt. Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself. After all, how could I have known he was a scout for that monstrous warlock? Just some hours ago, my life was so simple. Now, I'm a witch with powers, chased by dark creatures, and betrayed by my own father, who's probably been lying to me for years.

"Can I even go home?" I wonder aloud, my voice barely a whisper. What would I say to Dad? 'Hey, you didn't mention Mum was a witch... and a murderer. Did you know she killed her own mother?'

My exasperation reaches its peak, and a frustrated scream escapes my lips. As the sound dies away, I catch a faint squeak. Do I hear that right? I start to doubt my senses, but then the muffled squeak happens again. I stand up hastily, alarmed.

It's coming from under the bed.

"Please be a mouse," I mutter as I cautiously approach the bed, crouching down to get a better look underneath, heart pounding in my chest. My eyes are still puffy from crying, but they soon focus on something far more unsettling than a mouse.

A hand. Reaching out from the shadows beneath the bed, then vanishing just as quickly.