> "When one faces their most horrific fears, all that remains is courage," - Merlin (not that Merlin)

Baal's eyes snapped open as a mop brushed against his face. Startled and struggling for breath, he seized the mop, which promptly collapsed onto the floor. "Good morning!" Merlin's voice rang through the house from a distance.

"Very funny," Baal muttered under his breath. He hoisted himself out of bed, carrying the defeated mop with him as he made his way to the kitchen. There, he found Merlin seated at the table, a plate of warm toasts before him, each crowned with melting cheese.

"Oh! You brought her back, such a gentleman!" Merlin gestured for Baal to take a seat.

Still groggy, Baal noticed that Merlin was impeccably dressed in a black suit and tie, augmented by a flowing velvet robe. "You look fancy," he commented.

"Only the best for Rosie!"

"I don't have anything to wear besides my own clothes," Baal confessed, nibbling on a piece of toast as he battled with the cheese's gooey filaments.

"Nonsense, you have the tuxedo I left for you yesterday," Merlin retorted.

"What tuxedo?"

"In the closet. I assumed that since you found the pyjamas, you'd have come across the suit as well."

"The white one?" Baal's voice oscillated between bewilderment and horror.

"That one!"

"It's white!" Baal reiterated.

"I know; I chose it for you."

"I can't go to a funeral in a white tuxedo!"

"Says who?"

"You're wearing black! Right now!"

"White, black, grey, or dark blue. Those are the colours traditionally allowed at a funeral," Merlin expounded, taking a leisurely bite of his own toast.

Rolling his eyes, Baal recognized that arguing further would be futile. Besides, not attending was no longer an option for him. And in any case, she wouldn't see him in his ridiculous white tuxedo. So, with a sigh, he conceded, mentally preparing himself for whatever the day might bring.

Choosing between the rickety cart pulled by Merlin's mule and walking on foot, Baal would've preferred the latter. However, Merlin had a fondness for his mule, which Baal had just learned was named Mulan.

As the cart trundled through the cobblestone streets of Ravendrift, giving way to an expanding green horizon, Baal felt his heart race uncontrollably. It pounded so furiously that he wondered if he was having a heart attack. Baal was struggling to feel his left arm, and a strange tingling sensation spread across his skin. The air grew stifling, and he found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

Merlin reined in Mulan and looked back at Baal with concern. "Boy, are you all right?"

"I think...something bad is happening to me," Baal stammered as he stepped off the cart. He began pacing, waving his hands near his face in an attempt to catch his breath. "I can't breathe, I can't..."

"Young demon, you're just having a panic attack. Breathe, boy! Breathe!"

Unable to heed the advice, Baal squatted carefully to avoid soiling his suit. Folding his arms around himself, one hand clutching each shoulder, he began to tap rhythmically, a self-soothing tactic he'd picked up.

"It's okay to not be okay," a young voice whispered in his mind, "It's okay to not be okay, but you'll be okay. I promise."

After what felt like an eternity but was actually closer to five minutes, he rose, retying his hair into a half-ponytail.

"I'm fine, let's go," Baal announced, climbing back onto the cart.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah... I'm fine. I'm just..."

"Nervous?"

Baal chuckled softly. "No, I'm just... scared."

"Well, soon enough, we'll arrive, and then there's no reason to be scared."

"How so?"

"When one faces their most horrific fears, all that remains is courage," Merlin said, offering Baal a knowing smile as they resumed their journey, the hooves of Mulan clopping in time with the newfound resolve settling in Baal's heart.

The cart rolled to a stop in front of Morningstar Manor, the grandiose facade of the mansion looming ahead. It was as if the very building stood in mourning, its splendour subdued by the sombre occasion. A crowd of townspeople had already gathered, their faces a mix of sorrow and solemn respect as they filed slowly through the entryway and into the salon.

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Stepping off the cart, Baal's eyes swept over the crowd, noting how grief had a way of levelling social hierarchies, if only for a fleeting moment. Merlin, ever the composed figure, donned his velvet robe and adjusted his tie one last time before gesturing Baal to follow him.

As they entered the salon, a subtle transformation met their eyes. The grand room had been decorated with roses in hues ranging from blood-red to purest white, a vivid spectrum of life and death. Each rose seemed to capture an element of melancholy beauty, a poignant reminder of the fragility of existence.

Elegant platters were spread across elaborately dressed tables, offering an array of snacks to the mourners. There were finger sandwiches, fruits, and even some sweet pastries, all meticulously prepared as if the dead could taste them.

As Baal took in the sight, he couldn't help but think about the juxtaposition. On one hand, the setting was one of pure elegance, every detail meticulously designed to honour the departed. On the other, the very opulence seemed to clash with the underlying sorrow filling the room.

"Remember, courage is all that remains when we face our worst fears," Merlin whispered to him as they moved through the salon. Baal felt the old man's words echo in his chest. Today wasn't just a day of mourning; it was a confrontation with the unspoken fears and regrets that lingered in the darkest corners of his soul.

Taking a deep breath, Baal stepped further into the salon. Even if he would go unnoticed by most, and even if he was in a ridiculous white tuxedo, he was there for a reason. Her.

Baal's eyes locked suddenly onto Finnea, the elf's presence unmistakable even amidst the crowd. She was diligently serving beverages, her hands gracefully manoeuvring a tray full of crystal glasses. Her attire was fittingly sombre, a black dress that was equal parts elegant and understated. Baal felt an instinctual urge to go unnoticed, to avoid an interaction that could rip open wounds he wasn't prepared to expose. He lowered his head and shifted his gaze, taking a circuitous route to dodge her line of sight.

As he manoeuvred through the crowd, Merlin seemed to vanish like a wisp of smoke, his form lost amidst the sea of mourners. Suddenly, Baal found himself alone in a room bursting with strangers, their faces a blur of shared sorrow and social niceties.

He felt exposed, like a drop of water in a vast, uncaring ocean. But then his eyes caught sight of an enigmatic figure: a man of regal posture with ivory hair and crimson eyes. A vampire, unmistakably, but one who stood apart from the rest of the crowd. He greeted the arrivals with a kind of detached courtesy, standing in the dimmer recesses of the salon as if he belonged to the shadows.

The tension in the room momentarily dissipated when Baal's eyes fell upon a Nixbob next to the enigmatic vampire. She was clad in a puffy, short dress, adorable in its whimsy. The sight of her stirred a memory, like a ghost tugging at the corners of his mind, but he couldn't quite pin it down.

"Sir, liquor?" A voice, so unmistakably familiar, pulled him back to reality.

Turning slowly, Baal found himself locking eyes with Finnea. For a moment, her eyes widened as if about to unleash a cascade of words and emotions. But Baal was quick; his index finger flew to his lips. "Don't. You never saw me, please."

Without a word, Finnea nodded. "Liquor?" she repeated, her tone reverting to professional detachment.

"Yeah, I need some." He grabbed a glass from her platter. "Did you—"

But before he could finish, Finnea had already pivoted away, engaging with other guests, her back to him. "She was always good at following orders," he muttered to himself, feeling the sharp twinge of an emotion he didn't want to name.

Just then, a hush swept across the salon like a chill wind. The chatter and the clinking of glasses quieted down, and all eyes seemed to converge on a focal point. The air hung thick with anticipation, and Baal felt the room hold its collective breath.

Whatever was about to happen next, it was clear that this was the moment everyone had been waiting for.

From her elevated vantage point on the stairs, Nord scanned the crowd below. The sea of faces looked up at her, yet among them, she recognized only a handful—Adamastor, Kirarar, Finnea, Sirona, and the Mayor. To everyone else, she was a mystery, an entity dressed in an ivory-white cocktail dress that seemed better suited for a soiree from the late '60s than a gathering like this.

The dress clung to her form, both elegant and constraining. Each step down the stairs required a delicate balance, a conscious effort to keep her belly tucked in and her posture poised. But in the midst of her borrowed elegance, there were touches of Nord's authentic self. Her combat boots, defiantly black, thudded softly against the steps, a minor rebellion against the dress's vintage constraints. Her eyes, outlined in a smoky darkness, spoke of mysteries untold. As for her lips, they were painted a bold shade, achieved through a DIY blend of black eyeshadow and Vaseline.

This concoction of vintage and punk, elegance and rebellion, formed an intriguing contrast that had everyone's eyes glued to her. She was like a piece of modern art in a classical museum—captivating, if a little out of place. As she reached the bottom step, setting her combat boots firmly on the salon floor, she couldn't help but wonder: in this room full of strangers, how many would see past the façade? How many would care to look beyond the ivory dress and into the soul of the woman who wore combat boots to a cocktail affair?

Adamastor was at the end of the stairs with open arms, "Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we all awaited, the new owner of the Morningstar and holder of the Hallow, Nord Morningstar!"

Adamastor's arms swept grandly towards her, and as he announced her new titles—the owner of Morningstar and the holder of the Hallow—a wave of applause surged through the room. Faces turned to her, eyes fixed on her, but in that sea of adulation, one set of eyes struck her as fascinatingly different.

Across the room stood a young man clad in a tuxedo even whiter than her dress. But it was not his attire that captivated her but his eyes. Those orbs were an enigma, a contradiction of nature: entirely black where they should have been white, with an iris that shimmered between fiery yellow and intense orange. They were like embers glowing in the dark heart of coal.

As an artist, Nord had spent years exploring the labyrinth of colour and form. She'd learned that the conventionally beautiful often followed predictable patterns—patterns that could dull the senses and the mind. True beauty, she believed, resided in the realm of the unexpected. It arose from an alchemy of uniqueness and surprise, from lines and colours and forms that confounded expectations.

And right now, her gaze fixed on the young man's extraordinary eyes, she knew she had found it. For Nord Morningstar, he had the most mesmerizing eyes she had ever encountered. They were not just beautiful; they were a living paradox, an impossibility that breathed and stared right back at her. And for a moment, amid the clamour of applause and the weight of her new titles, all she could think about were those eyes and the untold stories hidden within them.