> “Even death knows we can't compete with that bear!” - Mayor Paxton

Adamastor's arm felt solid and comforting around her waist as he guided her through the sea of faces and towards the front of the room. There, Rosemary lay in an open casket, blanketed in roses, a portrait of her and Frank wrapped tenderly in her arms. She looked serene as though she were merely in a deep, undisturbed sleep.

Swallowing hard, Nord turned her gaze to Adamastor. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Step up to the stage and greet everyone," he replied softly. "Once you finish speaking, people will begin to make their way to the cemetery, and the casket will follow."

"Lead all these people?" Her eyes widened in a mix of disbelief and anxiety.

Adamastor leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Once you leave the Manor, turn left. Just walk until you reach the graveyard. That's all you need to do."

Something about his simplicity made it manageable, almost effortless. It was as though he'd taken the sprawling complexity of the situation and folded it down into something Nord could hold in her hand, a single, doable task.

Nord nodded, steeling herself. As she ascended the stage, her eyes instinctively searched for that young man in the white tuxedo, that mesmerizing embodiment of paradox.

But then she reminded herself of the moment, of the people around her, of the gravity of her new role, and the responsibility it entailed. Her gaze shifted to the portrait of Rosemary and Frank, a snapshot of love and happiness framed by the sombre ceremony. A pang of sadness washed over her, but it also kindled something else—a sense of purpose, of duty to honour the departed and their legacy.

Clearing her throat, she leaned into an imaginary microphone and began to speak.

The quiet that descended upon the salon was almost palpable, a thick silence that seemed to weigh on her shoulders. Her boots felt rooted to the floor, yet at the same time, it was as though the ground beneath them was shifting, spinning. She sought an anchor, a focus point in the room, something to quell the rising tide of her nerves.

Then her eyes found him—the young man in the white tuxedo. Amidst a sea of solemn blacks and greys, he was an island of contrast, standing alone but vivid. A warm sense of comfort filled her, a lifeline amidst the overwhelming current of faces and expectations.

"Thank you for receiving me," she began, her voice resonating with a newfound steadiness as if speaking only to him. "I don't know any of you. Well, maybe a few, but do they really count?"

A ripple of laughter spread through the room, lightening the sombre atmosphere for a moment as people exchanged knowing glances.

"Much is expected of me," Nord continued, "and I'm still trying to figure out how this world works. I'm very patient, but while I may take time to learn, I am—well, 'stubborn' is really the only word that comes to mind."

Nord's eyes lingered on the mysterious man, and for a moment, the crowd, the weight of the occasion, it all faded into the background. She noticed the curve of a smile on his lips—was it meant for her? She realized she was smiling too, a genuine smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth, reaching up to touch her eyes.

"However," she added, reclaiming the room's attention, "today is not about me. Today is about Rosemary. She was my grandmother's younger sister, and she left Earth in the early '70s, long before I was born. So, as you can imagine, I have no recollection of who she was or what she was like. But I would love to learn from each one of you. I know she ran a successful business, and I'll do my best to get it up and running as soon as possible. Now, let's celebrate a woman renowned for her love and kindness."

The room erupted into applause, a warm wave of approval and acceptance that washed over her. Yet, when she glanced back at the man in white, she saw that he wasn't clapping. A small knot of disappointment tightened in her chest as if the strings of some unknown connection had been unexpectedly severed. Was he even seeing her?

But before she could dwell on it, Adamastor gently guided her away, steering her back through the crowd, which parted like a sea before them. The momentary connection—or disconnection—with the mystery man was eclipsed by the immediate concerns of the day. Still, as she moved through the sea of faces, his image lingered in the back of her mind like a phantom, raising questions she had no answers to but couldn't quite shake.

Following the subtle cues from Adamastor, she turned left and stepped into the graveyard. The sheer size of it caught her off guard. The word "graveyard" had always conjured small, cosy patches of earth in her mind—compact, manageable. This, however, was a city of the dead, stretching further than her eyes could capture.

Passing through the rusty gates that creaked as if sharing in the day's mourning, she arrived at the gravesite. The open rectangle in the earth seemed to beckon, surrounded by colourful flowers and a portrait of Rosemary in happier times. It looked like a small oasis amid a sea of stone and grief.

Slowly, the crowd trickled in, filling the space with a sombre hush that was almost palpable. Four men, their faces etched with stoic reverence, took positions at each corner of the casket. With synchronized movements, they began to lower it into the earth.

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Nord watched the casket descend, Rosemary’s final bed framed by blooming life and her smiling portrait. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, bridging the gap between worlds, tying the living to the departed. And somewhere in the crowd of mourners, Nord sensed the eyes that haunted her thoughts—the dark, fiery eyes that both bewildered and intrigued her.

But now was not the time for unanswered questions. Now was a moment for goodbyes, for honouring the life that once was. Rosemary had entered her final resting place, and Nord, standing amid strangers in a strange world, felt the gravity of her new responsibilities settle in, as heavy and real as the earth that would soon cover the casket.

The Mayor stood beside Nord, clearing his throat before launching into his final tribute. "I do not know when Rosemary was born; I do not know when exactly she died. But I remember the first day I saw her standing inside that Manor, the Morningstar. She was alone, but she was magical. Not because she looked like a nymph in all white with golden curls framing her face, but because of her aura... Every man in this town stood speechless in her presence."

Nord glanced sideways at the Mayor, her expression awkward, bordering on incredulous. But he pressed on, undeterred.

"Rosemary was kind, happy, and cheerful, with a great sense of humour. She was also objective and reasonable, even when stubbornly defending her opinions. That woman was only missing a pair of trousers to be one of the guys!"

At this, Nord found her eyes drifting down to her boots, fighting the urge to laugh at the Mayor's cringeworthy eulogy.

"She was an excellent cook, a wonderful host, and a devoted wife. But above all, she was the keeper of the Hallow. We didn't lose Rosemary to death; we lost her when Frank left us. Today, she rejoins him—because even death knows we can't compete with that bear!"

Nord bit her lower lip, struggling to keep her composure. But the Mayor was not done. "Let's not say goodbye to a friend; let's say, 'See you soon.'"

No sooner had the Mayor closed his oration than a solitary laugh sliced through the solemn air. Heads turned en masse towards the source—the young man in the white tuxedo. He coughed, slightly embarrassed, and offered, "Sorry, it was sort of funny. Please, proceed." His gaze dropped to the ground, but not before meeting Nord's eyes for a fleeting second.

With the casket finally interred, more than half the crowd dispersed, making their way to their carts, automobiles or back to their homes on foot. The remainder trickled back into the salon, where Nord found a semicircle of women standing on the now-empty stage, surrounded only by wilting roses.

Puzzled, Nord turned to Adamastor. "What's going on?"

Adamastor shrugged, his eyes scanning the gathering with the same sense of bemusement. "I have no idea."

As if responding to their shared confusion, one of the women on the stage took a step forward, clutching an old photograph. "I think it's time for us to get to know you."

Nord raised an eyebrow. "And who are you?"

"We are the Sisterhood of Ravendrift," the woman announced, her eyes betraying no humour. She wore a sombre gown adorned with a crochet-made scarf and appeared to be in her fifties, if not older. "To my right is Ashley, to my left is Ashley, then Ashley, and finally Ashley." The five women looked strikingly alike, as though copied and pasted from the same genetic template.

Nord couldn't help but mumble, "I see a pattern here. Let me guess, you're also... Ashley?"

The woman cracked a smile. "Correct. We believe in unity, in all forms."

The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly, like the air before a storm.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

The Ashley stepped off the stage and walked determinedly toward Nord, nearly thrusting a photograph into her hands. Nord glanced down at the image, a simple portrait of a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to her own mother. "I don't understand," Nord admitted.

"Are you? Are you really a Morningstar?" Ashley said, her voice laced with suspicion.

"Yes, I am," Nord retorted, perplexed by the sudden confrontation.

The Ashley leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Me and the other Ashleys doubt it! Your hair is different; your eyes and skin are made of dusk instead of light. Even your face doesn't look like any Morningstar who has stepped here before. Who are you?" She accused.

"As I've said, my name is Nord Morningstar."

"We shall see!"

"Sure," Nord replied, crossing her arms in defiance.

One of the Ashleys still on stage shouted, "Let's put her to the test!"

The room fell into a hushed anticipation. Nord felt a bizarre cocktail of emotions—part incredulity, part indignation, and a dash of curiosity. If these women thought they could determine her worth or her lineage through some test, let them try. After everything she had been through, a challenge seemed almost welcome.

The Ashley closest to Nord locked eyes with her one more time. "Prepare yourself, Nord Morningstar. You may have fooled some, but you won't fool the Sisterhood of Ravendrift."

As she heard those words, Nord felt the atmosphere in the room shift, turning electric with an energy that seemed to defy description. This, she knew, was another facet of the complicated world she had been thrust into—a world she was more eager than ever to understand fully.

"When?" she challenged.

"Now!" all the Ashleys intoned together, their voices echoing in a haunting unity.

"Now?"

"Are you scared? Are you trying to hide your true identity?" The words rolled out from their mouths as if a single voice spoke them.

"No, I'm just tired. But fine. What do I need to do?"

One of the Ashleys, the leader perhaps, stepped forward. "You will stand in the middle of the circle, and we will feed the Hallow. If you're a true Morningstar, our magic won't touch you, and the Hallow shall feast! If not, and you flinch, run, or get hurt, then you're either just a fool or a witch. And no Morningstar would send a witch instead of a pure vessel!"

Nord sighed deeply. The truth was, she'd never felt the presence of the Hallow before. But before she could further contemplate this, a shout pierced the tension. "This is madness!"

She turned around to find the source of the voice. To her surprise, it came from an old man, garbed in an elegant tuxedo layered beneath an exuberant robe. The man's face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his head as bald as an egg, his beard a spindly collection of very few white hairs.

The Ashleys glared at the old man, their eyes aflame with indignation. But the old man returned their gaze unflinchingly, stepping into the circle.

"Do you ladies mind?" he said, his voice as weathered as his face yet carrying a weight of authority.

"I believe you're about to conduct a ritual that could risk this young woman's life based on sheer conjecture."

"And who might you be to stop us? You Merlin?" Ashley sneered.

"Someone who knows what he's talking about. Shall we stop this nonsense and talk like civilized beings? Or should we proceed with this charade?"

Nord saw hesitation flicker in the Ashleys' eyes, "Stand back, you old goat! This isn't the court! Ravendrift is the ground of witches!"