> "It doesn't really disappear. It changes form and flows to new places, but it's always there, somewhere. Nothing is truly lost, just transformed." - Adamastor

The Morningstar's second floor was a repository of forgotten lives, its walls decorated with myriad portraits of unidentified faces. Whatever stories or names that once belonged to these characters had long since faded into obscurity, and no one seemed to mind.

The one who minded the least of all, Kirara, whose attention was now wholly consumed by a different mystery—a moth that had led her all the way from the kitchen table to the corridor of the second floor.

The moth had vanished into the labyrinthine network of shadows that the ancient portraits cast upon the walls. But Kirara was born a hunter, and her new bipedal form—complete with what she regarded as "the ugliest paws ever"—hadn't diminished her predatory instincts.

She crouched low to the carpet, her body motionless as a statue. Her ears, sharp and keen, twitched to and fro like finely tuned radar dishes, seeking out the near-inaudible flutter of wings.

Patience was a virtue she possessed in spades, sort of; she could remain in this position for hours if need be. But then something shifted on the walls. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible movement as if one of the painted eyes in the portraits had blinked or a face had turned to look at her.

Kirara's eyes widened. Her hunter's instincts flared up, but this time, they were tinged with an unfamiliar sensation—a shiver of unease. It was as if the walls themselves had suddenly grown alert, aware of her presence.

For a brief moment, she felt like the one being hunted.

The feeling passed as quickly as it came. Kirara shook her head as if to dispel the eerie sensation. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, or maybe her imagination was running wild. Either way, the moth had won this round, disappearing into the shadows, leaving Kirara to question what she had actually sensed.

She straightened up, her ears still perked, but her eyes no longer scanning for prey. She looked at the portraits one more time, half-expecting a painted face to meet her gaze with a knowing smile.

Nothing. The faces remained as impassive and mysterious as they had always been.

Kirara's eyes went wide with disbelief, and her heart pounded like a drum as one of the portraits suddenly turned ninety degrees to face her directly. Its mouth opened wide in a silent scream, its eyes locked onto her in a haunting gaze. A chill shot up her spine, making the fur on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Mama!" She bolted, her knees nearly skidding across the carpet as she dashed into the store where Nord was engrossed in her sketching.

"What's going on, Kitten?" Nord looked up, her eyebrows knitting together at the sight of Kirara's distress.

"The pictures! They're moving and doing scary things with their mouths! And I lost my snack!" Kirara exclaimed, her words tumbling over each other as if trying to escape. "Now I'm hungry."

"Slow down, Kirara. Start from the beginning. What happened?"

"The pictures upstairs. They're moving."

"Moving?" Nord paused, her pencil hovering over the paper.

"Yes, like this!" Kirara contorted her face, imitating the movement of the portrait as she opened her mouth wide.

Nord set down her pencil, her eyes narrowing. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, come see it!"

The urgency in Kirara's voice was enough to convince Nord. She stood up, leaving her sketchbook and pencil behind. If what Kirara said was true, then something profoundly unsettling was afoot at the Morningstar. And it was high time they got to the bottom of it.

"Alright, lead the way," Nord said, her eyes meeting Kirara's as they prepared to face whatever strange occurrence awaited them upstairs.

Nord felt a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach as she ascended the stairs, Kirara clinging nervously to her heels. The uncharacteristic fear radiating off Kirara made Nord pause, revaluating the situation. This wasn't Earth, where shows like MythBusters debunked the unexplainable; this was Nyu, where the inexplicable often demanded serious attention.

Just as Nord set foot on the second floor, a startled yelp from Kirara almost made her jump out of her skin. She turned around and saw Kirara's wide eyes fixed on a harmless moth fluttering by.

"Kirara, you're not helping," Nord whispered, though she couldn't say why she felt the need to lower her voice.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Kirara sniffled, her eyes still round with residual fear.

"Alright, let's see what's got you so rattled." Nord surveyed the walls. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss—just a gallery of portraits of what appeared to be ancestors, mostly fair-haired women in various styles of dress that changed through the ages. Yet, as her eyes travelled further down the hall, they landed on a peculiar portrait at the intersection.

It featured a stern-faced woman who looked as if she'd been born frowning. Arrayed behind her were four other women, nearly identical in appearance but each expressing a different emotion. One looked sad, another worried. A third appeared to be in pain, and the fourth had her face buried in her hands as if overwhelmed with despair.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Weird," Nord muttered to herself, squinting at the painting. "They look so familiar, but why?"

As she stared at the portrait, she could swear that the emotions on the women's faces seemed almost... palpable, as if they were living entities rather than mere paint on canvas. The stern woman's gaze seemed to meet Nord's eyes, challenging her to understand the mystery unfolding before her.

"What is it, Mama?" Kirara asked, sensing Nord's deepening concern.

Nord tore her gaze away from the painting, shaken but not willing to let it show. "I'm not sure, Kitten, but something doesn't feel right."

As they stood there, the atmosphere thickened, imbued with a tension that was almost tactile. Nord felt as if the walls of the Morningstar were closing in, carrying with them the weight of secrets long buried but not forgotten. And Nord began to question whether they were truly alone on this floor.

"Ah! There it is!"

Nord and Kirara nearly leapt out of their skins when Merlin's voice broke the thick silence that had enveloped them. They turned to find the old wizard grinning like a Cheshire cat, clearly pleased with the start he'd given them.

"You scared us," Nord exhaled, her pulse beginning to settle.

"Oh, I know, I know. In my youth, you wouldn't be scared—you'd be enchanted," Merlin mused. He turned his attention to the odd portrait. "Ah, so that's where it went!"

"What do you mean? Isn't it just a normal painting?" Nord inquired, her eyebrows knitting together.

"Of course not! Look at those faces. No artist in their right mind would paint such hideous crones."

"The Ashleys," Nord said, suddenly recognizing the figures. "But how did they get there?"

"It's not them, dear; it's their magic," Merlin explained. "It sought refuge here. I feared you might have consumed or destroyed it, but it seems quite well-preserved."

"So, what now?" Nord asked, still uneasy about the whole situation.

Merlin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, you said they had to prove themselves worthy to you for their magic to be returned. Have they?"

"I haven't seen them at all," Nord replied.

"When they begin to miss their magic, they'll come crawling back—weeping and wailing like five little ugly lasses," Merlin said, a sly smile creeping onto his face. "Don't worry about it." He started to walk away, then paused. "But..."

"But what?" Nord pressed, sensing there was more to the story.

"I'd suggest you find a way to keep that painting far from you," Merlin said, his tone suddenly serious. "I've heard that the Hollow has already stirred once. The next time it wakes, it may be hungry."

The words hung heavy in the air long after Merlin had retreated down the stairs, leaving Nord and Kirara staring at the portrait, now infused with a sense of foreboding they couldn't shake.

Nord's boots crunched on gravel while she manoeuvred the large canvas into the corner of the barn, tucking it behind a tattered curtain that was barely hanging on its rod.

----------------------------------------

The barn had become a mausoleum of discarded enchantments—bits and baubles that had long since lost their magic. She'd been meaning to hold a yard sale, to part ways with these relics of empty spell. But not this painting. Not yet. She couldn't take her eyes off it; the painted faces warped from sorrow to turmoil, finally settling on utter despair.

"What's caught your eye?" The voice cut through the barn's dense air like a scythe through wheat.

Nord jumped, her hand clutching her chest. "Adamastor! You scared the living daylights out of me!"

Adamastor hoisted a wooden crate onto a dusty shelf, careful not to disturb a rogue spider weaving its web. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, pausing to look at her. "You seemed engrossed. Finding hidden treasure?"

Nord tore her gaze away from the painting. "It's not treasure. It's a... I'm not sure. But I need to keep it safe. From me, mostly."

Adamastor followed her eyes to the painting, its eerie mood seeming to permeate the air around it. "Ah, the Ashleys' handiwork," he said, finally realizing what she meant. "Didn't know you were an art collector now." Adamastor tried to jest to ease the mood.

She chuckled nervously. "I don't even know how I did it, to be honest."

"Magic's like water," Adamastor mused, returning to his crate-arranging task. "It doesn't really disappear. It changes form and flows to new places, but it's always there, somewhere. Nothing is truly lost, just transformed."

Nord glanced at him, "What happens when the Hollow consumes magic? Did you see it? I mean, with Rosemary?"

Adamastor froze, his hands lingering over a crate as if he'd just touched something fragile and precious. "I think it transforms it, changes it into something unrecognizable. It doesn't hoard magic."

"Why do you say that?"

He met her eyes with an earnestness she hadn't expected. "If the Hollow stored magic, it'd be too powerful to contain by now. I would have its own body. I mean it… it would have its own body."

Nord looked back at the painting, its colours now somehow more fainted in the dim light. "I just don't want the Sisterhood showing up at my doorstep one day, demanding what's no longer there."

"It'll be safe here," Adamastor assured her, setting down another crate with finality. "You hungry?"

Nord shook her head. "No, I should get back to my work. Got a lot to sort through."

Adamastor hesitated, his eyes searching her face. "You're still afraid of me, aren't you?"

She paused, her hand on the barn door, and turned back to look at him. "How would you feel if our roles were reversed?"

"That's hardly a fair comparison," he said softly, his eyes avoiding hers. "I was just hoping we could be—"

"Friends?" she filled in the pause, her eyes meeting his.

"Yes, friends. At least that, Nord."

She sighed, her eyes softening. "I'm trying, Adamastor. But I need time."

"Time," he echoed, almost as if tasting the word, "is one thing I have plenty of."

As Nord pushed open the creaking barn door and stepped out into the dappled afternoon sunlight, she couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, time was the one thing they were running out of, like a clock ticking.

Nord's boots scarcely touched the ground as she left the barn, the weight of her previous conversation with Adamastor still settling in her mind. Then, shattering the relative quiet, a scream pierced the air. It echoed through the trees, a shriek vibrating with urgency.

"Morningstar! Morningstar! Morningstar!"

The call belonged to a childish voice, yet it was guttural, drenched in an anguished desperation that curdled her blood. Her name, distorted into its more ominous form, seemed to resonate from every direction.

Nord froze for an instant, her eyes widening, before she felt a rush of wind whip past her—Adamastor, a blur in his haste. He moved with an uncanny speed that only vampires possessed, leaving Nord to trail behind, her heart pounding both from exertion and a growing dread.

What was happening? Was it a cry for help, a warning, or something more sinister?

The echoes continued, intensifying as she neared the Manor. Adamastor had already reached the grand doors. He looked back, meeting Nord's eyes, his expression both relieved and filled with an unspeakable apprehension.

Racing into the hall, they were met with an unnerving sight. A woman, Nixbob, with her face bruised and swollen. Holding a child's hand whose screams only stop when seeing Nord.

The child's cry morphed into words: "Help us, Morningstar!"