Nord's boots stepped against the well-worn planks of the floor as she returned back into the grand hall. The room pulsed like a living thing—vivid colours, laughter shimmering in the air, bodies moving in sync with the melodies wafting through the space. Yet, to Nord, it felt as though she had plunged into an intricate oil painting, one where she was the misplaced centrepiece. It was a celebration in her honour, yet she felt like a ghost haunting its vibrant landscape.

Her gaze roamed, finally locking onto Baal. He leaned with casual grace against a wooden pillar, a drink in hand. His eyes were on the band, perhaps ruefully considering his own absent violin. Nord sensed his disappointment—the room seemed to constrict, its atmosphere becoming thick and stifling. She yearned to escape, her eyes drawn toward the far-off doors like moths to a flame, picturing the night breeze that awaited her.

Just as she took a step toward liberation, a phalanx of grey gowns barred her way. The Sisterhood of Ravendrift—more colloquially known as the Ashleys—circled her, their faces stern as if chiselled from stone, eyes fixed on her like hawks on prey.

"Morningstar!"

The name punctured the air, and the room fell to a hushed stillness. The Ashleys had shattered the night's mood as if it were fragile glass.

Nord forced a smile, defensively crossing her arms. "Ashleys, it's always a pleasure to see you at the Morningstar."

"Unfortunately, we cannot say the same. You've got something that belongs to us," the central Ashley hissed while the others seemed to hold their collective breath.

"I'm aware," Nord said, feeling as though a hundred needles pricked her skin under their scrutinizing gaze.

"Well, give it back! Or did you feed the Hollow with our magic?" The central Ashley hurled the accusation like a spear, not giving Nord an inch to breathe.

"As a matter of—"

"Fed without our consent!"

"Actually—"

"This is thievery! You waltz in here, pretending to be the saviour while pilfering magic! And—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Nord's voice filled the room, reverberating off the walls and causing the timbers beneath their feet to quake. "I'm talking!"

The entire room froze as the walls and floor trembled under Nord's voice. Her eyes turned as bright as two suns, and finally, an icy gust swiped through the hall. Faces turned, mouths half-open, glasses suspended midway to lips.

"Firstly," Nord began, her voice now a controlled smoulder, and her eyes fainted to normal, "your powers are untouched. Not a single spell was cast with them, nor were they fed to the Hollow."

The Ashleys looked at each other, a flicker of uncertainty crossing their faces for the first time.

"Secondly," she continued, "this is neither the time nor the place for accusations. We're here to celebrate, not to taint the night with your baseless claims."

"But—"

Nord raised a hand, stopping the eldest Ashley mid-sentence. "If you don't trust me, fine. I can return your powers here and now. Make your choice."

The room was so quiet you could hear the wax dripping from the candelabras. Then, the youngest Ashley spoke up again, her voice tinged with defiance.

"No!" interrupted the youngest Ashley, taking a step forward. "Don't give them back."

The eldest, Ashley, looked aghast. "Have you lost your wits?"

"No, but you've lost your manners," the youngest retorted. "You've been—dare I say it—tolerable since losing your powers. You even baked cupcakes!"

Another Ashley chimed in, nodding her head vigorously. "To be honest, doing laundry the old-fashioned way has its charm. I really, really enjoy it. My hands are softer!"

The eldest Ashley looked as if she'd been slapped. "You're mad! Those powers are mine!"

"Ours," corrected the youngest. "And while I'm okay with the rest of us reclaiming our powers, you're not fit to wield them. You've turned this wonderful night into a spectacle, and for what? To hoard power you don't deserve! Ashley, admit it. You are happier without them!"

The room's silence had given way to a palpable tension as eyes shifted nervously from the Ashleys to Nord, awaiting her verdict. At that moment, Nord felt less like a ghost and more like the artist of her own tumultuous portrait, brush in hand, ready to add another defining stroke.

Adamastor materialized next to Nord, holding the hunting painting that had long been stashed away in the barn. She glanced at the canvas. The central figure remained stoic, standing as if untouched by time, while the other four were now turned back to the viewer. As Nord looked at the painting, she realized she had no idea how to siphon the trapped magic and return it to the Ashleys. Her eyes met Adamastor's, both sets fraught with uncertainty.

"Ladies!" A voice sliced through the tension like a knife. Baal sauntered over, clearly inebriated, a drink still in hand. "I may have a solution, the perfect solution, 'cause I'm a genius! And very handsome! And I don't particularly like any of you," he said, wagging his finger at each Ashley, one by one, "Not you, and you, you..." When he reached the youngest, his tone shifted. "Aw, you look nice. I'm Baal Berith," he slurred, extending a hand, "Nice to meet you!"

"Uh, pleased to meet you. I'm Ashley."

"No way! No way! You're Ashley, too? Wow!" Baal marvelled, then sidled up to Nord, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "The perfect solution is..." His voice trailed off, his eyes narrowing as if grappling with a thought that had just escaped him.

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"Baal, what are you doing?" Nord whispered, tension climbing up her spine.

He leaned in close, his breath warm and tinged with alcohol. "Trust me, I got you," he whispered, winking at her, "You look very pretty today, like a black marshmallow cupcake."

The room felt as though it held its breath. Nord looked at Adamastor, then at the painting, then at the Ashleys, who appeared equally sceptical and intrigued. Then she looked back at Baal, whose eyes, despite his inebriated state, held a lucidity that comforted her, but the flame of his iris seemed… smaller.

"Alright," Nord finally said, a cautious hope filling her voice. "Baal, what's this 'perfect solution' you're talking about?"

"Did I tell you you look pretty?" he said, eyes still awash with the revelry of the evening.

"Yes, like a marshmallow cupcake," she responded, blushing as she tried to hide her eyes behind her palm.

Baal's face brightened even more. "So, the perfect solution is very simple. A tiny bit of magic here, a tiny curse there, and everyone leaves happy!" His arms tightened around Nord, pulling her closer.

"Baal, that doesn't make any sense," Nord whispered.

Ignoring her, Baal clambered onto a nearby table, nearly toppling a few drinks in the process. "I'm Baal Berith, the keeper of memories, and I have a very tall tower. It's bigger than... well, it's big, okay?" He wobbled, struggling to maintain his balance. "I might be a tiny bit tipsy, but I am nevertheless a genius!"

"Just say what it is!" someone yelled from the crowd.

Baal steadied himself. "Patience! My wife always told me, 'One minute of patience, ten years of damnation.' And she was right!"

Nord suppressed a laugh; the actual saying was, "One minute of patience, ten years of peace."

"So here's the plan," Baal continued, somehow managing to regain a semblance of sobriety. "Me and the ladies in grey—the fantastic five, none other than the Ashleys—are going to make a deal. A deal that will satisfy everyone involved. I will take a tiny memory from each of the Ashleys, and in return, they get their magic back."

"Why can't you simply give it back? It's ours, to begin with!" said the oldest, Ashley, her patience clearly wearing thin.

"Because, you old crone, I don't particularly like you," Baal retorted, taking a sip from his glass for emphasis. "But here's the twist: if even one of the Ashleys proves undeserving of their magic, then all five will lose it—back into the painting it goes. You'll only get it back if you've been good girls. This is my decree because I said so."

The room went silent, the tension nearly tangible. The oldest Ashley was about to unleash her indignation when the youngest Ashley interrupted. "So we only have magic if we're nice? All of us?"

Baal looked at her, his eyes meeting hers, "Yes."

The youngest Ashley exchanged glances with her sisters. "You know, I think that's a pretty good deal."

Baal staggered a bit as he landed on the floor, almost colliding with one of the guests. "Pardon me," he mumbled, his cheeks flushed with a blend of embarrassment and residual alcohol. Setting his empty whiskey glass on the floor in front of the Ashleys, he looked up and commanded, "Think of a tiny little memory that makes you warm and all fuzzy."

Miraculously, the sisters found common ground in their childhood recollections. Each visualized the same cherished memory: an afternoon spent dancing around a cherry tree adorned with crowns made of orange leaves, their laughter and voices weaving songs into the air. No reason, no rhyme—just the simple joy of being together.

It was a small moment, yet one that had been echoed through the years, like a beloved chorus in the soundtrack of their lives.

As they concentrated, Baal watched radiant grains fill the glass—fragments of memories captured, pure and shimmering. He rubbed his palms together as though warming himself for a magical act.

"Hocus pocus, magicus backus. But you behave, so your magicus focus and stay. Because this is what I say, and what I say is engraved in my name. I am Baal Berith, and there is no other name but mine!" He concluded, his voice swelling with a blend of sobriety and conviction.

The room seemed to hold its collective breath as if awaiting a spell's resolve. Then, like sand through an hourglass, the radiant grains in the glass began to swirl and dissolve, atomizing into wisps of light that snaked through the air before penetrating the Ashleys' beings.

The Ashleys blinked, their eyes clearing, their faces awash with a bewildering mixture of surprise and relief. Even the oldest among them appeared less stern, her eyes momentarily softening.

Nord approached the youngest Ashley, who was holding the painting. "Think of it as a checks and balances system," Nord said, explaining the magical clause Baal had put in place. "Everyone gets to keep their magic unless one of you misuses it. Then all of it goes back into the painting until you all prove yourselves worthy again."

The youngest Ashley's eyes widened, suddenly understanding the gravity of what had transpired. "That's... actually fair. I hate to say it, but Ashley can be pretty nasty with her powers. Thank you for this. If the painting fills up too many times, I'll hand it back to you. You can feed it to the Hollow if you need to."

Nord offered a warm smile. "I don't think it will come to that, but thank you. Hopefully, everyone will be on their best behaviour from now on."

Feeling a newfound lightness, Nord waved to the band, signalling for them to lift their instruments and flood the room with melody once more. The celebratory atmosphere returned almost instantly, like air filling a vacuum. Laughter and chatter resumed, glasses clinked, and couples twirled across the floor.

But as Nord scanned the room, her eyes fell upon an empty space next to the wooden pillar where Baal had stood. He had vanished, absorbed into the night, or perhaps caught in the undertow of his own whimsy. For a moment, she felt a pang of longing but then let it go.

Baal was like a meteor—a streak of chaotic brilliance that could illuminate the world in a blinding flash before trailing off into the dark unknown. And Nord knew better than to chase after meteors; she had her own sky to fill. But she admitted that maybe he was the only one able to help.

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

"Papa?" Kirara's voice was soft, a whisper that managed to cut through Baal's haze of discomfort. She tiptoed over to him, her eyes filled with concern. Baal was slumped against the exterior wall of the manor, half-shielded from the party's noise and glare.

"Hey, Kitten. What are you doing out here?" His voice was softer than she'd ever heard, tinged with genuine affection, which usually meant he was in pain.

She sat down beside him, smoothing her fluffy skirt over her knees. "What's wrong, Papa?"

"Just a headache, sweetheart. Maybe too much to drink, I think." Baal managed a weak smile and lightly touched his throbbing forehead.

Her eyes widened, her lips forming a perfect 'o.' "I'm going to get Mama!"

Baal reached out, his grip surprisingly strong, and pulled her back down.

"No, Kitten, you can't. Mama's working tonight, and this is important for her."

"But she knows how to make you feel better," Kirara insisted, her eyes welling up with a mix of concern and stubbornness.

"Mama... she's forgotten, okay? She doesn't remember how to make it better. Or even why it hurts. We can't bother her with this." His voice spiked with frustration, echoing louder than he intended, intensifying the throb in his skull.

Kirara shook her head, dislodging a stray curl from her forehead. "I don't believe you," she said as she started to rise.

"Three chickens! All yours if you don't say a word," Baal hurriedly offered, the desperation creeping into his voice.

Her eyes locked onto his. "No, Papa. I love you more than I love chicken."

"Damn you, you adorable little thing," Baal chuckled, despite himself. The headache was pounding harder now. His vision was starting to blur at the edges. As he moved his hand to his head, his fingers came away wet.

With a sinking feeling, he looked down and saw the smears of blood.

Quickly, he wiped his hand on his pants, his smile fading into a grimace of real pain. But Kirara had seen it, and the look she gave him—equal parts love and defiance—said she wasn't letting this go. No matter what it took, she was going to make sure he got the help he needed, even if he was too stubborn to seek it out himself.

It was a stare-down between two equally stubborn souls, and for once, Baal wasn't sure he'd win. But looking into Kirara's eyes, he realized maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to.