As a child, I used to live at Dawnhaven Palace. It was my whole world—a grand, sprawling maze of stairs, corridors, secrets, and fairy tale characters.

I was born into a life of service, the daughter of a maid. All I saw was her breaking her neck and back by scrubbing floors and dusting chandeliers, tending to others who only saw her as a... thing.

I was a bit of a secret, too. At least, my talents were. No one knew I could manipulate Atua Na, magic that allowed me to assume forms other than my own. My favourite? A mouse. Small, unnoticeable, the perfect little spy.

I'd slip through the cracks and crawl along the baseboards. It was in that minuscule form that I'd watch her: Princess Isabeau.

She was the epitome of grace, a vision swathed in silk and adorned with jewels. Every servant adored her; every nobleman admired her. But me? I wanted to be her—so beautiful, so loved, so blissfully unaware of the monotony that filled the lives of people like my mother and me. She was my happy memory or at least part of it.

One night, as usual, I slipped into Isabeau's chamber. The room was veiled in a thin mist of lavender and silver moonlight, a perfect place for the dreams of a young princess and of a ten-year-old. But what I saw that night was not something out of a fairy tale. Isabeau, seated at her vanity, was sobbing into a lace handkerchief.

"My love, please don't cry?" said a voice, hazy but soft, and from the darkness stepped a man—or rather, something more and less than a man. A vampire. His name was Restelo. He was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, like a statue made of marble with eyes malevolent red. Still, when they fell upon Isabeau, they softened to the warm hue of old sweet wine.

"Isabeau, we must consider the ramifications," Restelo's voice oozed like honey, as velvety as night. "You're binding not just your fate but that of our unborn child."

Isabeau would step closer to him, "If our baby shares your nature, your immortality, think of the possibilities, then it's all the more reason to persevere, Restelo. Together, we can rewrite the rules of the kingdom. A vampire on the throne as king! Nethersphere will finally bow to the House of Neddingstein Nation. Your nation, my love."

Their words made my heart surge. It was as if the ballads my mother hummed over mountains of laundry had burst into life. How I loved to see those two together, such romance and such tragedy.

"Isabeau, it's too dangerous," Restelo argued, getting anxious and pacing around the room. "What if the child doesn't survive the transformation? What if I lose you too?"

"And what's our alternative?" Isabeau's voice shook. She was nervous. "Once I begin to show, we'll have to seize whatever cuckold comes our way, regardless of my condition."

"There's an arcane legend, a book — forbidden wishes, that's what they call it, that could alter our circumstances. It poses less risk to you and our child."

"Legends?"

"Yes!"

"Restelo, we don't have that much time to hunt fairy tales and the gossip of witches!" The intrigue didn't spark in Isabeau's eyes. "But tell me."

"I still have to find it and solve the... let's call it a riddle. For me to gather certain artefacts, but..." Restelo stopped when he saw Isabeau's baffled face. He understood she didn't agree with him. She thought it was ridiculous.

"Restelo, I'm pregnant with a child that I don't know if it's mortal or not. I don't know if I'll survive this baby if..."

"We could all become mortal. I'd rather grow old with you than have an eternity without you both."

And the drama would unfold in front of my eyes. I was drowned in excitement because the scandal was an intoxicating dread because I knew, even at that young age, that their love was a dangerous one.

I scurried back to my room, barely able to contain my amazement. I lay in bed that night, pondering the paths that lay ahead for all of us. Isabeau, Restelo and even me. We were all prisoners of our own desires, trapped in a palace of illusions. But even then, I wanted nothing more than to be ensnared in the same captivating web that had caught Isabeau.

The years have swept by since then, carrying away my innocence but leaving my cravings intact. Now, I no longer spy on princesses nor pine for their lives. I've learned to weave my own enchantments, ones that allow me to capture the hearts of gentlemen and navigate a world laden with secrets and sins. Still, when I dress up for an evening's gown, fastening my pearls and dabbing perfume on my wrists, I think of Princess Isabeau and wonder if her tragic fairy tale ever found its happy ending.

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And I wonder, too, if she ever got to be as free as I am now. Because, in my own twisted way, I got my wish. I became a woman who commands attention, adoration, and awe. It's a different kind of magic, one that doesn't require spells or mice or even palaces. It just requires being unapologetically me. And that, I've found, is the most powerful magic of all.

Princess Isabeau disappeared that same night, and I'm the only one who knows why and where.

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Baal stood still, eyes transfixed on the empty jars around Ursula's bed. They slowly filled with swirls of glowing light, each capturing a fragment of a child's happiness. Memories of a little girl—imbued with dreams spun from fairy tales and love stories—condensed into tangible form. A girl whose eyes saw purity even when gazing upon the vilest of all creatures.

These luminous keepsakes should have been saccharine tokens of innocence. Yet, they curdled within Baal like a sip of spoiled wine. The sweet taste of nostalgia was undercut by a burgeoning sense of loss.

Suddenly, the jars trembled. Their glowing contents quivered as if electrified, and Baal's eyes snapped wide open in disbelief. "This can't be," he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a frenzied drum.

He'd performed the ritual countless times before—a spell to capture and contain memories, binding them in glass as one might trap fireflies on a summer's evening. But the jars before him were behaving in a manner entirely out of line with the Atua Na laws he so diligently followed. He lifted his gaze to the bed. Ursula lay there, her form almost lost among the ornate pillows and thick blankets. Her eyes were closed, her chest barely rising and falling in a shallow, barely discernible rhythm.

"No, no, no—this isn't right!" His voice was a rasp, his words etched in panic.

Baal's heart raced as he sprinted through the halls, his boots pounding against the wooden floor. His eyes darted left and right until they found what he was searching for—Nord's tattoo shop backdoor. The familiar creak of the entrance as it opened.

Breathless, he burst through the door. Nord was there, meticulously cleaning her tattoo chair and reorganising her drawings and inks. Her eyes met his, and it was as if she could read the panic that gripped him.

"I need you," Baal panted.

With no further explanation needed, Nord dropped her rag, leaving her instruments on the table. She followed him as they hurried back to Ursula's chamber, nearly colliding with Adamastor and another guest in the manor corridors.

When Nord finally entered the room and laid eyes on Ursula's fragile, nearly lifeless form, she gasped. "What happened?"

"She asked to be rich. Pockets that are never empty of tokens. I did what I always do—I took one memory. Just one," Baal's voice trembled as he spoke. "We even agreed on more, but... now she's like this. I don't... I didn't do this, Nord."

Nord examined Ursula more closely. The young woman's vibrant and exotic beauty had been replaced by the weathered countenance of someone who had endured centuries. Skin sagged, bones protruded, and wrinkles creased her once-smooth face.

"I swear I didn't do this!" Baal's eyes were wide, his tone tinged with hysteria. "You believe me, right?"

Nord moved to Ursula's side, peeling off the duct tape that bound her wrists to the bed. "No reason to keep her tied now," she murmured as she gently laid Ursula's arms at her sides, making her as comfortable as possible. "Maybe we need to call Sirdona and—"

She stopped, looking back at Baal, who was now huddled on the floor. His arms were wrapped around himself tightly, fingers drumming against his shoulders in a self-soothing ritual. Nord recognised he was having a panic attack and approached him, placing her hand on his shoulder. Her voice was soft and gentle. "It's okay to not be okay," she whispered. "But you'll be okay. I promise. I know you wouldn't hurt anyone."

Time seemed to stretch, then snap back like elastic. Baal finally rose, his fingers working to tie his hair back into a half-ponytail. "Thanks," he mumbled, his eyes still not meeting Nord's.

"It's not your fault. We'll find a solution," she assured him.

"I'm not even done with the spell," Baal admitted, a look of dread washing over his face.

Nord paused, her eyes narrowing. "What happens if you don't seal the contract?"

"I have no idea," Baal responded, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in.

"Do you think that maybe you need to finish the spell to seal the contract so she goes back to normal?" Nord's question lingered in the air, each word wrapped in doubt.

Baal rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his eyes darting from Nord to Ursula's frail form and back again. "I have no idea, Nord. What if I make it worse? And who can I even consult on this? I don't exactly have a list of demons and witches to call and say, 'Hey, I have a technical error with a spell, and I think I fucked up a magical contract, any advice?'"

His voice tinged with rising desperation, Baal started to pace, his footsteps as erratic as his thoughts. His eyes were distant, almost lost, as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice. And Nord noticed he was rubbing his finger against his forehead, foretelling a headache.

She moved quickly, positioning herself directly in front of him, so close that their noses nearly touched. "Baal, look at me," she said, her voice firm, anchoring him to the moment. "We've got this. We just need to think, okay? You're not losing it now, right?"

Baal looked into her eyes, searching for a foothold in the chaos that had consumed his mind.

"Right..."

"Right, Baal?"

"Nord, I..."

"I need to hear you say it, Baal. Say it like you mean it."

"Right, right..." The word repeated like a mantra as Baal resumed his pacing, his eyes now narrowed in thought rather than wide with panic. "Right, I just need to think... think..."

And then, as if a lightning bolt of clarity had pierced through the fog in his mind, it hit him.

"I have it," he exclaimed, stopping abruptly and turning to Nord. "I need you to remove your clothes!"