- [Azalea, Cvet, and Hwa-Young] -

Azalea sits with a serene composure, her gaze drifting over the table laden with an assortment of dishes that gleam invitingly under the dim light of the chandelier above them. A giant spider skitters across the ceiling. Her brother, Cvet, leans forward, a skeptical furrow etched into his brow as he pokes at his plate. “You really think this stuff's safe?” he asks, his voice a low rumble of doubt.

The dining hall, with its high vaulted ceilings and grand, weathered ornaments, is alight with a flickering glow that casts erratic shadows across the room. The scent of herbs — rosemary, thyme, and a hint of something acrid — mingles with the sharp aroma of the mountain mist that seeps through the narrow, iron-barred windows.

She brushes a stray lock of brown hair behind her pointed ear, her lips curling into a playful smile. “It’s perfectly fine, Cvet. You worry too much. The Vampire Lord’s hospitality, as strange as it seems, is better than anything we’ve ever gotten in the village.”

Cvet snorts, shaking his head. “You say that now, but I’m not keen on becoming some monster’s mind-controlled puppet,” he notes, continuing to poke the food on his plate with a fork. The boy lifts his gaze, looking at the other guest there with them tonight by happenstance.

Across the table, Hwa-Young clutches her cup of broth, hers twinkling with nostalgia that seems to blur the present with the past. She speaks in her language to herself, the skull set down on the table, speaking in an offset voice to translate for her. “This reminds me of the time my sister and I ran that little restaurant. This was maybe… eight-hundred years ago or so?” she guesses. Azalea nods, indulging the witch’s familiar tale with gentle patience.

Hwa-Young has recounted this story multiple times tonight already, each time with the same wistful detail as she stares into her already cold cup of soup.

“I remember,” Azalea says softly. “You had that special recipe for blueberry tarts, didn’t you?” she asks, as if Hwa-Young hadn’t literally just spoken about this three minutes ago.

The witch blinks, momentarily distracted from her reverie. “Ah, yes! Did I tell you already? I forgot. Delightful things. My sister always said they were enchanted,” she explains. Hwa-Young leans in, whispering past her own hand at the side of her mouth, covering it. “They were,” she notes in a quiet hiss, winking.

Cvet rolls his eyes but refrains from interrupting. His sister’s unwavering belief in Hwa-Young’s repetitive anecdotes is as much a part of their evenings as the ever-present chill in the castle. There’s a fire burning in the hearth near the table, but the heat does very little to fill the room.

Azalea lifts a forkful of roasted vegetables, savoring the blend of flavors. She glances at Hwa-Young, whose eyes are now distant, lost in the labyrinth of her memories. “And your sister,” Azalea prompts gently. “Is she still with us?”

Hwa-Young nods slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yes. She had a knack for it — being alive. I was always the one who neglected dangerous things.”

Cvet snorts again, this time with a hint of amusement, side-eyeing Azalea. The priestess’ fist hits him under the table. He hits her back.

There’s a long, content sigh from across the table. The two of them look at Hwa-Young, sitting there peacefully with her hands on the cold cup of broth in her hands.

“This reminds me of the time my sister and I ran that little restaurant,” starts the witch, reminiscing.

“How many people died?” asks Cvet, grunting as Azalea hits him again below the table.

“Cvet!” hisses the elf as the boy shoves her arm away. “I’m sorry, my brother is an asshole,” apologizes Azalea.

“It’s not like she’s going to remember,” mutters the boy, rolling his eyes, the two of them looking back across the table toward Hwa-Young, whose eyes have gone wide and empty. The fires of the hearth opposite her reflect in the black of her pupils that are otherwise empty and void. “Seventeen sailors died that day,” she explains quietly, her face blank. The two siblings exchange a nervous look. “Most of them did so immediately at their tables. But the last three…” Her voice trails off, as if quieting under the screaming in the air that only she can hear.

The table is quiet.

After a minute, Hwa-Young smiles and looks up again. “Are you enjoying your dinner?” she asks. She sighs contentedly. “You know, this reminds me of the time my sister and I ran that little restaurant,” starts the witch in a delighted tone, leaning the side of her face against her cold cup of soup and smiling.

Cvet pushes his plate away from himself, but Azalea slides it back toward him with a cold glare.

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- [Vampire Lord Inkume and Fi-Fi] -

Darkness wraps around the Vampire Lord’s cathedral, its vaulted ceilings stretching into shadowy heights that swallow even the flickering candlelight of the thousand flames down below. The light barely reaches the corners of the room, casting elusive figures in the corner’s of one’s eye that never seem to be there upon closer inspection.

Inkume stands at the center of it, his usually commanding presence softened by the rather whimsical circumstances.

Fi-Fi, polished bones glinting in the dim illumination, extends a bony hand toward him. She intends to teach him the delicate art of dance — a notion that amuses the Vampire Lord more than he lets on.

“It is very important,” explains Fi-Fi. She lifts a finger, waving it in the air. “You wouldn’t want to look like a dweeb at the ball,” says the skeleton.

Inkume stares at her. “I’m the Vampire Lord. I’ll just sit there brooding on my throne and pretend like I’m better than you all,” he explains pointedly. But he accepts her hand; the touch is cool and surprisingly gentle.

“That’s no good, Master,” explains Fi-Fi, the golden bangle on her arm jingling. “The dark and terrible Vampire Lord cannot be a wall flower,” says the maid, shaking her head.

“I’m pretty sure I make the rules here, so I can decide what I am and what I do,” notes Inkume.

Fi-Fi leans in toward him, her other hand making an ‘L’ over her forehead. “Nerd.” Her head bobbles from side to side. ‘I’m pretty sure I make the rules here, so I can decide what I am and what I do,’” she parrots in a mocking voice. He raises an eyebrow. The skeleton looks at him defiantly. “And when the ball happens and some fair maiden from kingdoms afar asks for your hand and you can’t dance, what’ll you do then, huh?” she asks. “You’ll look like a total dork, that’s what.”

“…Don’t you work for me?” he muses, looking at her.

She lifts her nose-socket at him. “Fi-Fi doesn’t get paid,” she reminds him. “So she’ll take her pound of flesh from your fragile ego instead, Master.” The skeleton grabs his shoulder with her free hand and takes a step back, positioning them into the open area.

“Calling me ‘Master’ really isn’t shattering my ego,” he notes. “Do you even know how to dance to anything that doesn’t have electronic chirping in it?” asks Inkume, pacing after her.

“I guess we’ll find out,” replies the skeleton, making a point out of stepping on his foot for a second. “Oops!”

Stained glass windows — cracked and covered in dust — mute the outside light into a kaleidoscope of morbid colors that spill across the stone floor. The silence is profound, broken only by the soft rustle of Fi-Fi's skirts as she moves. “Ready?” she asks. “Okay. You be the mysterious, brooding Vampire Lord and I’ll be the thunderstruck fangirl princess of a nearby kingdom who has defied my father’s iron will to come here,” says Fi-Fi.

“...We’re roleplaying now too?” he asks. “Weirdo.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing since you got here?” remarks Fi-Fi. “Weirdo.”

Damn.

— She actually does have him dead to rights there.

A phantom on the piano at the end of the cathedral begins playing. Fi-Fi tries to lead, her movements precise yet cautious. Inkume, however, follows with an unexpected, entirely troubleless grace, his fluidity betraying a mastery that surprises the skeletal maid. She hesitates, faltering for a moment as her attempt to take the lead position in their dance is immediately overthrown by him.

“Oooh!” says the skeleton excitedly as he and her turn in a spin. “You dance beautifully, my lord,” she says, awe-tinged with curiosity.

Inkume’s lips curve into a wry smile. “I’ve had centuries to learn,” he replies. She laughs, a sound that’s both eerie and endearing. That’s total bullshit, and both of them know it.

[Two Steps Into the Grave] Passive Ability • In order to establish fear and terror in your enemies, you are capable of displaying the perfect strength and elegance of your alpha-predatory body by being a perfect dancer.

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Her confidence returns, and they move together, a seamless blend of elegance and macabre. “Have you finished the last ‘Enfangled’ book?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of excitement. She had borrowed it from him several nights ago now.

She nods, the motion almost imperceptible. “I have!” she says eagerly. “I can’t believe that Matthew really pulled it off in the end,” she says. “After the first two books, it really seemed like he was doomed to chase after Sarah’s reincarnation forever,” says the maid. Fi-Fi spins gracefully, her golden bangle catching the light. “I love Matthew. His tenacity is… something,” she says, pausing to find the right word.

Inkume lifts her effortlessly into a twirl, and she lands back on her feet with a clatter. “Indeed. Despite his flaws, there’s a charm in his relentless pursuit of what he wants,” explains the vampire. “Although I’m still not sure about the whole reincarnation thing. Do you think that was really the same Sarah in all three books?” he asks. “Or just some random girl each time that he got stuck on.”

Fi-Fi shrugs. “I like to think they were meant for each other, so it was the same Sarah he kept meeting again and again.” She pauses, her empty gaze fixed on his hands. “I envy your nails, Master. I used to have beautiful nails like these too.”

He raises an eyebrow, the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “A diet high in iron does wonders, I hear. Try it out sometime.” Fi-Fi's laughter fills the cathedral, a haunting melody that lingers long after the sound fades. Their dance continues.

“So, when I asked to teach you to dance, why did you even accept?” she asks, looking up at him. “If you already could.”

Inkume looks down at her with a cold, empty gaze behind his ruby eyes. “To remind you of your place as my lesser,” he says, before wincing as Fi-Fi steps on his foot again.

“Baka!” snaps the skeleton. “If you talk like that, you’re going to scare the princess away.”

He tilts his head. “I thought we stopped doing that pretend game like ten seconds in,” he notes, lifting her hand into the air and letting her twirl below it.

“Shameful. Is ten whole seconds really the best the Vampire Lord can manage?” asks the maid, lifting a hand from his shoulder to cover her mouth as she laughs. “How embarrassing.” She shrugs her hand out the side. “Perhaps my father, the king, was right, and I should have accepted the seventeen other engagements he proposed for me instead.” She sighs. “…And after I came all this way,” sighs the pretending woman, dejected.

“Seventeen?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t have all the information on this world, but I don’t think that’s how marriages typically work,” notes the vampire, as Fi-Fi turns around, their hands still held as they dance. “This fantasy’s getting pretty weird, man,” notes Inkume. “Did you used to spend a lot of time on the internet?”

“…Hai…” says Fi-Fi after a long second, looking back away from him. “After I got away from work, I’d just stare out of the window or at my computer until I was too tired to think about life and had to sleep.”

“Living the dream,” he replies sarcastically as she rests the back of her head against his chest.

“You have no idea; I was in deep,” she explains, as he peels her off of him and twirls her around to face him again as they sway from side to side. “Anyway, it is though — how things work here,” she explains. “At least for nobles,” explains the woman. “So you’ll need to do better than ten seconds, Master,” she notes. “Or your dozen wives will have many bad things to say.”

“Are you kidding me?” he asks. “Do you know how few hours there are in a night?” The Vampire Lord shakes his head. “If they all want just half an hour each, I’ll never get anything done,” he notes, pondering the math. “This place is a full-time business already. Forget it.”

“Then I suppose you will be better off choosing only a few and wisely,” she notes. “Ones that are diligent and hard-working, who will make life easier for everyone instead of draining precious resources,” explains the maid. “— Clever, diligent, astonishingly beautiful, and talented in the fine arts,” she lists off. “These are ideal qualities, you know,” says Fi-Fi.

Inkume shakes his head. “If only there was someone like that anywhere in this castle…” he ponders out loud, his ruby eyes rising up toward the ceiling. “— Apart from my own reflection, obviously,” notes the Vampire Lord, his hand letting go of her side to rub his chin.

She steps on his foot again, harder than before.

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- [Bark and Schaufenster] -

Bark stands, her massive form a silhouette against the waning light. Her fur bristles with restrained energy, a storm held beneath a surface of calm. She faces down Schaufenster, the living doll whose porcelain skin glows unnaturally as the moonlight coming in through the windows radiates off of it. That light casts pale shafts that shatter against the cold stone floor.

The air between them is charged — an invisible line tethered to past grievances and unspoken threats.

Bark's voice is low, a growl tempered with control. “I should tear you apart, you know,” she says, her gaze fixed on the doll with a feral intensity. “But the new Master wouldn't appreciate the mess.” She narrows her eyes. “It’s lucky for you that I didn’t find you before he did.”

Schaufenster’s unblinking eyes meet hers, unmoved by the threat. “Cruelty is inconsequential if survival is the prize,” the doll replies, her voice an echo of something human yet hollow. “You, of all creatures, should understand that, dog.”

The two of them are at odds because of their past encounters during the reign of the old Vampire Lord, some thousand years ago. Schaufenster was there, if not even in part responsible, for the destruction of the wolf goddess’ old home. Even now, a millennia later, that scar has yet to heal in full.

Bark’s lips curl into a snarl, exposing sharp teeth that glint. A loud growling fills the air, rumbling the dust off of the shaking portraits on the walls. “Survival isn’t everything. There are things worth living for beyond just existing.” The wolf steps toward her. “How could being alive under that monster be better than being dead and being free from him?” she asks, her massive yellow eyes narrowing.

The words hang in the air between them.

Schaufenster tilts her head, a mechanical motion that belies her crafted nature. “Such sentimentality, from an animal.” She shakes her head. “It’s a luxury, you know, the way you live in delusion,” she says, lowering her voice, her eyes glancing around cautiously. “Not all of us are as free from him as you seem to think you are.”

Bark steps closer, her presence enveloping, a force of nature tempered by time and loss. The doll’s expression remains unchanged, yet the tension between them is palpable. The chill deepens, wrapping around them like a shroud. Outside, the wind howls through the jagged peaks, a mournful lament that echoes through the castle.

“You and I are the same, really,” says Schaufenster. “Neither of us are real people,” explains the doll. “But the difference between you and me is that I’ve accepted that.” She points to herself. “My survival is paramount to me at any cost, because I am not like you. Unlike you, I am not under an insane delusion that I belong to the other things in this world — ‘people’, as you call them.” She holds her hands behind her back. “As I seem to recall, your wolves were hunting them for centuries now, like rabbits,” notes the doll. “But now you’re pretending you’re one of them? Why?” Schaufenster stares Bark down. She stands there in the middle of the hallway, unphased as she stares up at the towering wolf, easily past ten times her size. “Because some man you just met a quarter of a year ago told you that you’re different? That you’re ‘special’?” asks Schaufenster, stepping toward Bark, as she asks from a place of intimate knowledge. “— Because you look like a ‘person’ every few weeks and you’ve grown a sense of remorse since you seem to think that you’re one of them now, because of that?” Schaufenster’s lids narrow. "Well, I look like a person every day, but you and I — neither of us are actually anything except monsters.”

The castle looms around them, a silent witness to their confrontation, its ancient stones absorbing their conflict. Their eyes stay locked together.

“You would do well to remember your place before it’s too late,” notes the doll cooly, turning around and casually walking away toward a mirror.

The wolf steps after her. “I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve realised that now, after centuries,” says Bark, the doll stopping to look over her shoulder for a second. “I suggest you do the same before it’s too late.”

The doll stares for a moment and then turns away. “It already is,” notes Schaufenster idly, stepping into a mirror and vanishing.

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

- [Agnis and Snatch] -

Agnis stands in the shadowed courtyard, the stone underfoot cold and unforgiving. The air is crisp, edged with the scent of damp moss and the faint metallic taste of impending rain.

Despite the chill, sweat beads along her brow as she swings her sword in a precise arc, muscles coiling and uncoiling with practiced ease. Her long rabbit ears twitch, betraying her distraction.

The nearby giggles — ethereal and incessant — swirl around her like an unwelcome fog.

The courtyard is, usually, a somber place, enclosed by towering walls that seem to hunch. Ivy creeps up the stone. The setting moonlight casts long shadows, turning the space into a labyrinth of shining blue and darkness. However, Snatch drifts lazily through the air; her form is a shifting mist of translucent fabric and wisp-like hair. She giggles again in a jackal’s heady rasp, a sound both innocent and unsettling, echoing off the stones.

Agnis tries to ignore Snatch, focusing on her footing, her stance, and the sword as an extension of her will. But the constant giggling gnaws at her concentration. She pauses, lowering her sword with a sigh of frustration. “Snatch, could you maybe find somewhere else to be?” Her voice is steady, but there's a note of exasperation. “I’m trying to practice.”

The ghost has done nothing else for nights now. She’s just… doing this, whatever ‘this’ is.

Not hearing her, however, the ghost continues to swirl, lost in her own world. She seems oblivious, her mind elsewhere. Confused and somewhat tired, Agnis watches her drift, a flicker of envy at the ghost's carefree existence rising for a moment before being extinguished by her innate desire to focus on her practices. The knight sighs. She shakes her head and turns back away, toward the empty garden archway.

Agnis adjusts her grip on the sword, trying to recapture her focus. The blade glows in the fading light. As she resumes her practice, she mumbles under her breath, “Just pretend you’re somewhere else, Agnis,” mutters the knight quietly to herself as she swings her sword out in dedicated motions, trying to follow a pattern.

Like a drifting shape out on open water, Snatch floats nearer to her again, her presence an ethereal shadow that dances at the edge of Agnis's vision that she can see coming a minute away. She drifts, bumping into the knight’s side, before idly drifting off in another direction. Agnis tries once more to ignore her, concentrating on the rhythm of her movements, the shifting weight, and the balance of her body. She swings her sword with renewed determination, each motion precise and deliberate. Her muscles burn. Despite the somewhat annoying ghost, Agnis soon finds a rhythm, a flow. The courtyard fades away from her senses, leaving only the knight and her blade, a singular focus as she enters an almost transcendent state for a few blissful moments.

Snatch giggles again to herself, right next to Agnis.

“Enough!” Deeply annoyed, Agnis stabs her sword into the ground, her trance breaking. She grabs the waywardly drifting ghost with both hands, rotating her around before shoving her off. With her hands on her side, the knight watches as the odd ghost, pulling on her own hair and face, simply slowly bounces from wall to wall and then drifts out of the open archway out into the gardens. All the while, she just seems to make a series of heavy wheezing noises that eventually fade out into the night.

She shakes her head. “…What’s with her?” mutters the knight, picking up the sword again to resume her practice.