The ballroom was empty. I slowly closed the door, the ancient hinges letting out a groan like they resented being moved. But just before the door latched—

“Just what do you think you're doing?”

The voice pierced me like a blade of ice. I flinched, but I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Only one person could wield condescension like a weapon so effortlessly.

Rosalyn Adumbral.

She stood behind me, arms crossed, one elegant brow arched like a judge preparing a sentence. Her deep green silk gown shimmered with every shallow breath she took, but her eyes—those sharp hazel daggers—bore down into me.

“I asked you a question, Cynthia.”

“I was just… looking around,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It was unlocked.”

“Unlocked?” she repeated, her voice curling with disbelief. “That door has been sealed for decades. Do you expect me to believe it simply waltzed open for your curious little fingers?”

“I’m telling the truth,” I insisted.

“Truth,” she echoed with a sneer, “is what those with poise and propriety carry with them. And you—" she stepped closer, the scent of her expensive perfume turning sickly in the air between us, “you wander halls in the dead of night, looking like a frightened servant girl, and consort with... cats.”

Mittens hissed, stepping in front of me protectively.

“Get that creature away from me,” Rosalyn spat. “She’s filled your head with nonsense.”

“She’s my only friend in this house.”

“Friend?” Rosalyn’s lips curled into a mockery of a smile. “Is that what we call dependency now? Emotional frailty passed off as companionship? No wonder you linger in the shadows and dream of fairy tales. You were always too soft.”

Something snapped in me.

“Maybe softness is what this place needed,” I said, my voice low. “Instead of all this cold.”

“Hold your tongue.” She was close now, towering over me despite our similar heights. “You carry the Adumbral name. That means something. You don’t get to rewrite what we are because you're... bored.”

“I’m not bored,” I whispered. “I’m haunted.”

A silence fell. The air between us thickened. Rosalyn’s eyes flicked to the door behind me, to the hidden ballroom. Something unspoken passed across her face—barely perceptible, but it was there. Recognition. And fear?

“You didn’t go inside there, right?” she asked hurriedly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I didn’t say I did.” Her eyes snapped back to mine. For once, she looked… uncertain.

“Stay out of places you don’t belong, Cynthia,” she said after a long pause. “Curiosity is unbecoming. It makes women weak. And Adumbral women are not weak.”

“No,” I said. “They’re just lonely.”

For a heartbeat, her expression cracked. A flicker of something—pain? Memory?—shadowed her features. But it vanished as quickly as the other version of me had.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply down the hallway, the echo of judgment fading with each step. I stood there, breath shallow, palm still on the door handle. The ballroom waited behind me. But something told me that the next time I opened that door, I might not be the only one waiting.

By the time I made it back to my room, my legs felt like they were stitched together by tension. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The encounter with her—Rosalyn, my mother, or whatever version of her this was—rattled through my bones like a cold current. She had seen that room. She knew about it. And she wasn’t scared because of me. She was scared of what that room could unearth.

I curled up on the bed, Mittens instantly climbing onto my stomach, purring softly as though to say, You’re still here. It’s still real.

Sleep came quickly, but not peacefully. My dreams were shapeless, filled with murmurs and flickering lights, and faces I almost recognized but couldn’t quite place. One pair of eyes—gray and familiar—lingered longer than the rest.

I awoke to chaos.

The sound of clanging pots and pans echoed down the hallway like a metallic symphony being conducted by a madman. Mittens leaped off the bed with a startled chirp, her tail bristling in annoyance.

I sat up slowly, blinking at the dull gray light that filtered through my curtains. It lacked warmth. It always did. That soft, colorless hue had become the default tone of my days—a faded painting of a life that used to feel full.

Back to normal, I thought bitterly. Back to the damp, stagnant halls of this oversized tomb.

I threw on a robe and padded to my door, pulling it open to find Lucious rushing down the hall with an armful of white linens.

“Good morning, Miss Cynthia,” he called, barely pausing. “You may want to dress properly today. Your mother is expecting you to attend tonight’s gathering.”

“Gathering?” I echoed, my voice thick with sleep.

He didn't stop. “The Festival, Miss. Preparations are already behind us. Susette is throwing saucepans like daggers!”

I frowned. The Festival of Shadows…

Of course.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it again—my morning routine, it seemed. The Festival of Shadows. How had I forgotten?

It was an old tradition. Ancient, in fact. One of the few still preserved by the nobility, and House Adumbral was the only among them who had the right to host the festival.

In the quiet of my room, I whispered the story aloud to myself:

“The Festival of Shadows was once meant to be both a celebration and a cautionary reminder of the darker aspects of life. A time to reflect on the unseen things—the regrets, the hidden pain, the sins that nest in silence.

It started as a night of introspection, where families would gather and share secrets by candlelight, naming their fears to strip them of power.

But like all old things, it evolved. It became corrupted. Masked in revelry and grandeur. Some saw it as a celebration, while others viewed it as a necessary release valve—a chance to look darkness in the eye and dance with it.

House Adumbral became famous for it. Or infamous, depending on who you asked.”

I could still remember being a child, hiding under tables during one of the grand banquets, watching painted masks and black velvet gowns swirl past. Guests whispered strange things that didn’t feel like party talk—things about sight beyond sight, walking through mirrors, and names forgotten to time.

I thought I’d dreamed it. But maybe I hadn’t.

Maybe this year’s festival would answer more questions than it asked. Or maybe… it would open more doors. I took a deep breath and looked over at my wardrobe.

Time to dress the part.