My father stood on the stage like a monument carved from dusk, his crimson sash glowing against his dark green formalwear. He raised his hands slowly, and the room fell into reverent silence. The Festival had officially begun.

“Esteemed guests,” he began, his voice deep and deliberate, “on behalf of House Adumbral, we thank you for joining us tonight in celebration, reflection, and honor. As tradition demands, we begin with remembrance.”

There was a hum beneath his words, an invisible pressure that settled over the ballroom like dust on the glass. The flickering candlelight seemed to dim without wind.

Then he began to recite it. The poem. The one I had only heard in whispers, half-remembered lullabies, and fragmented verses scrawled in the margins of the library’s forbidden books. It’s name was:

“Whispers Beneath a Velvet Sky”

They gather where the sun forgets to rise,

cloaked in silk the color of silence,

beneath the ever-breathing clouds,

on the hill where time does not tread.

The Festival begins not with music,

but with memory—

a name is spoken backward,

a candle lit in secret.

No laughter dares ring too early.

They say it was once a mourning,

a vigil for the vanished stars,

a bargain made in dusks' deep-throat

to remember what should not be forgotten—

and to forget what must never be known.

Each house brings its antique guilt,

polished and passed like heirlooms—

silver sins, wrapped in velvet gloves.

The Tenebris bring stillborn hours,

the Ante-Nox bring veiled truths,

the Caligandus sip from cups of thorned regret,

and the ExAstris speak to the sky,

hoping it will never answer.

They wear masks, not to conceal

but to become.

What? They never say.

Only that to name the shadow

is to become its host.

Children are told stories by candlelight:

don’t look too long at your reflection,

don’t speak during the silence,

don’t walk through doors that open by themselves.

No one remembers why.

The matron calls for silence.

The patriarch calls for light.

The shadows gather just the same.

And somewhere,

beyond the edge of the warmth,

something ancient listens

with a smile too wide

and a name no one dares pronounce.

The Festival ends

as it begins—

in a hush.

And the house exhales

with doors that lock themselves.

Until next year.

When the masks come out again.

And the darkness is given

it's due.

As the last line fell from my father’s lips, the air shifted. A rush of wind swept through the ballroom though no doors had opened. Every candle blinked once, twice—and then extinguished in perfect unison. 

The room fell into a vacuum of darkness, soundless and deep. Then the moonlight struck the ballroom floor. A single beam. And from it… the shadow grew.

It unfurled like smoke in reverse, rising not from a source but from the absence of one. Monstrous, featureless, massive. A hulking silhouette that breathed with no lungs, it shifted and twisted as though it were tasting the air.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But no one else moved. They knelt.

One by one, the guests bowed their heads, their hands gently folding over their chests. And then—softly, chillingly—they began to hum.

The melody was subtle. Just five or six notes, rising and falling like the tide against stone. But something about it was wrong. The pattern felt off. Too perfect. Too clean. Like something that had been written into the bones of the room. A rhythm not born of feeling—but of numbers. I stared at them in disbelief. I couldn’t breathe. Then the shadow turned toward the children.

It moved slowly, stretching across the floor like ink spilled across parchment. I saw Samuel Ante-Nox’s small frame stiffen as the darkness curled toward him.

“Wait—!” he cried, stumbling back toward his sister. “Veronica? VERONICA!”

His scream shattered the harmony.

The shadow lunged—and he was gone.

Not pulled. Not dragged.

Taken.

His cry echoed for a second longer than it should have—and then there was nothing.

And the guests resumed humming as if nothing had happened. My knees buckled slightly. My heart crashed against my ribs. My entire body screamed to move. So I did.

As soon as my father turned back to the crowd and said, “A blessed Festival of Shadows to you all,” I bolted from the stage, nearly tripping on the hem of my gown. The music resumed faintly behind me. I ran through the crowd, looking for the others. I found Oswald near the side of the ballroom, wide-eyed, gripping the back of a chair so tightly his knuckles were white.

“You saw it,” I said, grabbing his arm.

“I—I don’t know what that was,” he said, voice trembling.

Cedric was pale, muttering curses under his breath. Iris looked stunned for once, her poise cracked like porcelain. Harold just stood, staring at the floor where Samuel had vanished. But Veronica… She was calm. Too calm.

“We warned you not to be surprised,” she said, voice low.

“You knew?” Oswald barked. “What the hell was that thing?!”

Harold finally spoke, his voice even. “The ritual must be performed every ten years. It’s tradition.”

Iris turned sharply to them, her fear suddenly morphing into fury. “You lied to us—”

“No,” Veronica cut in, her tone flat and quiet. “We protected you. We’ll explain what this is… but not here. Not where eyes still watch and ears still listen.”

She looked around the ballroom slowly. Her gaze lingered on the pillars. The chandeliers. The ceiling.

“Come,” she said. “There are things you need to know—but only in places where the shadows in the house cannot hear you.”

Veronica led us through the side corridor, past velvet drapes and old stone sconces until we reached the garden. The roses here never bloomed, no matter the season. Moonlight painted them silver like ghosts of flowers.

The hedges loomed high, like watchers. Not even the stars seemed willing to peek through.

“We’re safe here,” Veronica said. “For now.”

I wasn’t sure what “safe” meant anymore.

Oswald kept close to me. Cedric, Iris, and Harold followed silently. No one dared speak until Veronica turned toward us and took off her mask. Her face was composed, but her eyes betrayed something—regret, maybe. Or fear.

“You deserve to know what that was,” she said softly. “What you saw.”

No one interrupted as she looked at the moon.

“It only happens when the Festival begins,” she said, voice slow and careful. “Every ten years. One night. When the moon reaches a perfect view. Not waning or waxing. Perfect. Full View. That’s when the barrier thins.”

I glanced at Oswald. He was already looking at me, brows drawn tight. We didn’t speak, not yet—but I knew we were both thinking the same thing: Why hadn’t we heard of this before?

Veronica went on.

“Long ago, when the first five houses were formed, our matriarchs did something terrible. They were powerful. Visionaries even. But they were also desperate, greedy, and proud. They tampered with what should have remained buried. They poured their sins into a pact—binding their corruption into one vessel. A creature not born, but created.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Umbrovultus.”

The word hung like frost in the air.

“They thought it would protect us. That it would absorb their wrongdoings. Contain their crimes. But it didn’t.”

A hush fell.

“They made it strong. Far too strong. It turned on them. Took pieces of each house and twisted them into something unrecognizable. So they locked it away—using the moon’s gaze to seal it. Every ten years, during the Festival, the seal weakens and Umbrovultus wakes. To appease it Umbrovultus must be honored. It must be fed.”

“That thing was born from our ancestors?” Cedric asked, voice hoarse. Veronica nodded quickly.

“Each house contributed to its making,” she said. “But only one house was responsible for organizing the ritual, for ensuring the creature remained appeased.”

She looked directly at me. “House Adumbral.” 

My stomach dropped.

Oswald leaned toward me and whispered, “Is she serious?”

“She has to be,” I murmured back. “Samuel… he was taken.” Veronica didn’t react. Maybe she heard. Perhaps she didn’t.

“Every generation has someone chosen,” she continued. “A sacrifice. Sometimes it’s planned. Sometimes… it decides.”

“You mean Samuel was chosen?” Iris asked.

“No,” Harold answered for her. “He was claimed. There's a difference.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Finally, Oswald broke it. “Why keep it secret? Why not tell us this before it happened?”

Veronica’s mouth twitched—an almost smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Because some truths destroy you before they save you.”

I wanted to scream, cry, and run away. But I stayed. Because I had the sinking feeling this was only the beginning. Because for the first time, everything started to fall into place. I always thought that the family's legacy wasn’t something noble or revered—but cursed. And we were all already too deep in it to climb out.