The garden felt colder after Veronica spoke—as the air itself recoiled from her words. None of us dared to speak for a long moment. The moonlight didn’t offer warmth, only silver clarity that made every branch look like a claw, every statue like something holding its breath.

I could still hear Samuel's scream echoing in my ears. That awful silence afterward. And then… the hum. Even now, deep beneath my ribs, I could feel it—a sequence of notes so oddly patterned it crawled along my spine. Something about it didn’t sound right. It counted. I didn’t know how yet, but I would.

“So what was that thing that Umbrovultus or whatever?” Oswald asked, voice trembling slightly.

Veronica’s gaze was distant as she answered. “The shadow that wakes once every ten years. A supposed guardian deity created for the prosperity of the houses.”

She paused, as if daring us to mock her, but none of us could.

“When the Festival of Shadows aligns with the perfect moon—the only night in a decade when it hangs at its exact zenith—the pact is called to order. A sacrifice must be taken. The rest of the years are just ritual and wine. But this—this is the true Festival.”

“And it… takes someone?” Cedric’s voice cracked.

“You’re saying this is normal?” I hissed. “That this has been happening, and none of us knew?”

“Because you’re sixteen,” Harold cut in gently. “It’s only explained once we turn thirteen—but only in the decade after a true Festival. You were all still children when the last pact was fulfilled. You weren’t told to spare you all the weight of the ritual.”

“That’s insane,” Iris whispered.

Veronica’s eyes found mine. “Your mother knows, Cynthia. House Adumbral doesn’t just host the Festival. It binds it. Your mother is the Keeper of the Pact. Without her, the Umbrovultus wouldn’t know where to step through.”

Veronica continued. “House Adumbral doesn’t just host the Festival. It maintains the opening. The Matriarch of your line has always been its steward.”

My mouth was dry. My throat burned.

Of course, she was.

Of course, my mother—the cold-eyed queen of hidden rooms and poisoned compliments—was the gatekeeper to the nightmare we all danced around.

“She smiled,” I said, almost to myself. “She welcomed them. Welcomed it. Like it was just another masked guest at the ball.”

“She did what had to be done,” Veronica said.

“No,” I whispered. “She did what she wanted to do.”

Oswald touched my arm. “Cyn—”

I pulled away.

“She enjoyed it,” I hissed. “She always enjoys control. Why wouldn’t she love being the one who opens the door to hell every ten years?”

The others looked uncomfortable, but I didn’t care. Let them squirm. Let them flinch. I was done pretending my mother was anything but a monster in a corset.

“I need to speak with her,” I said through clenched teeth.

Harold stepped forward. “Don’t—”

“She owes me the truth.”

“She won’t give it.”

“She’ll give something.”

“Wait until morning,” Veronica warned. “It’s not safe…”

“Safe?” I laughed once, bitter. “From what? From her? From that thing?”

They didn’t stop me as I left. Maybe they knew there was no stopping me.

The halls of House Adumbral were empty, hollowed out by secrets. The noise coming from the ballroom signified that the festival was in full swing. But I knew my mother wouldn’t be in there after her work was done. The only place she could be was her private study. The air was thick with wax and the sour smell of extinguished candles. I remembered the hum again—that unsettling pattern of notes. It counted. It was measured. It waited. A dark calculus I didn’t understand yet.

I slowed as I neared the hall to my family’s private wing. The doors loomed like sentinels. Inside, my mother would be calm. Composed. Proud of what she’d done.

I pressed my palm to the cold wood and whispered to no one: “You’re the Keeper of the Pact, aren’t you?”

I stood in front of the tall, narrow door that led to my mother’s private study. The wood was darker here—almost black—and the brass handle was cold beneath my fingers. I hesitated momentarily, my knuckles hovering, before I finally knocked twice, each rap echoing through the quiet corridor.

A pause.

Then: “Enter.”

Her voice cut clean through the air like a blade through silk.

I turned the handle and stepped inside.

The study smelled faintly of pressed flowers, old leather, and something metallic I couldn’t quite place. The candles on the wall sconces cast long, angular shadows that danced as I entered. For a moment, everything felt ordinary—until it didn’t.

Something moved. Not my mother. Not me.

A shadow. Not one cast by flame or form. It darted across the far corner of the room—too fast, too fluid. It rippled like it was made of smoke, avoiding the candlelight spilling in from the hall behind me. My breath caught. I took a step back, and it vanished behind one of the tall bookshelves like a child playing hide and seek.

“Close the door, Cynthia,” my mother said without looking up. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her posture ramrod straight. She sat in her high-backed chair like a monarch on a throne. “The light from the hallway is... disruptive.”

I closed the door, and the room dimmed to near twilight.

“Sit,” she commanded.

I sat.

She tilted her chin just slightly in my direction. “So. How did you enjoy your first true Festival?”

I hesitated. My mind was still caught on that flickering shadow—but I could tell she was waiting.

“I didn’t,” I said. “Not in the way you wanted me to.”

Her brow arched delicately, like a question mark carved from marble. “No?”

“Samuel is gone. And no one even flinched. They knelt as if it were a blessing.” My voice was shaking. “That wasn’t a celebration. That was a... sacrifice.”

“Words have weight, Cynthia. Be careful how you wield them.” Her tone was calm, but that made it worse. Her restraint was a weapon. “You witnessed the Festival in its truest form. That is not something most your age can claim.”

“It was wrong,” I said quietly. “It was monstrous.”

Her gaze darkened—not angry, just colder, somehow further away. She rose slowly from her chair, walking toward the far window. “Justice,” she murmured as if tasting the word and finding it lacking. “You speak of it as if it's a luxury we can afford. As if it exists outside of power. But in this house, in this world, power is justice.”

I stood too, anger bubbling beneath my ribs. “That’s not strength. That’s fear dressed in tradition.”

She turned sharply to face me, her silhouette etched against the faint glow of moonlight beyond the curtains. “You think strength is softness? Is that kindness enough to hold a legacy in place? One day, Cynthia, this duchy will be yours. And you will see what I mean. You will be asked to do things that stain your hands and keep you awake at night. But the alternative... is ruin.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“To lead House Adumbral is to keep the pact.”

The room stilled. That word—pact—hung between us like a blade suspended mid-swing.

“What pact?” I asked.

“You already know the shape of it. You've seen it move. You've heard its breath. The Festival is not some empty tradition. It is a covenant. One that binds us to something older than names, older than even this house.”

I shook my head. “You’re saying we owe it something? That we feed it?”

Her expression softened—not in warmth, but in pity. “You think you still have a choice.”

There was a silence so complete I could hear the scratching of something just behind the bookshelf again. My eyes darted toward it, but my mother did not follow my gaze. She didn’t need to.

“The creature in the ballroom,” I said slowly. “The one made from the sins of the founding houses... that’s what the Festival feeds.”

She nodded once. “And one day, Cynthia, you will be its keeper.”

My hands balled into fists. “I will never become like you.”

She smiled, but it was weary. Not cruel.

"No, my dear. You'll become worse. Because unlike me... you care. And that is what will break you."