Before the tea began, Szylla had insisted almost offhandedly, as though it were the most natural demand in the world—on selecting an ensemble for me from one of her many shadowed closets.

  Her servants had led me through darkened hallways lined with silent, hooded statues that almost seemed to breathe. We'd entered a dressing chamber paneled in black walnut and lined floor-to-ceiling with elaborate garments swaddled in sheets of pale spider-silk. A low mist clung to the carpet, curling around my ankles like inquisitive little hands.

  When they unveiled the gown chosen for me, I nearly balked. But under Szylla's expectant eye piercing me even from afar—I'd submitted to the ritual.

  Now, stepping into the courtyard across from Wailfiend's deathless stare, I could feel every inch of the finery wrapping me in unfamiliar weight.

  The dress was a twilight marvel: a fitted bodice of midnight blue adorned with embroidery twisting into starlight sigils that seemed to shift under candlelight. The skirt was layered in fine, smoky tulle, drifting like low fog when I moved. A narrow silver belt was clasped at my waist by a cameo of a lioness's serene face—blindfolded, fanged with tiny crystal tears.

  Around my throat, Szylla's maid had fastened a choker of onyx lace, from which hung a small vial of swirling moonlight essence. It throbbed gently in time with my pulse.

  She had left my hair loose—long now from my transformations, tumbling down my back in gentle, feral waves—though tiny silver combs tucked it just so behind my tufted rabbit ears. It felt unnervingly pretty, almost decadent, the way it framed my more frustrated eyes.

  The parlor where Szylla chose to hold tea was a cavernous, dimly lit marvel, walled in by immense windows that showed only an endless swirl of midnight fog. Chandeliers dripped with candles burning in odd colors—lavender, sea-glass green, ghostly opal—and from somewhere high above came the faint clatter of chains, like a chandelier constantly shifting.

  An enormous silver tea service occupied the table’s center, surrounded by delicate porcelain cups painted with twisting maritime sketches that moved subtly when not looked at directly.

  I arrived last, following the ghostly scent of wilted lilies. When I stepped through the threshold, my eyes fell on Wailfiend—and nearly startled despite myself. Her stare nearly scorched me.

  She was seated primly on one side of the table, spine perfectly straight, hands folded around a small bouquet of white and ink-black roses. She wore a frilled bonnet in funereal violet trimmed with delicate lace that shadowed her eyes. Her dress matched—cinched tight at the waist, cascading in shadowy layers to the floor with ruffles that trembled whenever she breathed. Her long hair was partially gathered in a loose twist at the back, pinned with tiny glass skulls.

  She looked like the star of a haunted wedding portrait.

  Though she clutched her bouquet so hard the stems wept black sap. Her mouth parted just slightly, and that cavernous gaze swept over every stitched contour and trailing wisp of my borrowed gown. I wondered if she was seeing me, or seeing some memory of herself when she might have once dressed like this for a harvest festival or a lover's clandestine promise—before plague, before Szylla, before all that she had become.

  Her stare slid back up to meet mine. Hollow, ravenous, gleaming with something sharp and wistful.

  Szylla's approving nod had come with an airy compliment. "Oh, how splendid. I thought the dusk color would contrast marvelously with your ear's silver undertones. A predator deserves finery equal to her mystique, wouldn't you agree, Wailfiend?"

  Wailfiend's bonnet dipped slightly as if in restrained acknowledgment, but the twitch of her delicate jaw betrayed something nearer envy… or hunger dressed up in etiquette. Her next breath hitched, her bouquet trembling.

  "Perhaps, though I think it's wasted on someone so delightfully oblivious to her own effect."

  And so through the entire tea, under the gentle rattle of cups and the tender lull of that distant piano, Wailfiend's stare never left me. It followed each tilt of my head, each subtle adjustment of my bodice or the soft ripple of my skirt across my lap. As though she meant to memorize it; or calculate exactly how difficult it might be to steal such a shape for herself.

  I let her watch. Let her yearn or seethe or ache. Because this strange new skin of mine, for all its eerie luxury, was still merely that. A skin. And whatever else waited beneath was not something she could ever simply slip into.

  Szylla merely smiled wider like a spider exquisitely pleased with the fragile lines of her web.

  "Ah, KiAera." Szylla's voice poured across the room like warm syrup. "Just in time. We were waiting on you to begin."

  The Sovereign was already seated at the head of the table, parasol propped against her chair, her elegant hands folded atop a lace napkin. Her high-necked dress was midnight trimmed in crimson ribbon, her monocle flashing with curious little glyphs whenever she glanced at me.

  And standing behind her—dutiful, stoic—was the butler.

  He was a towering specimen of something monstrous, yet oddly dignified: a Weregangrolf. Nearly eight feet tall, covered in dense purple fur threaded through with glistening streaks of necrotic grey. His bipedal lupine form was impressively regal, chest broad and shoulders squared beneath a perfectly tailored black waistcoat. A starched cravat adorned his throat, a polished monocle perched over one amber eye. In his clawed hands, he carefully held a silver teapot with etched runes.

  His snout twitched as he inclined his massive head toward me. "Madam," he growled with unnervingly perfect etiquette. His voice was gravel dragged through velvet.

  I dipped my head, only half-suppressing a bemused smirk.

  Wailfiend never blinked. Her hands crushed her bouquet tighter, sending a few dark petals cascading to the tabletop. Her bonnet cast her eyes deeper into shadow, but I still felt the intensity of that stare—like a mausoleum door creaking inward just enough to show you the dark.

  Szylla gestured to the chair opposite Wailfiend. "Please, sit. Moesgrave will pour."

  As I settled, the Weregangrolf glided around the table with impossible delicacy for his massive claws. Steam curled from the spout in little floral ghosts. When he poured into my cup, the liquid was not quite tea. It shimmered, faintly phosphorescent, with tiny motes that burst like tiny stars.

  "Chamomile infused with star-thistle and echo root," Szylla explained, watching me with a smile both fond and clinical. "It soothes the new nerves. And it encourages… clarity of mind, even in those who've undergone violent metamorphosis."

  Moesgrave poured next for Wailfiend, who accepted it without tearing her eyes from me. Her hands, pale and almost translucent, trembled slightly around the delicate handle.

  "So, KiAera," Szylla began. "Now that you've settled into your Dormant state—and demonstrated remarkable adaptability—I am most curious about your long-term instincts. You see, many who evolve under duress emerge with fixations. Hungers. It might be for territory, for certain kinds of prey, or even for companionship of a specific shape."

  Her eyes glinted. "Have you noticed anything… peculiar? Or alluring?"

  I met her gaze, though the question sparked an uncomfortable flutter under my ribs. "No compulsions. No new obsessions. Just… a sense of restlessness. Like I want to keep changing, but only when I decide to."

  Szylla's smile turned approving. "Marvelous. Self-directed evolution is a rare jewel."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  All the while, Wailfiend continued to watch me. Her stare never wavered. Her bouquet drooped, black roses shedding one by one, each petal seeming to curl into tiny shriveled hands that twitched on the table before going still.

  At last I couldn't help it. I turned to her. "Is there something on my face?"

  Her lips parted. For a moment, her voice caught like a moth in her throat.

  "You're… very alive-looking," she breathed. "It's distracting."

  Her fingers clutched her bouquet so tightly the stems cracked. "When I look at you, I think I remember what warm skin felt like. What it was to be… a girl. Who worried about silly things. About her hair, or freckles, or—"

  She cut herself off, teeth clenching with a brittle click. Then her expression shifted, trying for something sly and ghoulish. Her grin was full of too many teeth, her eyes growing wide and glassy.

  "Perhaps I'll peel your face off later and try it on for an evening. See if it suits me."

  She waited. Eager, hoping for a flinch.

  I just sipped my tea.

  Her grin faltered. A tiny, offended huff escaped her, almost petulant. She hunched slightly, bonnet tipping forward to hide the faint flush of embarrassed irritation that crept up her neck.

  Szylla laughed, the sound cool and pleased. "My dear Wailfiend, it seems our KiAera is not so easily rattled anymore. Isn't that delightful?"

  Moesgrave, still standing perfectly behind Szylla's chair, let out a soft, approving rumble. His breath fogged the back of my cup with frost as he adjusted the tray.

  For a time, the four of us—two monsters, a once-human girl wearing her curse like finery, and a Sovereign older than half the world—sat in genteel silence, surrounded by ghostly candlelight and distant, sorrowful piano music that seemed to echo from nowhere.

  Finally, Szylla set her cup down, steepling her fingers. Her monocle shone with quiet gravity. "When we are finished here, KiAera, I shall introduce you to the Hall of Masks. There are older memories there—some perhaps even yours, though borrowed through other lives. Be prepared. Not every mirror tells only the truth."

  Wailfiend gave a small, delighted shiver at that, her bonnet bobbing. But her next look at me was tinged with a fragile sort of longing, brittle as a winter branch.

  I shook my head. "No, what I really want to know is why you're keeping me here, Szylla. I demand to exit your realm to rejoin my companions." I tore the bracelet she gave me off, and emphasized my insistence with a darn heavy slam on the table.

  It hissed back. The table gave a subtle shudder under my hand as well.

  Szylla did not flinch. Her hands remained steepled, her monocle catching a fresh array of tiny glyphs that flared and died as she regarded me. The corners of her lips curved in a faint, amused shape that could have been mistaken for warmth if not for the chilly patience in her eyes.

  "How very forward of you, little dusk blossom. You complete my Ascension Rite. You stabilize your new nature so sweetly in my care. And then you wish to depart before sampling even half the feast laid out for you."

  I looked at Szylla, and the bitterness rose like bile behind my teeth.

  "You knew it was going to hurt that much," I said. Not a question. She hesitated. That was answer enough.

  "You didn't warn me. You just smiled, like it was a dinner invitation."

  She didn't flinch. "You wouldn't have accepted the Rite if I had."

  I hated that she was right. Hated it more that part of me respected her for it. I turned from her, staring into the dancing embers of the cold fire.

  "I don't know what you are," I resumed, "but I'm starting to understand what I am. And I don't know if I should thank you or punch you."

  "Why not both?" Szylla offered.

  I rubbed the space between my brows where the mark still sizzled faintly, and met her eyes.

  "And you just threw me into that," I said. Not angry, just stating it. "Knowing it would kill me."

  She said nothing. Her tentacles stilled.

  "I felt it, you know? That death. The tearing. It hurt. Not just body—soul. And you just stood there watching, sipping your floral tea in your perfect little fake-cabin, hoping I'd either disintegrate or 'ascend.' You didn't care which."

  Szylla's lips pressed together. "It is the Rite."

  "I'm not one of your monsters," I said, sharper now. "And you're not some misunderstood schoolmarm with tentacles and a tragic violin soundtrack. That was cruel. I survived in spite of you."

  Her eyes glinted. "And yet, you did." And maybe that was the cruelest thing she could've said. Because she wasn't wrong. And I hated that part.

  I sucked in a shaky breath, the phantom taste of brimstone still thick on my tongue. My nails flexed in my lap, tips dragging faintly across the fabric of my gown. I wasn't sure if I meant to shred it. Maybe I just wanted something—anything—to feel pain the way I had.

  Across the table, Wailfiend's stare never wavered. Her bonnet cast a lace of shadow over her thin, unsettling grin.

  "You survived," she whispered, her voice curling with that hollow music. "Most don't. Do you know how many I've watched fail? How many pretty things screamed until there was nothing left but particles and fog?"

  Her eyes glistened, too bright, too hungry. "You were glorious. All lit up and breaking. And then… not. You remade yourself. That's the point."

  I leaned forward, elbows biting the table. My ears twitched, half-flattened, a primal little flicker of disgust. "You talk like it's poetry. It wasn't. It was agony. It was my veins full of shards and my thoughts getting torn up like crumpled paper."

  "Maybe it was poetry," and Wailfiend giggled. Her grin widened, strained at the corners. "Poetry doesn't always rhyme. Sometimes it just bleeds pretty."

  I laughed and dragged a nail along the brim of my teacup. "Sheesh, you're worse than she is."

  Wailfiend's smile faltered, like a child stung by an unexpected slap. Her shoulders hunched, bonnet bobbing, and she half-turned away, muttering something about "ungrateful living things."

  Szylla's tentacles stirred lightly beneath the table, tapping along the floor in an absent, almost thoughtful rhythm.

  "It was cruel," she said at last, voice low and unashamed. "Cruelty is sometimes the cleanest way to peel back what doesn't serve. To test what deserves to survive. I could have coddled you, softened the edges, told you tender lies. Would you trust that more? Or would you wonder forever what was waiting when the veil finally fell?"

  I swallowed. My throat felt raw again, scraped by memory.

  "I don't know what I would've done. Maybe I'd have run. Or maybe I'd have begged you to make it gentle. And then I'd have died for it."

  "There it is," Szylla breathed. Her smile turned soft, even affectionate, though her eyes were pitiless. "The truth that offends you most is also the one that just saved your existence. You didn't die. You shattered and re-formed. Your marrow remembered how to fight. Now you're something that can stand in my halls without dissolving. You belong to this place. To yourself, finally."

  I couldn't answer. The words jammed up behind my teeth like glass splinters. So I looked at Wailfiend instead. She was still half-turned, sulking into her bouquet, tiny spectral moths drifting out from between the blooms. They circled her head, casting brief, delicate glows on her wan cheek.

  "Is this really who you want to serve," I blurted, realizing it aloud. "That's what all this staring is. You hate that I am receiving Szylla's attention."

  Wailfiend flinched. Her hands squeezed the bouquet so tight it let out a tiny, pained sigh. Her eyes went wide and damp, like a scolded girl about to run from the room. Then her lips pulled back in a thin, strained leer.

  "What I feel is none of your business, precious beast. Maybe I'm simply waiting to see if your seams come undone, so I can gather up what leaks out and whisper to it while it dies."

  It didn't even sting. Not the way she hoped. That probably hurt her worse.

  I sat back in my chair, my tail curling slowly around one ankle, fingers tapping at the table. "You can keep watching. I'm not falling apart again. Not for either of you."

  A hushed, satisfied laugh rolled from Szylla, her tentacles giving a small, almost pleased shiver.

  "That's precisely why the Rite chose you, KiAera. Why I chose to accept you. So don't resent the pain too deeply. It's already written into your bones—and look how beautifully they carry you now."

  Wailfiend made a tiny noise, halfway between a giggle and a sob, and hunched deeper into her bonnet. The moths spun faster around her, then settled back into the folds of her shadowed dress.

  I let out a slow breath, heavy with old bitterness that hadn't quite found its grave. My hands finally stilled.

  "So long as you understand," I said quietly, "that I'm still me. I didn't become yours, Szylla. Not truly. Not ever."

  Szylla inclined her head, that enigmatic smile tightening at the corners in something that might have been the first glint of actual respect.

  "Of course, my dear. You are entirely your own. And that," she breathed, leaning back in her chair with a delicate sigh, "is exactly what makes you worth keeping alive."

  The candle flames bowed inward, as if sighing with us. In that hush, with the monstrous butler lingering silent at my back and Wailfiend peeking over her crushed flowers with wounded, covetous eyes, I realized this would be my life for a long time yet. Tea with nightmares. Bargains with cruelty. And a heart still tender enough to remember what fear used to feel like…even if I couldn't afford to anymore.

  Szylla head tilted. Somewhere high above, a chain gave a lazy clatter. I could not see what it dragged, or what watched from the gloom beyond the chandeliers.

  "You misunderstand," I said, forcing the words past a throat that had gone tight. "I agreed to the Rite to prevent further loss of control. To be able to stand beside those who need me, not to be tethered here like one of your many curiosities."

  "Curiosities?" Szylla let out a delicate sound of offense that was far too measured to be genuine. She tapped a single claw-tipped finger against her own lace-clad wrist. "My dear, if you were merely a curiosity, you would rest comfortably in a glass reliquary by now, visited by my more discerning guests on winter masquerades."

  "KiAera," Wailfiend's shoulders hunched as though bracing for a blow, though her eyes darted to me with something oddly close to pleading. Her bouquet trembled. A black petal broke free, twirling to the table where it curled in on itself like a dying spider.

  I held Szylla's gaze. "Then let me leave."

  For a time, nothing happened. The candles burned low, dripping colored wax that pooled in intricate patterns. The piano in the distant dark continued to play itself, soft and mournful.

  Then Szylla's tentacles stirred beneath the table, slipping forward with slow, sinuous care until their delicate tips tapped lightly around the edge where my hands rested.