Eliza followed the sound, her bare feet padding lightly against the castle's cold stone floors. The music was growing louder and deeper, resonating through the once vibrant halls.

  As she moved, she noticed something strange.

  The castle—once a decaying ruin—seemed… different.

  The cracks in the walls were vanishing, the faded tapestries regaining their deep, rich hues. The twisted, skeletal chandeliers flickered with a stronger, more defiant glow, and the broken statues lining the corridors stood a little taller as if remembering their former majesty.

  The air itself seemed lighter.

  Had the castle always been healing? Or was something—someone—restoring it piece by piece?

  The music surged, no longer just drums, but layered—an eerie, enthralling harmony.

  A guitar.

  A deep, sorrowful wail of strings, vibrating through the stone and marrow of the kingdom itself.

  Eliza’s breath hitched as she reached a set of heavy doors. They were different from the others, not worn or crumbling, but carved with intricate patterns—swirling vines and blooming roses woven into the dark wood.

  With hesitant fingers, she pushed them open.

  A garden.

  Not a ruined, dying plot of land like she had expected, but a perfect sanctuary, untouched by time.

  The grass was lush, thick, and wild, bathed in the cool silver glow of the Forever Moons. Crooked trees stretched toward the sky, their leaves glistening like gemstones, swaying gently in an unseen breeze. Flowers of every imaginable color blossomed in the soft light, their petals curling as if whispering secrets to one another.

  There were stone pathways, winding gracefully through the greenery, leading to park-like elements—benches carved from obsidian and white marble, a crystal-clear pond reflecting the moon’s glow, ivy-laced archways that framed the night-like painted windows.

  And at the heart of it all, beneath an arch of black roses, was them.

  An undead band.

  A skeletal drummer, arms moving with unnatural precision, tapping out a steady, thunderous beat against a set of drums carved from bone.

  A violinist, their instrument made of polished ribs and strings of pale, silken hair, drawing a bow with a haunting, aching melody.

  An organist, seated before an instrument of bones, the keys clicking as skeletal fingers danced over them, playing deep, sorrowful notes that vibrated through the air.

  And in the center—a guitar of bone.

  Its body is sculpted from a massive ribcage, its strings glistening with some otherworldly sheen. And there, strumming it with dark grace, was him.

  Tenebrae.

  Draped in flowing black, the prince stood at the center of the macabre symphony, his long white hair illuminated under the moonlight, his glowing green eyes half-lidded, lost in the music.

  And he was singing.

  His voice was raw, powerful, laced with something almost painful to hear—an emotion Eliza couldn’t quite name.

  “There’s a darkness hidden in me,

  Black fire calls my name,

  One step from giving into rage,

  Torn apart by those I loved,

  Locked away inside their hell,

  My life has started to fade.”

  Eliza’s breath caught.

  She wasn’t alone.

  A small figure bumped into her side, startling her.

  She turned to see Opal, the young Udine girl, standing just behind her. Her wide, ocean-blue eyes were transfixed on the scene before them, her small hands clutched tightly to the front of her robe.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Neither of them dared to.

  They simply stood there, listening.

  “I ran to you, to stop the pain,

  Always running to your arms, Evil Queen,

  But now I see, you were not good for me.”

  The band surged with him, the violinist’s bow slicing across the strings, sending a chilling, heart-wrenching note through the garden. The organ groaned like a lamenting spirit, and the drummer pounded against the bones, sending deep tremors through the earth.

  But Tenebrae didn’t falter.

  His fingers moved skillfully over the bone guitar, each note deliberate, every word dripping with something bitter and real.

  “This kingdom around me, full of potential and promise,

  I won’t build you up just to let you fall!”

  “This time, I’ll meet them face to face!”

  Eliza felt something deep in her chest twist.

  “There’s a fire inside of me,

  Always burning, drowning inside,

  Evil Queen, now I see,

  You were never good for me.”

  His voice carried through the garden, rising into the night, wrapping around the castle itself like an unchained spirit.

  Eliza had never heard this Tenebrae before.

  This wasn’t the cold, calculating prince who spoke in clipped, emotionless words.

  This wasn’t the distant lich who kept himself locked away.

  This was something raw, something alive—something full of fury and sorrow.

  And the music, the way it coursed through the garden, how the skeletons played as though they had been waiting centuries for this moment—this was not a performance.

  This was true.

  Eliza swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

  She glanced at Opal, who was staring, completely mesmerized.

  The young girl did not speak.

  She did not cry.

  She simply listened, as though the words were reaching somewhere deeper than she had known she could be reached.

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  And maybe… maybe they were.

  Eliza turned back to Tenebrae.

  He hadn’t noticed them yet.

  Or if he had, he did not care.

  He simply kept playing.

  And for the first time, Eliza wondered how much of himself he had been holding back.

  After some time.

  The castle had long since returned to its usual eerie quiet, the echoes of music fading into the shadows of the night. But Eliza found no peace. She wandered the halls, her thoughts tangled with frustration and unanswered questions.

  She had learned that waiting for Tenebrae to explain things to her was useless—he wouldn’t. He never did.

  So she went looking for Mirabella instead.

  As she approached Tenebrae’s chambers, she slowed. The heavy doors always closed to all but his most trusted, were just barely cracked. Through the sliver of space, moonlight spilled onto the polished floor, casting long shadows over the deep violet and black of his bedding.

  And there—on the edge of his grand, darkly regal bed—she saw her.

  Mirabella.

  The stitched woman was draped across his sheets, her clockwork-fabric clothing fanned out like delicate embroidery, brushing over his pillows, his covers—his space.

  As if she were claiming it.

  Eliza’s breath caught, an unfamiliar tightness twisting in her chest. It wasn’t her place to say anything—it wasn’t her place, period.

  And yet, she turned sharply on her heel and left, jaw tight.

  She found Lady Aura in the kitchen, her elegant centaur form moving with practiced ease as she cleaned up with a flick of her fingers, magic weaving through the room. Her tail—a long, scorpion-like appendage—swayed lazily behind her as she began preparing what looked to be a meal.

  Eliza lingered in the doorway before stepping forward.

  “Hello, Lady Aura,” she greeted, keeping her voice even. “How are you this… evening?”

  Lady Aura chuckled at her formality. “The same as I am every evening, my lady. And you?” Her sharp, knowing eyes flickered to Eliza as if sensing the unrest behind her words. “Would you like a snack?”

  Eliza shook her head. “No, I can wait until dinner. But I was hoping you could… fill me in on something.”

  Aura turned her full attention to her now, tilting her head slightly in curiosity. “Oh? And what might that be?”

  Eliza hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “I often hear a lot of music in the castle,” she said, carefully keeping her tone casual. “At times, I mean.”

  Aura gave a soft, almost wistful nod. “The young master loves to play. Always has. It is one of his greatest outlets.”

  Eliza already knew that much. But she had heard the pain in his voice when he sang. Music was an outlet, yes—but it was also a confession.

  And so she asked, “What exactly did Lilith mean to him?”

  The warmth in Lady Aura’s expression faded slightly. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked at Eliza, really looking at her, as if measuring something in her gaze.

  “You know,” she finally said, crossing her arms over her chest, “I have known the young master since before he became a Lich. And in all that time, I have only ever seen him look at one other woman the way he once looked at Lilith.”

  Eliza felt her breath hitch.

  She didn’t ask who the other woman was. She didn’t have to.

  Something sharp, something ugly twisted inside her. Jealousy.

  Why?

  She pushed it down, schooling her features into neutrality as Aura continued.

  “Lilith and the young master… We all thought they were meant to be,” Aura admitted. “So much so that I was already preparing for a wedding.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “All of it—every last bit of it—was a deception. A carefully orchestrated attempt to leave this kingdom weakened, to strip the young master of his power. We believe she was working alongside another kingdom… to obtain the crown.”

  Eliza latched onto that. ”The crown?"

  Aura nodded, though there was hesitation in her voice. “I do not know much. I am no necromancer. But I do know that the crown allows a necromancer—or a Lich—to undergo trials. To ascend."

  “Ascend to what?"

  “I do not know,” Aura admitted. “But the closer you get to ascension, the stronger you become. The former king was powerful, but he never ascended. I suspect there is more to it, but it is a mystery known only to those who walk the path of the undead.” She paused, then added carefully, “I do know this… The crown is not to be taken lightly. Once worn, it can only be removed once without severe consequences. Death, if the wearer is fortunate.”

  Eliza felt a chill crawl up her spine.

  “I am just glad the young master was able to keep it on while he was trapped in your realm,” Aura said with a relieved sigh.

  Eliza stiffened.

  That… wasn’t true.

  He hadn’t kept the crown on.

  He had been forced to remove it.

  And it had nearly killed him.

  Her stomach churned, anger rising alongside the shame that had been buried deep since she first arrived. She had been part of it. Part of his imprisonment. Part of the experiments. Part of the agony they put him through.

  What gave her the right?

  What gave the organization the right?

  She needed to leave.

  Mumbling an excuse, she turned and walked quickly out of the kitchen, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

  As she walked the empty corridors, her mind was spinning.

  A Lich was supposed to be a being of undeath, decayed, and hollow, a creature that had forfeited its humanity in exchange for power.

  But Tenebrae wasn’t.

  He still felt things.

  He wasn’t a mindless husk, nor was he the monstrous horror she had been conditioned to expect.

  And if the crown was supposed to make him stronger, yet he hadn’t ascended…

  What if being forced into her world—a world with no magic—had returned him to his humanity?

  What if the cost of his power was directly tied to this place?

  What if his magic worked differently here, affecting his body in ways even he didn’t fully understand?

  What if…

  What if he wasn’t a monster at all?

  The thought shook her.

  It terrified her.

  Eliza couldn’t shake the thoughts from her mind.

  If he wasn’t the monster… then what did that make them?

  What did that make her?

  The things they did to him. The things she had played a part in.

  The experiments. The pain. The countless hours of treating him like something to be studied rather than someone.

  The thought made her stomach twist with disgust—not at him, but at herself.

  She didn’t have time to dwell on it before the rhythmic clanking of metal filled the corridor, followed by the unmistakable voice of Zanac.

  “Ohhh laaaady Eliiiiza!”

  She turned, finding the overweight, metallic butler approaching, dressed impeccably in his signature dark vest and long coat, his gleaming metal frame polished to perfection.

  She had always found his voice strange—deep, yet almost whistling through his frame, as if the very air had to work around the iron confines of his body.

  "It’s just Eliza, Zanac,” she corrected, shaking her head. “No need for ‘Lady.’”

  Zanac gasped dramatically, clutching his chest with one tin hand. ”Nonsense! Absolute nonsense! You are Lady Eliza, and I shall always treat you as such!”

  She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Alright, alright. What’s this about?”

  Zanac smoothed his vest with exaggerated precision. “Now, we must get you dressed."

  Eliza blinked. “Dressed for what?”

  Ignoring her, he retrieved a small piece of parchment from his coat pocket, tossed it into the air, and set it aflame with nothing but a flick of his fingers.

  The embers curled in the air before vanishing completely.

  Eliza raised a brow. “What was that?”

  “Ah!” Zanac beamed. “A message spell. A most convenient form of communication! One may sign a pact to send messages to each other across short distances—though do be careful, as these pacts are dreadfully difficult to break. And message spammers can be most bothersome.”

  Eliza nearly choked on a laugh. ”What did you just call them?"

  “Message spammers,” Zanac repeated with a straight face.

  She covered her mouth, actually laughing now. ”Even this place has spam callers?”

  Zanac simply nodded sagely.

  Mirabella arrived soon after, though Eliza knew exactly where she had been and had no interest in making things more awkward.

  It wasn’t long before she and Opal had been properly dressed and enchanted.

  She had never worn anything quite like it.

  A gown of midnight black, woven with delicate silver embroidery that shimmered under the candlelight. The fabric was impossibly soft, weightless against her skin, yet it moved like flowing water, hugging her frame in all the right ways.

  Dark silver earrings dangled from her ears, carved into intricate spirals that seemed to catch the dim glow of the castle’s torches, reflecting light like tiny stars.

  Her hair had been gathered into loose, elegant waves, half pinned back with onyx hairpins shaped like blooming roses.

  And her eyes.

  They looked different now.

  Somehow deeper, darker—or perhaps it was just the way she was beginning to see herself.

  When she stepped forward, Opal gasped.

  The young Undine girl’s oceanic eyes widened in delight, and she clapped her hands together, her tail flicking slightly beneath the hem of her own dark gown.

  “Pretty!” Opal whispered in awe.

  Eliza felt heat creep into her face, unused to such attention. She kneeled slightly, brushing Opal’s cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. You look beautiful too.”

  The child’s face lit up, glowing under the Forever Moons.

  And with that, they were ready.

  Zanac led them into the court of the castle, where a grand black carriage awaited.

  The horses that pulled it were massive, strong, their coats as white as bone, but their eyes pulsed with an eerie green glow.

  Eliza’s breath hitched.

  This wasn’t just an ordinary carriage ride.

  Something felt dark but comforting about the energy crackling in the air, something unnatural yet regal.

  And then he arrived.

  Tenebrae emerged from the castle, draped in his usual black and silver robes, his expression unreadable.

  “Do not open the door until the trip is over,” he instructed, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. “And do not—under any circumstances—open the windows.”

  Eliza frowned. “Why?”

  “The miasma.”

  The air around the carriage pulsed, glowing faintly as Tenebrae traced symbols in the air with his clawed fingers. Enchantments. Protection wards.

  She felt them settle over her like a second skin, wrapping around the carriage itself in a barrier of power.

  Then, without another word, Ten opened the carriage door, motioning for them to enter.

  Eliza took one last look at the horses—at the way their glowing green eyes followed her—and stepped inside.

  The door shut behind them, sealing them in near silence.

  Outside, the air shifted.

  A rift opened before them—a swirling, black abyss stretching into nothingness.

  Eliza shivered.

  Zanac, standing outside, blew a whistle.

  A sound echoed in response—a low, guttural groan.

  Then… a hand reached out.

  Not human.

  Not alive.

  A long, decayed hand, dripping with something dark, emerged from the rift.

  Eliza’s pulse skyrocketed.

  She barely caught a glimpse of what Zanac handed it—a small boat anchor and… something red. Something wet.

  A heart.

  Before she could react, she was yanked inside.

  The carriage lurched forward.

  The doors locked.

  And as the rift swallowed them whole, the castle of Goodnight faded behind them.