Mo tumbled out of the portal with a soggy thump—imagine a disgruntled cat spitting up a hairball—and the brief flash of light dissolved into a sharp crackle of ozone. She swore under her breath, bracing a hand on the damp ground as she eased onto her aching knees.

  "Ten out of ten for that landing," she muttered, wincing.

  The stench of damp moss hung in the air, threaded with a faint metallic note—old blood, if she had to guess.

  "Home, sweet home," Mo thought bitterly, eyeing the towering walls with a twist of unease. "Some things never change. I can't say I'm happy to see these walls again."

  Around her, Blackthorn Keep loomed under a sickly red sky, its once-grand spires pointing like jagged teeth. Vines gripped the walls as if desperate to escape and finally find their freedom. Windows that weren't broken had crooked planks nailed across them. The massive wooden doors sagged on rusted hinges, offering an awkward welcome.

  Mo brushed dirt from her hoodie and let out a low whistle.

  "So, the place is really living its best life, huh?"

  Her sneakers scraped against jagged gravel, each step echoing in the hush. She glanced down at her favorite hoodie and jeans—her usual shield of comfort—now utterly wrong for a place that felt more haunted than home. Still, at least it grounded her a bit, as if the vibe of the life she had built for her on Earth could spread to the Keep, making Mo's stay here tolerable.

  As Mo crossed the courtyard, wiry weeds snagged at her ankles, claiming every fracture in the worn stones. In the middle, a fountain squatted in eerie silence, its gargoyles chipped and sneering as if mocking any notion of welcome. Mo ran her hand over one grotesque face, feeling only the faintest tingle of ancient magic.

  "Yep, definitely not depressing at all," Mo said. "What did you do with this place? It wasn't that long since I left."

  The gargoyle stared back, stone lips snarling. Mo knew a few like those. A bit more alive, though.

  Turning away, she steadied herself. Deep breath, Mo. This was your call.

  Several robed attendants crept out of the Keep, their cowls throwing uneasy shadows across pale faces. They almost looked dignified—until the one at the head tripped on a broken step and pitched forward, sprawling at Mo's feet with a gasp. The others stood in awkward formation like they had never practiced how to greet a Dark Lady who'd rather be anywhere else.

  The fallen person slowly gathered himself and raised his head, trembling slightly. Mo took a step towards him and stretched out her hand. But the man only drew back in alarm as if he was offered a vial of poison.

  She recognized each robed silhouette—faces from her childhood, grown gaunter with time.

  "Welcome home, Lady Morgana," croaked the one on the ground, voice shaking. "Welcome back to Blackthorn Keep."

  "Uh, thanks, guys," Mo said. "You know, for the top-tier hospitality. Any chance you have coffee? I didn't have time to go to work today."

  The robed figures collectively froze. An uncomfortable cough followed.

  "We've, um, prepared the appropriate beverages," one said, shifting uncomfortably. "But we hoped you'd check your coronation schedule first. We made very traditional, as it supposed to be."

  Not waiting for the robed figures any longer, Mo took a few steps toward the grand entrance.

  "Of course, that's how it is," muttered Mo, approaching the entrance.

  ***

  Stepping into the great hall, Mo felt as though she'd entered a mausoleum for former glory: a crooked chandelier tottered above, its crystals lost in layers of soot; heaps of broken stone and splintered wood made each step treacherous, and the tattered banners drooping from the rafters reeked of mildew as if even the magic had begun to rot.

  Mo kicked a chunk of debris aside.

  "Home sweet home," she muttered, voice echoing in the cavernous space. She wandered deeper, the emptiness swallowing her footsteps.

  After walking through a series of passageways, halls, and chambers, she finally reached the place she'd been looking for. Everything was as she remembered. But different at the same time. Even correcting for the intensity of the childhood memories, the throne room seemed subdued now. Mo wouldn't say that the color had left it. There was never much color here. But it just… dulled.

  At the heart of the chamber loomed a colossal throne of ebony wood carved with serpents and gargoyles that seemed to twist under the flicker of candlelight. Mo tilted her head, studying it, and stepped closer, brushing her fingers over the surface. A thick layer of dust stuck to her fingertips, making her sneeze involuntarily.

  "Hmmmm…" a voice sounded in her head.

  "Yeah. You've definitely seen better days."

  As she leaned in, a jolt of cool energy curled through her like an echo of the Keep's former might, hinting at the dark magic once beating here. Now, it felt like a heart forced into hibernation—powerful yet starved.

  Swallowing her nerves, Mo turned around and sat on the second to top step of the dais, hugging her knees. Why am I here?

  The welcoming committee was finally filing into the room, unable to keep up with Mo. They hugged the furthest wall, unsure how to proceed and if it was safe to approach.

  In the background, there was a constant noise. It seemed unfamiliar and entirely out of place. It surged and receded like a restless tide against jagged rocks, swelling with fury before pulling back into an uneasy lull. Yet beneath it all was a deeper, more ominous presence—like distant thunder rolling over the horizon, a low growl of discontent that never truly faded, only gathering strength for the next crash.

  But it was a faint shuffle behind her that made her jump.

  She turned to see Lord Aldric Thorne—tall, polished, and radiating a vibe like he'd walked out of a gothic etiquette manual, and his condescending stare could slice steel. His white fur gleamed under the dim chandeliers of the grand hall, each strand perfectly in place, as though he'd been sculpted rather than born. And who knows, maybe that was precisely how he arrived in this world. It was so many centuries ago that no one could shed any light on his origin.

  The golden antlers that crowned his head seemed to glow faintly, casting an ethereal halo around him. His dark robes were embroidered with so many golden sigils that he looked less like a person and more like a living, breathing manifesto of villainous propriety. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto hers, and Mo felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force pressing against her chest.

  "Ah, the prodigal daughter," while his smile was polite, his voice dripped with sarcasm. "I trust your time among the rabble was… enlightening?"

  She rolled her eyes. "You have no idea."

  Aldric cleared his throat with theatrical precision.

  "We face… difficulties," he measured each word as if he had to give a gold piece to each of them. "The Keep's resources are strained. Goblins refuse taxes. Minions want… benefits. And someone cursed the kitchen bread to bite."

  "Sentient bread?" Mo repeated, every syllable loaded with disbelief. "Great. I'm not even crowned yet, and this place is already at Defcon Chaos."

  Aldric gave a thin-lipped nod. "Crowning. Yes. There's also one matter I have to mention regarding your coronation. It's… provisional."

  "Excuse me?"

  Aldric pushed a scroll into her hands. "By order of the Council, you must attend Umbra Academy. Complete the Dark Lordship Mastery program. Only then is your coronation… official."

  She gaped. "I have to pass villain school to officially be the Dark Lady? I never wanted it. But isn't it supposed to be, you know, hereditary?"

  "Of course," Aldric said, unbothered. "That's the tradition. But you know how it is nowadays. Bureaucracy. They hold all the power."

  Mo stood up and made those last few steps that separated her from the throne. But before she could reach it, Aldric stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. There was no chance for Mo to shake off it or push against it.

  "No-no-no," Aldric said, shaking his head. "You aren't allowed yet."

  "But who's ruling in the absence of the Dark Lord?" asked Mo.

  "That's a prudent question," said Aldric. "But I'm afraid I don't have a good answer for you."

  "What's that sound in the distance?" asked Mo.

  "Ah, that?" said Aldric. "It's strange that you didn't notice it when you were outside in the yard. But maybe it's not that obvious on that side of the Keep."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "So, what is it?"

  "But why? It's goblins, of course. They protest."

  "What!?" exclaimed Mo. "Even the goblins? What's happening here? So, should we take a look?"

  "Nothing to lose," said Aldric. "Sure, why not?"

  He turned and headed away from the dais. Mo, however, paused before following him and touched the throne again.

  "Grrrr… Unworthy… Mediocre…"

  "What the?!?" exclaimed Mo.

  "Yeah, it got even grumpier since it couldn't sense your father's butt anymore," said Aldric. "Please, follow me. You wanted to see the goblins. The best viewing spot would be the grand balcony."

  ***

  A sea of green spread below the balcony. Here, finally, Mo was able to hear the source of that background sound that had been following her since her arrival at the throne room. The crowd shifted slowly, as if waves of goblins were probing the walls of the Keep. Still, it didn't feel like a siege. More like a rally. A rally with thousands of people attending it.

  After a moment, Mo realized that the waves were constantly going over the crowd, like at a football match. Somehow, they seemed synchronized with the chants that spread over the crowd.

  "NO MORE TAX! WE WON'T RELAX!

  GOBLINS RISE—WE ORGANIZE!"

  The crowd erupted in cheers and boos.

  And then:

  "WE DESERVE A BETTER DEAL,

  OR WE'LL MAKE THE EMPIRE KNEEL!"

  Mo looked at Aldric, her brow rising.

  "Seriously?" she asked. "Is there at least anything that works normally here?"

  "Well…" Aldric stepped back and spread his hands. "I guess the kitchen still makes a mean Sunday roast. When the bread isn't biting."

  "DARKEST LADY HEAR OUR CALL,

  GIVE US RIGHTS OR LET YOU FALL!"

  After the last one, the crowd hushed. The goblins finally noticed two figures on the high balcony. From within the sea of green people, a person rose, supported by the hands of the others.

  "No more taxes!" he shouted.

  "Ahhh…" Aldric covered his face with his palms. "That's Grimz, their leader. You don't want to waste you time on him."

  "It seems that somebody would have to talk to him," Mo said. "Shouldn't we at least try to solve the issue? I thought that goblin workforce is crucial for our operations?"

  "You are right," said Aldric. "But he's completely unreasonable. He wants…" he lowered his voice to whisper as if afraid that the goblins would hear him. "He wants representation!"

  "Oh, that's insane!" said Mo to Aldric. "How dare he!"

  She turned back to face the crowd and shouted.

  "We will arrange a date for negotiations," Mo shouted. "This will be one of the first things I'll pursue after the coronation!"

  "No coronation without representation!" a voice sounded from the crowd. But somehow, it was promptly hushed down and lost in the murmur.

  Grimz looked directly at Mo and pointed his finger at her. A long, sharp nail made the gesture even more ominous.

  "I'll wait! But we aren't going anywhere!"

  Returning to the throne room, Mo massaged her temple. The crowd outside started roaring once again, shouting chants. "Right. So, the coronation's a dumpster fire, the bread's biting people, goblins are unionizing, and apparently, I need a diploma in evil." She turned to Aldric. "Anything else you forgot to mention?"

  In lieu of an answer, the throne decided to join the conversation once again. Its voice boomed directly into Mo's head: "Unworthy."

  Mo jumped. "And the chair just insulted me. Again."

  Aldric's expression didn't flicker. "Of course, my lady. It is sentient, It can be rather… opinionated."

  "I know that!" Mo snapped.

  ***

  This time, Mo explored the throne a bit longer. She remembered all its minute details since early childhood. When her father took her to his knees, and the sad, ancient thing would start whispering directly into her mind. Like it did right now.

  If anything, that was a great educational tool. It made Mo face most of her fears and insecurities very early. Earlier than most of the kids have to deal with that stuff unless they have an evil stepmother or something. At least Mo didn't have to experience that. Her mother and father were happily married for centuries. They weren't without their quirks. But any family of their stance has them.

  Mo traced her fingers along the throne's carved serpents, and they seemed to slither under the dim light. She carefully stepped closer, reaching out until her palms touched the cold wood. The egotistic chair practically radiated scorn. "They must be desperate," it thought at Mo, each word steeped in contempt.

  She exhaled, trying not to snap. "What, I'm not tall enough for you? Sorry I forgot my platform boots in the mortal realm."

  Silence thickened. The councilors huddled, shooting her worried glances. While the goblins raged outside, Grimz was let into the throne room and now was standing with his hat in his hands, eyes burning with resolve. Only Aldric looked slightly amused.

  At last, Mo forced a smile, feigning composure. "Well, apparently I have to earn the right to sit here. Fine. Challenge accepted."

  Her bravado faltered when a ceremonial relic in the corner wobbled and crashed to the floor, shrieking like a banshee. Sparks of magic flared, and a stray candle shot off a candelabra, narrowly missing a councilor's hood.

  "Perfect," she muttered. "Just when I thought we'd reached peak insanity."

  A swirl of dark energy snaked around the relic, crackling ominously. One councilor yelped as a floating candle tried to set his robe on fire.

  Mo's eyes darted around the hall—a swirling, chaotic circus. She raised her hands. "Alright, calm down. Everyone."

  Nobody calmed down.

  Amid the uproar, Mo felt an unexpected wave of determination. So what if everything's bonkers? She had a choice: break down or break through.

  Mo stormed up the dais, clearing her throat until her voice ricocheted off the high ceiling.

  "Listen up!" she shouted. "I may be your brand-new Dark Lady, but guess what—I'm on the hook for some fancy-pants villain school. And all of you have problems: goblins on strike, demonic loaf bread, haunted furniture—pick your catastrophe. So do me a favor and don't let this fortress crumble while I'm busy earning a diploma in Evil 101, okay?"

  She seized the relic, yanked it out of its crackling aura—magic sizzling across her palm—and thunked it onto a nearby pedestal. Threads of scorching energy nipped at her hoodie, but she just hissed through clenched teeth and shook off the sparks.

  "It's not hard to fix some of these things, see?" she asked, pointing at the pedestal. "We can do a million coronations if we have to. But right now, I need to make sure this place still stands by the time I graduate from Evil 101."

  Grimz lowered his hands, letting his hat almost brush the floor. "But what about the taxes?"

  "Here's the deal," Mo said, looking from Aldric to her circle of jittery councilors. "I'll kick off negotiations immediately, but the big fix has to wait 'til I survive my first semester of Dark Econ. Meanwhile, you lot will be granted a tax delay. Deal?"

  Grimz glared, then gave a reluctant nod. "That wouldn't solve the issue right away, m'lady," he said. "But that's better than what we had. If your advisers follow your ruling." He glowered at the group of people huddled on the other side of the hall.

  "So, is there anything else we have to figure out before we proceed with this charade?" asked Mo. "I want to go though with it as soon as possible and move on to figuring out the next steps."

  "There are things…" Aldric began explaining. "But they can probably wait. Having an actual Dark Lord… hm… Lady once again would allow us to postpone at least some of the troubles. And will fix the others."

  "What are we waiting for then?" asked Mo. "It's not like I enjoy all of that stuff. I had a perfectly normal life before I came back here."

  One of the councilors stepped forward, his hands stretched before him, as he held a cushion of a deep black color. It seemed that it sucked in the light from its surroundings. For a brief moment, it felt like it became darker in the hall, which wasn't illuminated too well in the first place. But it was the object levitating above the cushion that attracted everyone's attention. A battered crown of white gold covered with chains of black symbols and runes. The symbol of the power of the Nightshade dynasty.

  Unlike the throne, Mo couldn't say she saw this object very often. It was delivered from the treasury only for the most significant events. Like for a coronation.

  For a moment, she lost her breath and had to grasp the throne's arm to stabilize herself. "Weak! Such a failure!". Mo drew back her hand as soon as these words resonated in her mind. The reality of the moment made her eyes water, and she looked around the hall with unseeing eyes.

  That was it. Mo's parents were truly gone. It wasn't some bizarre and cruel joke. It was happening.

  The crown slowly turned and shifted over the cushion but seemed perfectly synchronized with it otherwise. It moved with the person who brought it forward with all befitting importance. Even though Mo hadn't visited the Keep since she was much younger, she recognized the face.

  "Ah, Phineas! Or, is it Lord Phineas now?" she addressed him. "I remember well that day when you tried to persuade me to steal those cupcakes from the kitchen only to get caught by the cook when I declined."

  For a brief moment, Phineas had lost his concentration. In a panic, he lost his footing over one of the not-so-perfect stones of the hall's floor and almost fell. A series of emotions reflected on his face momentarily: fear, surprise, anger. However, the crown didn't fall. It continued levitating exactly where it was when the young man sank.

  Slowly, Phineas gathered himself, recovered his stance, and continued the slow movement toward the dais. The crown picked up the same steady pace following the cushion. The assembled crowd again fell silent, gazing intently at the slowly walking figure.

  As soon as Phineas reached the steps of the dais, he kneeled, offering the crown high above his head. Aldric stepped down and, to everyone's astonishment, carelessly snatched it from about the cushion. He sniffed, glancing around to make sure that everyone and everything was in place.

  "As discussed, your coronation remains provisional until you complete the Dark Lordship Mastery program at Umbra Academy," Aldric said.

  "This," he motioned with a crown. "Is only a symbol. You'll have to prove you have the power."

  Mo raised a skeptical brow. "So I don't get to rule unless I get some dark college credits?"

  "You will rule. But your decisions will have to be confirmed by the High Council," Aldric said in that too-smooth tone. "We're nothing if not a stickler for tradition. We have to be sure you have the goods. And the guts to make tough decisions."

  A swirl of rage burned in Mo's chest. She considered snapping back or possibly hurling the throne through a wall. But instead, she plastered on a thin smile. "Fine. I'll go. Umbra Academy, here I come. But when I get back, you'd better believe things are gonna change."

  Aldric's face remained impassive. "Of course." He crossed the distance separating him from Mo. "Now sit on the throne!"

  "With the power bestowed upon me by the High Council and the Tradition of the Dark Rule," he began to recite in a grandiose voice. "Lady Morgana Elaris Vexaria Nyx Nightshade, you are pronounced Her Imperial Dread Sovereign, Mistress of Shadows, Warden of the Night, Dark Lady of Blackthorn Keep, Scion of the House of Nightshade, Bearer of the Cursed Seal, Chosen Heir to the Throne of Eternal Midnight."

  He placed the crown on Mo's head and stepped back.

  "Provisionally," he said, his eyes locked on the crown.

  "Do try not to embarrass us further," a voice sounded in her mind.

  Mo spun in place, absorbing the sight of shattered windows, wilted banners, frazzled councilors trembling over their parchments, and a goblin ringleader practically brandishing a union contract. This was her legacy—an empire in free fall—and apparently, she had to salvage it after snagging a diploma in villain studies from Evil U.

  "Unworthy," the throne whispered, needling her pride.

  She rolled her eyes and punched the throne's back with her elbow.

  "Bite me."

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