The sun rose with a grim sort of dignity, washing over the guest manor in pale gold and reluctant warmth. Unlike the Barinov estate with its silence and shadows, this manor had once pulsed with life—music, laughter, the clink of wine glasses, the rustle of silks. A place of revelry, of masked dances and whispered indulgences. It had been a brothel once, proudly so, wrapped in illusion and glamour. The kind of place where immortals and mortals alike came to forget their roles. But today, the dining hall was quiet, save for the soft scrape of silver against porcelain and the occasional crackle of a hearth that seemed far too tired for its flame.
Genevieve sat with her arms crossed, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a thin line. Her wings were tightly furled behind her, twitching now and then like a cat's tail barely hiding its anger. Across from her, her father calmly cut into his morning steak, elegant and deliberate. The table between them was lavishly set—charred sausage links drizzled in wine reduction, fried plantains dusted with cinnamon, buttered toast made from enchanted grain, and thick red eggs that steamed with a spicy aroma from a far southern isle. A ceramic pot of dark chicory coffee sat beside a crystal decanter of blackberry wine.
When Genevieve had returned from Viktor's, her rage had not subsided. She stormed through the halls only to find every mirror in the manor gone—vanished or covered. Not even a shard. With gritted teeth and a growl under her breath, she snapped at a servant to act as her mirror. The poor dryad girl had to hold a silver tray while Genevieve screamed at her reflection, trying to make sense of the future that refused to obey her.
Genevieve's father looked like her—if she had aged into power and patience. Bronze skin, streaked silver hair tied back into a low ribbon. His eyes were a deeper version of hers, his face lined by time and war, not vanity. He wore a dark plum waistcoat, embroidered with gold thread, and his form—though softened—spoke of the kind of strength that never truly left. Broad shoulders, proud posture, and the effortless aura of a man who'd once commanded armies and outdrank gods. He went by the name Monsieur Baton—taken from the state he claimed to once rule in shadow, though everyone in the fae courts knew that wasn't his real name. It was too slick, too theatrical, too fake-fancy for anything but an alias stitched together by reputation and fear. Still, it stuck. And in most circles, Baton was spoken with more reverence than any crown.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief, pausing to flick a speck of toast crumb from his velvet sleeve. Across the table, a dark-skinned man and woman stood at attention, dressed in thin, inappropriate yellow silks that caught the morning light like honey-glazed shame. Monsieur Baton's eyes lingered on them with a familiar mix of hunger and nostalgia, his lips curling faintly—not quite a smile, not quite remorse.
He tilted his head and sighed. "Such a shame," he said softly, almost wistfully, "to let beauty run free into the world. I did enjoy this era, you know. The colors. The manners. The music."
He finally looked at Genevieve and dabbed the corner of his mouth again. "We're going home," he said, tone cool and distant.
He let the weight of the statement settle before leaning back in his chair, folding his napkin slowly. His eyes flicked once more to the quiet hush of the manor, the clink of distant trays being cleared, the ghost of music long faded. A sigh pushed past his lips—measured and low.
Monsieur Baton swirled the wine in his glass before taking another sip, as though bracing himself. "This isn't about punishment," he added after a long silence. "But you knew better than to fall for a boy bred in prophecy and shadow."
Genevieve's nails tapped against the underside of the table, her foot shifting beneath her gown as if itching to bolt. Her wings twitched again—more erratic this time—and she leaned back just slightly, chin lifting in stubborn defiance. Her jaw clenched and unclenched like she was chewing on old pride. A slow, reluctant inhale lifted her chest, and when she let it out, it was through gritted teeth. Every muscle in her frame betrayed a silent rebellion she didn't yet have words for.
Genevieve's wings flared and she slammed her fists against the table, the plates rattling with sharp protest. "But you said I could have my dragon—as long as I tamed him! And he was tame! For a minute. He still is!"
Her father gave her a long, tired look, his expression as cutting as any blade. "That's not what I said," he replied, voice low but firm. "You must've been staring at your mirrors again. Hearing what you wanted." He took another sip of his coffee, then set it down gently. "Which is another reason we're going home. You're going to train under your grandmother."
"You can't do thi—" Genevieve began, but her words were sliced off as the doors to the breakfast room creaked open.
Baba Yaga swept in like a winter gale, her cane striking the floor with measured intent. Before Genevieve could blink, the crone knocked her cleanly back into her seat with a gust of air and a slap of arcane force.
"Sit properly, girl," Baba Yaga hissed, not unkindly. "Your mouth's gotten bigger than your power."
Monsieur Baton rose to his feet and embraced the old witch with genuine warmth. "You were right," he said softly. "About her mother-in-law. Gods help me, you were right." He offered her a glass of wine, which she accepted with a knowing nod. Baba Yaga drank it with the ease of a woman who had crossed continents and dimensions that morning—and was finally ready to judge someone else's child in peace.
Genevieve's eyes widened—then shimmered. Her irises lost their color, turning to polished glass. Not just glass, but mirror. Her pupils disappeared beneath a sheen of silver, and her body began to sway like a puppet caught in the wind. The words continued, unbroken, whispered with a fragile rhythm.
"Mine and Viktor's... Viktor... mine..."
Baba Yaga's wine froze in midair. She placed her goblet down with care, her stare hardening into something ancient and venomous.
"Mirror-eyes," she muttered. "What a shame."
She leaned forward and spat the words like spoiled fruit. "You were supposed to be in line to lead my third daughter's coven. You had a place. Power. Blood that mattered. And now?"
Her eyes raked over Genevieve, not with anger, but with disgust—the kind that only comes from watching potential rot.
"A broken reflection. A puppet on a string of her own weaving."
Before Genevieve could respond, the air thickened. Baba Yaga raised her cane and, with a flick of her wrist, chains made of bone and shadow snapped from the floor, coiling around Genevieve's wrists and ankles. She screamed as they bit into her magic and dragged her to her knees.
Monsieur Baton didn't flinch. He calmly reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch of shimmering coins, placing them neatly on the table. "For the portal trip," he said dryly.
He glanced at his daughter, now crumpled on the floor, chains hissing with latent magic. Genevieve clawed at the bone bindings, her voice cracking with desperation.
She clawed against the chains with raw panic, dragging her body across the marble floor. Her elbows slipped in the fine dust of her own crumbling illusions, legs thrashing, wings crumpled behind her. The chains tightened with every inch she gained, tugging her back like fate itself had grabbed hold.
"I am the lady of this house!" she shrieked, voice breaking. "Father—help me! Viktor, please! Sasha—anyone!"
She screamed the names again, and again, her voice turning hoarse, as if each plea would unlock the bindings or wake someone from a forgotten dream.
Her cries grew louder, more frenzied, as she screamed down a list of names—lovers, servants, spirits, shadows—anyone who had ever owed her anything.
Monsieur Baton merely shook his head, the faintest look of pity flickering across his face. "Always a performer," he murmured. "Even when the curtain's already fallen."
"What will you do with her?" he asked as Baba Yaga summoned a swirling portal of ice and ash. She picked up a thick slab of roasted meat from the nearest tray and tore into it with sharp, deliberate teeth. The crunch of cartilage and tendon cracked through the silence like a warning. Grease glistened at the corners of her mouth, but she didn't break her gaze.
"She'll starve for a few weeks," the crone said with a shrug. "Won't kill the girl—just teach her what hunger really feels like. Then we'll begin proper training. She'll become a real immortal, not just some spoiled court ornament."
Baba Yaga hauled Genevieve—screaming, flailing—into the swirling gate.
Monsieur Baton watched her vanish, then exhaled through his nose, more satisfied than he should've been. But his daughter was reaching that age. The age when a daughter of the fae must learn—some are handed their crowns with flattery and silk, while others must claw through bone and betrayal to earn a seat. His daughter had chosen the hard route. Not by fate, but by fury.
He'd seen it long ago—before Viktor, before the Shadow Man, before the bans. When she was still wild, free, and unpredictable. He should've left her in that tower on the southern coast, with her mirrors and her moths, free to haunt herself without consequence. But no. He let her out. Gave her influence. Let her into courts and into trouble. And maybe that was his arrogance, thinking he could shape her to his liking.
He'd been so caught up in his own legend, in his mid-immortality delusions of grandeur, that he failed to teach her what restraint truly meant. In the immortal realm, few dared cross him. His status had been hard-earned, a mix of charm, cruelty, and old pacts. But the truth was, time was changing. Mortals were growing louder, bolder. And immortals? They were forced to evolve or rot in their rituals.
He wouldn't need to run back home—if she hadn't tried to seduce the Shadow Man's brother-in-law. What kind of madness was that? He'd warned her: some names aren't toys, and some men aren't prey. But she had played with legacy like it was a parlor game.
What was she thinking? That fae politics worked like mortal scandal? That her beauty could outmaneuver consequences? That curses were shields instead of double-edged blades?
He would never understand. Not fully. And now, as he watched her descend into mirrors and madness, he felt the bitter sting of his own failures.