In the final hours of twilight, Lysandra lingered by the barred window of the upper hall, feeling the cold air slide across her pale skin.
The dying light tinged her hair with pale gold, but all she saw were echoes of freedom.
There wasn't a single human face in that kingdom suspended in time: smiling, speaking, even softening the silence—everything was done by magical golems, soulless servants forged by her father.
She ran her hand along the smooth marble wall, watching the golems lay carpets of grass, water exotic flowers, and light torches without ever casting her a glance. Each mechanical movement deepened her solitude, making the grand hall feel like a luxurious prison, devoid of human warmth.
A soft rustle broke the monotony. First, a faint tinkling, like tiny bells awakening. Lysandra turned with a start, her heart racing. "If it's the golems' doing, why would it sound like that?" she wondered.
On the windowsill appeared a small silhouette, wrapped in silver light and translucent wings. It wasn't a golem—it was alive. The shock made her step back.
"Who dares invade my tower?" she demanded, her voice firm though her body trembled.
The creature floated, landed, and opened a chest encrusted with runes.
"My name is Malatrona, midnight witch. I bring you a minor summoning grimoire—something your father would never allow you to possess—in exchange for a few treasures kept in your vault."
Lysandra held her breath at the word "summoning." Her deepest desire surfaced: to call someone real to her side. She feigned indifference:
"Just another book? I'm not interested."
But the chest shimmered, and for the first time, a forbidden longing sparked within her. 'Can I trust her?' she wondered, as the witch smiled, certain she had hooked her prey.
Could trust ever bloom from a voice so sweet and eyes so sharp?
Malatrona rested the rune-covered chest on a pedestal of black stone and slid her finger across one of the grimoire's covers. It was tiny—no larger than the palm of a hand—with worn pages and loose stitching. A cheap object, almost childish.
"Don't be fooled by its appearance," murmured the witch in a seductive voice. "This little tome carries arcane seals that defy your father's laws. Simply recite the enchantment, and in return, your loneliness will end forever."
Lysandra clenched her fist. Inside, her instincts warned: 'It's a trick. It's nearly useless.' The book summoned blindly—no control, no choice. And once bound, the creature could never be dismissed. A weight of guilt formed in her chest: 'What if what appears is worse than solitude?'
Still, Malatrona continued her performance:
"Think about it: a loyal guardian, a trusted companion—someone drawn from beyond, bound by ancient magic to serve only you. Not a lifeless golem, but something truly alive, something that can offer you real company. You give up very little, and in return, you gain more than you ever dreamed. This grimoire is worth far more than any jewel sitting in your vault."
The witch struck her heel against the floor, and faint sparks danced around the book.
For a moment, she almost believed. Her fingers trembled as they touched the black leather cover. She thought of her father's warning: 'Never trust a witch, or it will be your end.' But the promise of escaping that marble prison—of having a being who would answer her name—was as seductive as it was dangerous.
"How much... would it cost?" she ventured, her voice steady, betraying her racing heart.
Malatrona smiled, revealing sharp teeth.
"Only three forgotten trinkets from the bottom of your vault. A modest price for an eternal friend."
Lysandra closed her eyes, searching through her father's lens for a reason to refuse. But there, too, lived the echo of her own loneliness. A slow, hesitant smile broke across her face: she knew she had to choose.
And for a second, temptation shone brighter than fear.
A cold gust swept through the hall as Lysandra held the small grimoire against her chest. On one side, her father's austere voice echoed in her mind: 'Obedience brings honor; disobedience, disgrace.' On the other, Malatrona's whispered promise—eternal companionship, the end of loneliness—vibrated like an irresistible call.
Lysandra's fingers trembled. Each ornament she could offer was a vestige of her father's trust, a fragment of everything she had sworn to protect. But her heart beat faster, yearning to break the oppressive silence of the marble prison.
She lifted her chin, her temples throbbing. She imagined herself beside a loyal guardian, shadows dancing around them, unafraid to meet anyone's gaze. And then, she remembered another warning from her father: 'Witches always have a goal; corruption.'
Lysandra took a deep breath, feeling power stir in her veins. The book, so fragile in her hands, seemed to pulse with its own life, seducing her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting the conflict tear through her chest—the faithful daughter and the soul aching for a friend.
She pressed the grimoire tighter against her chest, its fragile weight still feeling false compared to the promise of eternal companionship. In the hall's dim light, the embossed runes shimmered as if they held life, whispering secrets she barely dared to understand. Each patched page and arcane seal awakened a tension within her—a blend of longing and fear.
'You do not understand the weight of your lineage,' her father's stern tone echoed in her mind, chilling her to the bone. Suddenly, she was back in that afternoon in the tower: five years old, begging for a canary, a bird that might chase away the suffocating emptiness.
Her father, living in every word, had replied with indifference: 'Too frivolous for one who bears our name.' In that moment, she had discovered that even the smallest comfort would be denied her.
Anger boiled in her blood. The solemnity of legacy had never nourished her heart—only kept it imprisoned within cold walls. Now, the grimoire promised to break invisible chains, to give her a companion—perhaps even vengeance against the silence imposed upon her. Malatrona stepped closer, her sweet voice masking the malicious gleam in her eyes:
"Three forgotten ornaments from your vault, nothing more. A trifling price to never be alone again."
Lysandra lifted her chin, the glow of the runes reflected in her eyes. The ancient duty rang hollow compared to the weight of that painful memory. And in a voice so faint it blurred between whisper and cry, she surrendered to the pact:
"I accept," she whispered, and the silence of the hall seemed to hold its breath.