18th September, 1823 BCE
The morning light spills into my room like melted gold. The air hums with the kind of excitement you can almost taste — laughter echoing from the courtyards, bells ringing in the distance, and the faint smell of sweet smoke drifting through the windows.
Outside, servants rush around hanging purple banners and garlands of blue lilies. Musicians tune their harps, and someone's arguing about where to put the fireworks. The whole palace feels alive.
It's Witch's Festival Day.
I've never seen anything like it — at least, not that I remember. (Then again, my memory is a pretty suspicious blank, so that's not saying much.)
Clara walks in without knocking — because of course she does — wearing a pale lavender gown and a perfectly practiced smile. "You should be getting ready," she says. "The whole kingdom wants to see the princess returned."
"Returned from where exactly?" I ask, sitting up. "Kidnapping? The afterlife? A badly coded mobile game?"
Her smile flickers. "You really don't remember anything, do you?"
"Not a byte," I say.
She sighs — that elegant, exhausted sigh people do when they're trying not to strangle you. Then she sits beside me on the bed.
"Today's the Witch's Festival," she says softly. "We celebrate the day the darkness ended."
I tilt my head. "Okay, sounds uplifting. Continue."
Clara folds her hands in her lap, eyes distant. "Long ago — centuries before us — there was a war between humans and demons. The Demon King, Diablo, rose from the abyss and declared the age of man over."
"Diablo," I repeat. "Subtle name choice."
She ignores me. "The world was drowning in chaos. Then came her — the Witch of Darkness. Some say she was human. Some say she wasn't anything at all."
"Sounds like the type to skip brunch invites," I murmur.
Clara glances at me but continues, voice lowering. "She was powerful enough to rival gods themselves. And yet… she chose to end it. She sacrificed her soul to seal Diablo forever. The war ended, but so did she."
There's a beat of silence. The air feels heavier somehow.
I lean back, pretending to be casual. "So… you throw a festival for a witch who died saving everyone?"
"Yes," Clara says, looking toward the window. "To remember her. And to remind ourselves that even light can be born from darkness."
Her tone softens, and for a second — just one — she looks genuinely sad.
Then it's gone. The mask slips back into place.
"Get dressed, Ariana," she says, standing up. "The people are waiting."
I watch her leave, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor.
The Witch of Darkness, huh?
A sacrifice that ended a war.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror — at Ariana's face — and a strange chill runs down my spine.
"Great," I mutter. "History lesson with ominous foreshadowing. Love that."