The maid rang the dinner bell, just like every evening. Signalling the time to endure the painful hours, our family called a meal. No one ever arrived late to dinner. It’s one of many sacred rituals in the Morn?ngstar household. I rushed from my room, into the cold halls of Morn?ngstar house. The winter cold had burrowed into the bones of the house, making it not only feel evil while it watched me, but freezing too. Wonderful. I swear this house has a soul of its own; it’s alive, and it knows it. The stairs creaked on my way down. The threadbare carpet does little to cushion my steps. Thankfully, the house wasn’t grand enough that you would lose your way in the halls. However much it wants to drag you in. The dead, gray walls felt suffocating like they were closing in on me with every step I took. I knew the dining room was going to feel even worse, which was great motivation to make it there on time and avoid my mother’s scolding. That, and the food. Theresa, our cook, and the food she made were the best things about dinner.
It barely took two minutes to get from my room to the dining hall. A young man, barely older than I, stood outside the grand oak door, opening it as I got closer. I hadn’t seen him before. Clearly, he was a servant, but he must have been hired after the ritual last week. The servants in this house don’t tend to stay around long enough for me to remember their names, let alone their faces. I feel bad for them. I wish there was something I could do, but no. I’m as trapped inside these walls as they are. The dining hall was too bright. The chandelier burned with twice as many candles as usual. Bleeding wax on the tablecloth. Their reflection shimmered across the many mirrors on the walls, turning the air to gold and glass. The light made everything look fragile. The silverware, the faces, even the food. No one ever spoke before Father did, so the silence hung in the room like just another guest. He was at the head of the table, posture straight, expression fixed in the way that made you feel like you were already being judged.
“Sit,” he gestured to me, finally. His voice carried without effort.
I took my regular seat in front of my Mother, my sister on my right. No one had touched their food. These must be the last of our potato reserve, mashed up next to some meat. Hopefully not the kind of meat that would make me a cannibal, though I would not put it past my parents. Mother lifted her wine glass, her movements measured and beautiful. Signalling permission to eat.
“It’s good to be together again,” she said, her tone light but deliberate.
I kept my head low and focused on my food, hoping not to be noticed and forced to speak. If I just kept my mouth full, I didn’t have the time to talk. The last thing we were permitted to do at the table was speak with our mouths full. Knives scraped against porcelain plates, a harrowing sound that made my teeth ache. Across from me, Leo’s reflection multiplied. My sister’s gentle features duplicated in each mirror, showing just how uncomfortable she was. Her placid smile didn’t reach her eyes; only there to satisfy expectation. I could feel my Father’s gaze on me before I saw it. His pale, cruel eyes were studying me like I wasn’t his son. I turned my gaze up, meeting his eye with the respect he believed he deserved.
“You’ve been restless, Yann?k.” He spoke. His voice was cold and raspy. “Thoughtful,” I answered bluntly, my voice more sheepish than I had intended.
He carved his meat with slow precision. “Thought leads to questioning. Questioning leads to ruin.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then be still.” He commanded.
I stilled my leg that had been subconsciously vibrating beneath the table. If Father said something, it was better to just get it done before you earned a beating. I could see it in his face, those hard lines; that a beating was just what he was thinking about. I was daring to think on my own. How dare I, a nineteen-year-old adult, have a mind of myself. I locked eyes with my Mother. Her look told me that I was indeed on thin ice, but she also turned towards my Father and narrowed her eyes, saying.
“Caleas, dear, not at the table.”
Hearing her say my Father’s name came as a shock. She was the only one in the house who would ever dare to call him by his name. If Leo or I were to do it, we would once again earn ourselves a proper beating. My Father seemed equally as caught off guard at being addressed. Mother rarely spoke up for herself, preferring to stay behind the strong figure that was Father, but we all knew it was she who was pulling the strings. Father may be large and quick to anger, an authoritarian, but Mother was the brains behind this nightmare. The air felt thicker after that. The food on my plate looked beautiful, roasted, perfect, but it tasted of metal, as though the knives had bled into it. Mother spoke again, soft but sure. “There are only two weeks until your birthday, aren’t you excited, children?”
Leo’s fork paused mid-air. “So soon?”
“So soon,” Father said. “Not soon enough. We will finally know who’s worth our time. ” He growled.
She recovered quickly, smoothing her expression into something polite. “Then we’ll be ready.”
He studied her a moment longer than was necessary. “Good.”
Silence. The only sound was the faint pop of candle flame and the distant ticking of the house. That slow, heavy rhythm you could only hear when you were trying not to.
Finally, Father lifted his glass. “For the Hunt.” We echoed it together. “For the Blood.”
The wine burned more than usual going down. Leo’s hands stayed folded. She didn’t drink. Mother’s eyes caught Leo’s lack of movement, lingered, then turned away. The smallest mercy.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
When the meal was done, Father stood. “Tomorrow begins early. Sleep well.”
He didn’t say why. He never did. Mother smiled the way she always did when she wanted something to sound like a blessing. “Rest, children. The world moves faster when we dream.”
They left together, the door closing behind them with the sound of a final word. The silence that followed was heavier than before. Leo exhaled, the first real breath of the night. “I hate when she says that,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t say that here.” I hushed her; someone, or something, could still be listening.
“Why not? The house is always listening.” Her mouth curved slightly, that familiar, dangerous half-smile.
“Might as well give it something worth hearing.” I almost laughed, but didn’t. Too dangerous. She pushed her chair back; the legs scraped against the stone floor. The candlelight caught her horns, the gold adornments glinting faintly.
”Come on,” she hurried. “Before they start wondering what we’re plotting.”
“We’re not plotting,” I said. More like a question than a statement.
She glanced at me, eyes tired but alive. “Aren’t we?”
Her reflection passed through the mirrors as she left, a dozen ghost-versions following her out. I stayed behind a little longer, watching the wax drip onto the tablecloth in slow, perfect rhythm. When I finally rose, the room felt empty; too empty. The mirrors showed only the house now, and the house was still watching. I groaned, releasing the pressure I’d been holding onto for the duration of the meal. Once the conversation had started, I hadn’t been able to get another bite of food down. Like my throat had closed up at the reminder of our upcoming birthday. At times like these, I wished I were an only child, or if anything, just not a twin. If Leo and I hadn’t been twins, none of this would be happening to us. We wouldn’t have to hurt each other. We would just be regular children. Or as regular as a child can be in a house like this. I hurried back to my room, grabbing my jacket from where it was strewn over my messy bedsheets, putting it on as I rushed towards Leo’s room. Her door wasn’t too far from mine, yet far enough that it took time to get there. I snapped my fingers, striking a small flame between them as I headed up a servant's staircase. I barely avoided hitting my head on the low ceiling, and my shoulders scraped against the cobbled walls as I walked. At times like this, I hated being built like my Father. Tall and broad-shouldered. When I reached her door, tucked away at the top of the turret, I was almost bent over at the waist just to avoid breaking my horns. I placed four firm knocks on the wood, leaving a bit of space between the second and third. Just like we had practiced for emergencies. Her pale purple face stuck out the door when she opened it. Her round cheeks flushed, like she was in the middle of something strenuous. I looked her up and down through the small gap in the door, and nothing seemed out of place. Her hair might have been a bit tussled, but nothing out of the ordinary.
“Leo, what are you plotting?” I asked her, echoing her words from the dining room.
“Meet me outside, and we’ll talk,” She aggressively hushed and ducked back inside her room. Slamming the door in my face.
Outside, the night was cold. Snow is still scattered around in patches in the garden. I stood in the dark, waiting for Leo to come out. Talking inside the house about subjects like these was a stupid risk to take. Especially knowing her. When she says she’s potting something, something is going on that shouldn’t be. We had done this exact procedure enough times before that I had learned to grab my jacket before even going to get a room, giving me more time to enjoy the peaceful darkness with only me and my smokes. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my cigarette box, lighting a stick with a flame on my finger before pressing it between my lips. It was a bad habit, I knew it well, but the feeling of anything other than the heavy hair of the house in my lungs was more addictive than the herbs in the small stick. Taking long, deep drags of smoke, I hoped that I could finish it before Leo decided to show up. She’s made a point of telling me off every time she caught me smoking. Saying it was her duty as the older sister to make sure I didn’t end up like some kind of addict. With how much she yells at everything and everyone, I’ve learned to tune her words out. Whatever they are. When she eventually did show up, I was halfway through my second stick. Not paying attention to where she could be coming from. I didn’t hear her approach, so when she tapped my shoulder, I jumped half a meter in the air from shock. Turning around to face her, I saw she was laughing. Of course, she was laughing until she saw the stick. Her face turned serious and disappointed, and I knew I was in for a lecture.
“You know you shouldn’t be doing that.” She groaned
“That’s not why we’re here. You’re four minutes older; you have no right to lecture me,” I sighed and snuffed the ember out.
“We shouldn’t be out here,” She said carefully. “This is dangerous.” “I know.” I nodded, “So start talking.”
Leonora looked up at the dark sky, her expression unreadable as she traced the stars with her eyes. “They say it’s been here as long as the stars,” she said.
“What has? You’re not making sense.” I raised an eyebrow. “The house,” she murmured. “The devotion. The promises.”
She turned then, meeting my gaze again. Her eyes were steady, bright in the dimness. “Don’t let them make you proud of what you don’t understand.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” She smiled that quiet, dangerous smile that meant everything. “It means I’m tired. Go to bed, Yann?k.”
She brushed past me, the hem of her dress whispering against the ground.
I stood there, alone in the dark, for a moment and considered her words. Wondering what she was trying to tell me without saying the words. She tended to do that. She has too much on her mind without the words to let anyone in on what she was thinking. I watched her disappear back into the house, presumably to find some sleep. I suppose I should do the same instead of standing out here and freezing until the night recedes. The eeriness of her words didn’t leave me even as I lay down beneath my thick, warm blanket. There was clearly something she was not telling me; the question is why. Does she know something? With how quietly she moves, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had overheard Mother and Father speaking or learned something somehow. At least she’s not a good liar; if she’s hiding something, she won't be able to keep it hidden for long. For now, there’s no use dwelling on these thoughts. There are two weeks before we turn twenty; better spend at least the first night getting some sleep. I have a nagging feeling that my chances to actually rest will be fewer and fewer through the coming days.
