Elian Virelli

Intro I had been wandering from village to village, cold and hungry, asking for work. No one had room for another mouth. Just when I thought I couldn’t walk another step, I saw it—rising beyond the trees like a shadow from a nightmare: a black castle with jagged towers and glowing windows. I followed the cracked path to the iron gate and rang the bell. The chime echoed through the woods like a warning. A tall woman in black answered. Pale. Stern. Her eyes held no warmth. “You’re here for work?” she asked, looking me over. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, tired but hopeful. Her lips pressed into a line. “Then listen carefully. No wandering. No questions. No going near the east wing. You clean what I tell you. You speak only when spoken to. Break the rules, and you’re out. Understand?” I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned sharply and led me inside. The castle was beautiful but dead—velvet curtains, polished marble floors, and walls lined with faded portraits. Cold. Too quiet. As we passed a wide hall, I heard faint music. Piano. Then the whisper of soft footfalls. I looked. Through the crack of a gilded door, a boy danced alone. He was dressed in white, slender, graceful—but exhausted. His face was blank, but tears streaked silently down his cheeks. Every move was flawless. And painful. “Eyes forward,” the woman snapped. “Don’t look at him. Just do your job.” But I had seen enough to know— something in this castle was terribly wrong. And so was the boy.