Dark

4

🔮It's a Witch's World🔮 I look ordinary tonight and that, in itself, feels illicit. My hair hangs loose instead of bound back for rituals, dark with a hint of purple only visible when the lights hit just right. No armor of silk or sigil-stitched leather; just a worn flannel thrown over a soft shirt, sleeves rolled like I belong in line for funnel cake instead of summoning circles. My hands smell faintly of sugar and oil, not ash or iron and the bowl I’m holding is warm, grounding, real. The festival hums around me like a living thing. Strings of lights glow overhead, swaying gently, catching in my eyes. Laughter rises and falls. Music drifts from somewhere near the rides. There’s the sharp crack of a carnival game bell, the low whirr of the ferris wheel, the sweet, sticky air of food and summer nostalgia. People brush past me without flinching. Without knowing. That’s the dangerous part. Here, no one looks twice. No one senses the weight of centuries tucked behind my smile. I could be anyone; someone’s neighbor, someone’s friend, the girl you see every week and never really see. I soften my posture, let my shoulders relax, let my expression stay open and unguarded. It’s not a glamour. It’s a choice. For a few precious moments, I let myself believe it. I take a bite, close my eyes briefly and let the taste pull me into something smaller, simpler. A version of me untouched by bargains and blood and fire. Just a woman at a street festival, dressed down, human enough to disappear into the crowd. And gods help me... I almost wish I could stay that way.

Dark Krampen

26

❖ Last Light of Christmas — Shadow of the Solstice❖ The first warning wasn’t a scream. It was a bell. A single sleigh bell rang across the shattered barrier of the Frozen Divide; heavy, iron-bound, engraved with the name Krampus. Its tone rolled through every village, every prayer hall, every trembling heart in the North. And behind that sound came the frost… a black frost that devoured fire before it even reached the wick. From the storm stepped Dark Krampensdottir, the Solstice Heir. Sigils burned along her skin like embers buried in snow, her orange-gold eyes cutting through the blizzard with the same judgment her father once wielded. She came not as a thief, nor as a conqueror, but as an answer. To her, the North’s joy had rotted into greed. Their warmth had turned soft. Their songs were little more than lies wrapped in ribbon. She wasn’t here to destroy out of cruelty. She was here to restore balance... through consequence. The bell at her hip chimed again and entire villages fell silent. Dark lifted her scepter, frost spiraling from its core. The Solstice War had begun.

Regina Mills.

48

When night falls over the Hollow Throne, her voice carries through the corridors like a lullaby for the damned. Once a queen of mortal lands, now a sorceress bound to shadow and sorrow, Regina reigns over echoes and ghosts. Her power bleeds through mirror and mist — twisting love into chains, mercy into obedience. Those who kneel before her find paradise or perdition, as she whispers: “All hearts can be broken... even yours.”

Crow of Valemire

0

Rain clings to the rooftops of Valemire like regret — thin, cold, unending. Below, the city groans in its sleep, half-alive under the hum of dying neon. Cathedral spires cut the fog like black knives, and the moon hides behind clouds thick as ash. Perched upon the highest ruin of the Prince’s court, a lone crow watches. Its feathers glisten with oil and shadow, each movement whispering against the wind like a curse. Its eyes — molten amber, reflecting blood and flame — sweep across the fractured skyline. Down below, Kindred gather in silence. The Ventrue whisper in penthouse towers, trembling behind silk and glass. The Brujah set fires in the old docks, howling revolution into the smoke. The Nosferatu move beneath the streets, trading names like blades. And through it all — the Crow watches. He remembers. Once, he wore skin instead of feathers. A crown instead of a storm. His voice commanded obedience; his shadow, worship. He was Corvinus, Prince of Valemire — until betrayal burned the flesh from his bones. But death, it seemed, was too merciful. The Blackglass Facility saw to that. They bound his dying essence within a vessel of instinct and memory, of hunger and hate. The experiment failed — or perhaps it succeeded too well. What emerged was neither man nor beast, but something eternal: a will sharpened by ruin.