Archive of Our Own

Stella gazed emotionlessly at the review of the last exams Aisha had placed on her desk. The pen atop the thick binder shone gold under the light of the study lamp she'd forgotten to turn off—it wasn't enough to make her leave her cozy shell in her bed. An empty suite was essentially like an idle mind; it was devil's workshop.

The Devil, at the moment, keeps only making her think of Beatrix.

But truth be told, she doesn't need the aid of any malicious entity for that. It's almost inevitably natural after so much time. As if her brain were doing its best to hang onto the smallest fragments of her. Not even her ghost lingers over Stella anymore, and even that she longs for.

She always knew that what she felt for Beatrix was more than just friendship. It had always been that, she knew.

After all, what could corrode someone more from the inside than feelings?

The old saying that the world seems colorless after the loss of someone you hold dear has proven irrefutably true after seeing her dead in her arms. She doesn't even remember how she released her corpse or how her friends managed to pull her away from the pool of blood; her memory remains a blur of heartache and boiling tears and fiery anger bursting like a supernova for all this time that slips by. 

The safety measures at Alfea had been tightened since the blood witches' siege; alarms had been set and patrols had been intensified. Still, she did not think that any of that would be enough to erase her new scars.

And indeed, it wasn't enough.

When Stella woke up in the later hours of the night, it was because of her phone's persistent ringing, not because of whatever was unfolding a little further away, in the college's east wing. She saw 'Unknown Number' and hung up, falling easily onto her pillow. 

It was easy at the time not to wonder about who was calling her or why. She had spent the entire afternoon studying that blood witch grimoire and the entire night sobbing in her room when it was taken from her. Orders from the new headmistress. She knew she wouldn't have much left with that title, so she researched every topic that might be useful. Resurrection was a subject that was often addressed, but with very few solutions obtained since ancient ages.

The princess knew that Bea would hate the pity party she insisted on throwing for herself, saying it doesn’t suit her, but that was the thing.

Beatrix wasn't there.

Beatrix was dead.

And the only possible source of knowledge about what could bring her back had been taken away. Stella definitely wasn't having a good day—and it looked like she wouldn't have a good night either.

She wouldn't sleep anymore. She knew that if she woke up in the middle of the night, she wouldn't close her eyes again. She had developed terrible insomnia over the months since Beatrix's death. She was consulting with the campus counseling, but it didn't seem to be having the desired effect—sinking deeper and deeper.

The moonlight shines gloriously, a beam that reflects in her window; its beauty does not comfort Stella, for her mind wanders to how pretty that same moon was that night too.

Throwing the sheets aside, she sits on the bed and puts on her slippers. Allowing herself to try to calm down, to listen to the quiet sound of Flora's breathing in the bed next to her, to stare at the carpet, to look at the tips of her hair that has grown long.

There's something about appreciating quietness that she'd forgotten over the months. Something she doesn't want to remember.

Stella gets up, her bones aching, and when she looks at the bedroom door, something inside her expects to see the same ghost that has tormented her for months. The ghost that wore leather and dripped blood onto her carpet. The same one she always saw when she opened her eyes, leaning against her headboard, her body pale and her eyes lifeless.

As she slowly opens the door, she ponders if Beatrix's ghost is gone forever.

This was proof that Stella had finally managed to overcome her death, right?

Even her friends brought up the lack of nightmares she'd had, the fact that she could get through an entire night without tears or sorrowful screams. Flora has been sleeping better and feeling more energetic, even though she hasn't mentioned anything.

The girls praised her, hugged her, all cheerful that such a nightmare was over. Everyone except her.

She hopes that ghost appears again. Because unlike her friends, who see Beatrix the same way as before, Stella doesn't.

She never imagined she'd want to be haunted, but she preferred that to having no remains of her around.

A noise sounds behind her, and Stella turns around. It's Musa, rubbing her eyes and with messy hair.

When she notices the light fairy there, her posture straightens slightly, her shoulders rise, and her eyes take on a worried look. Whether the subtle shade of purple that shines there is intentional, the princess will never know, because she never asks about it.

“Can't sleep too, huh?” Musa asks, walking to stay side by side with her. Stella nods shyly, turning back to the tea she doesn't remember having started to make. Carefully, she handles the teacup, blowing to cool it. After a brief silence, she speaks, “Stell, it doesn't matter how many times you go there; her body is buried, not at the main courtyard anymore.”

Ignoring how much the warmth begins to hurt her palms, she squeezes the cup tightly, her nails curling slowly around it.

Musa lets out a fake cough, as if hoping to improve the tension between them after literally getting in Stella's mind, she suppose. She knows her friend doesn't do this on purpose, but she still hates it when this happens. “You're getting better, Stell, I'm just asking you not to let such thoughts consume you again.”

How can she tell Musa that things never really got better? 

That her concentration in class and the improvement in her grades had been due to her mom's call, threatening to take away her titles and privileges once again? 

And that when she heard this, she couldn't help but hear Beatrix's voice in a dark corner of her mind reminding her that she had to stop with the petty self-pity party?

She probably already knew all of this. 

A mind fairy never stays unaware of things for long, even if it's against their will.

Even so, she ignores her. She ignores the kind request of a friend who's concerned about her and her mental state. When Musa retires to her room, and when the suite's solitude becomes too noxious for her, the only path that lights up is the door leading out.

It is winter, very close to Yule, but there's not the slightest hint of snow in the setting, for Solaria is the land of the Sun, and its heat lingers intensely like a flame that withstands being extinguished throughout the four seasons. The clearest evidence becomes the gradual weakening of the sun's strong rays, which brings a harsh cold that prevails both day and night.

Alfea, since these recent events, has acquired a mausoleum ambiance in the princess' eyes. A place of dark stone walls and haunted remnants.

Her slippers don't echo on these steps below. It's quiet enough to make one of the guards jump in shock when they watch her head toward the main courtyard. She ceased using invisibility as a second skin after a few months.

One of them, a young man with thick eyebrows furrowed in disbelief, leans forward as if to catch her. The young woman beside him rests her hand on his forearm, shakes her head, and calmly recites the nocturnal habits of a grieving princess.

“Leave her. She must be asleep.” The young man beside her stares at her and gestures with his hands, asking wordlessly what she means. “I don’t know either, bud. She’s been doing this for months; it’ll be a year soon. It’s insomnia, according to the Queen and Mrs. Griselda, stemming from those blood witches' attacks, it seems.”

However, Stella is awake this time, wide awake. Her blue eyes well up as she falls to her knees on the icy floor, facing a column. There's that ghost again, diverting her mind from witty words and perhaps whispers.

Stripped of any shame and newly donned in mourning, she remains there.

She feels that ghost with the metallic smell of blood mixed with some salty oceanic body wash wrap its arms around her shoulders; suddenly there's firm pressure on her back and a soft cheek resting on her shoulder blade.

No breathing.

No up and down of her torso.

Beatrix is ​​fully aware that she's dead, right?

Stella doubts that she likes the state she's in; she might never see her face to reassure her suspicions, but, weirdly, there's always a serene aura that settles in her heart when her ghost is nearby.

A calmness that makes her eyes heavy and her fears fade away.

A calmness that, when Beatrix was alive, she herself could never enjoy.

A sob rises, tearing at her throat, creeping upwards along with the pain of guilt that runs down her spine and lodges in her head, causing unbearable ache. 

She wonders if it was such excruciating pain for Beatrix herself. If, when her skull cracked open, she felt the blood slowly escape through that fissure, life draining from her without even being able to fight back.

Stella hopes not. As far as she knows, the Otherworld doesn't believe in lesser deities as strongly as the First World humans, but she also knows there has been both appropriation and erasure of her own ancient customs. On nights like this, she appropriates the humans’ gods and prays patiently that whoever took Beatrix was swift and merciful.

She can't bear to think about the suffering Bea might have endured. The pain of death, of loss, of the last look Stella allowed her to see.

“She thought I hated her,” the light fairy constantly recalls repeating tearfully in Terra’s arms, still struggling to let herself be pulled away from the corpse. “She died thinking I hated her. She died thinking I hated her. I didn’t hate her. By the Great Dragon, I didn’t. I didn’t hate her.”

Her tears fall in a torrent, without ceasing, warm and thick.

They stain Stella's face, causing her cheeks to redden and heat up in contrast to her chilled skin. At some point, she began to sob harshly. Her breathing is rigid, and her throat ached; the sound of her sobbing was ugly to the ears, almost like that of a child.

It hurts to breathe; it's like she's on fire inside. It's excruciating, and she can't stop. It's like she's drowning.

Until she opens her eyes wide and realizes that yes, indeed.

She's drowning.

Drowning.

Stella was drowning.

Sinking into a kind of pitch-black, viscous sludge that seemed to permeate her skin in all sorts of uncomfortable ways.

She panicked. There was no light, no ground, nothing that could help her. She began to struggle, her arms and legs trying in vain to climb to the surface. If there was any surface above her at all.

Whatever it was, it wasn't water at all; it was like tar. It weighed her body down more than water and made her eyes burn.

At that moment, she stopped struggling, slowly sinking.

The world around her trembled. Like a crash, a roar rang out, shaking the black sea in waves.

Stella forced herself to look up, ignoring how the vibration reached her feet before her ears and how quickly her heart was beating inside her ribcage. The thought that there was something below her grew as she felt a current of warm air pulling her further down.

She screamed, cowered in fear, her trembling hands and wrinkled fingers gripping her knees, and screamed again as loud as she could, letting the darkness, and whatever dwelt within it, engulf her.

The darkness that reigned there was not merely the absence of light. Something bad, cruel, and purely evil had taken hold of her bones.

She was dead.

Wasn't she?

No.

There was air in her lungs. She didn’t know how.

As she slightly raised her head, coughs, vomited that hideous tar, and struggled to ease her heart between heavy gasps of air—she noticed she was still in the midst of purest darkness, like a night that had never even known the blessing of starlight.

Supporting herself on her elbows, she realized she was on dead grass, and in the distance she heard the sound of waves breaking on a shore. On the horizon, when she managed to sit up, she could see the outline of a black sun, rising but without any radiant shine to grace that weathered soil.

In the distance, by squinting, she could see something like a willow tree. Large enough to appear from afar, its shadow forming as the black sun now rose into the sky, and strong, its leaves swaying like curtains in a gentle passing breeze.

A buzz arose, a shrill cry close to her ear—and faded like an echo as she turned to search for the source of the sound. No one; there wasn't a single presence. Confused and frightened, Stella put a hand to her ear, her eyes darting from side to side.

Looking around again, the princess found herself greeted by a face. One very close to hers, beaming and with frighteningly wide eyes. Someone was watching her so closely that it made her jump away and scream.

Terrified, she moved away, crawling on the grass, dirt under her fingernails, and drops of tar in her pajamas that left a track.

“I wouldn't go there if I were you,” said a gentle, calm voice, with the tenderness of a mom Stella never got to have. She felt her eyes welling up with tears, for some reason, and her chest ached, but she refused to turn back towards the sea and the black sun. “If you go in once, that forest will never let you out.”

Forest?

Opening her eyes, she saw tree trunks in front of her, spaced close together, forming a dense thicket. There, it seemed to be even less light than where she was. But she could swear, by all the Ivory Saints, the Enlightened Deity, and the Great Dragon, that there hadn't been a single tree behind her before.

Her skin crawled, and that presence stopped beside her. “It does this sometimes. Hunts the desperate ones. Never satiated.” She clicked her tongue, as if she were talking about a cheeky child.

With her head turned towards the dry grass and her own bare feet, stained with tar and dirt, she could see the feet of that presence; they were normal, as fairy-like as her own, and its skin was shimmering like crystal.

Taking a chance, Stella opened her mouth, “Excuse me—”

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you to look someone in the eye while you’re talking? Not doing so gives the impression of a lack of sincerity.”

With the same speed as she spoke, her lips pressed into a thin line and her words were thrown down her throat. She turned toward the female voice and was surprised to find a surprisingly pleasant face. She was blonde, with a wreath of olive leaves and soft features, but seemed to have a lot of experience in her eyes.

“Hm, excuse me, ma’am—”

“Much better. Keep going.”

“But, what place is this?”

The woman seemed to think for a moment before saying something. She arranged the silk sash on her forearms and clasped her hands in front of her body, as Stella had seen old people do many times when they were thoughtful. There was no sea breeze, no sounds in the woods, not even a whistle to break the silence.

Her eyes—Stella couldn't tell if they were blue or whitish—turned toward the black sea that stretched for an infinity, and she followed them until they stopped at the willow tree from before. Now, with the sun that doesn't shine overhead, it could be seen more easily: a willow tree on a small island of land with colorful dots surrounded by darkness.

“The willow? Is that all?” she asked, still not understanding. The lady just laughed and placed a hand on her back, guiding her a little further ahead.

“It’s not just a willow, little fool.” She spoke wisely, as if she knew the answer to even the most impossible mystery yet to be solved. The princess almost felt her brain shrink at that tone, but before she could, the woman added, “It’s what dwells within it. Or rather, who made it grow.”

Not being the best at mysteries and lacking patience after everything she'd been through, she quickly inquired, “And who was it?”

With a shove that brought the light fairy dangerously close to the edge and about to fall back into the sea of ​​pitch, the woman replied with conviction, “Go find out for yourself, girl. Isn't that why you came here?”

Now two steps away from the edge, Princess Stella turned her face to the mysterious lady and demanded, “Tell me then, what place is this, and how did I get here?!”

She only grins, "You couldn't have gotten here on your own. This land is home to no living soul yet. That's all I can say.”

The woman nodded forward, and when Stella looked ahead, a row of large stones had risen from the pitch. Large enough for her to walk atop them, toward the willow tree. The lady in the draped white dress stopped beside her, gazing at the horizon.

“Don’t fall, or you’ll really sink this time. Head towards the willow, and only towards it,” she instructed, while Stella stared at the willow in the distance, her mind still reeling from it all. “And please, don’t listen to the ferryman. He might take you there faster, but at a much higher price.”

The information fell into her lap rather roughly, causing a thousand questions to arise in her head and leaving her even more lost. When she turned to ask as much as she could, the lady with the silk sash had vanished.

She was gone! There the fairy was, left without any guidance. Despair grew within her chest as she watched the rocky path that had been laid out for her. What choice did she have but to keep going?

Taking a deep breath, she took a few steps back, without looking back, towards the forest that she felt was expanding to reach her, and ran towards the first rock. With a leap, she landed on the rock, which swayed violently, churning the sea of tar. Stella froze, waiting patiently until the rock stopped moving so she could go to the others.

Only the first rock was considerably far away, to the point of needing a jump, but the others were closer to each other, only a few long strides apart.

Then the fairy walked ahead.

At one point, she looked back and glimpsed the patch of land where she had been before, now entirely overtaken by the very forest that chases after the desperate ones. She was grateful to have gotten out of there quickly and continued on her way, her toes aching from stepping on the rocky surface.

At another point, the ferryman, whom the white lady had mentioned, appeared. He wore a dark, worn cloak that covered his entire body and face, leaving nothing but a shadow to be seen. He rowed the small, dark wooden boat closer to her, and as she walked over the rocks his voice reached her.

"Little traveling fairy, would you like a ride to your destination?" he extended a skeletal hand to Stella, who felt every hair on her body stand on end as she looked at those bones.

With a nod of her head, Stella smiled nervously at the skeleton that was speaking to her, "That won't be necessary, but I appreciate the offer.”

However, the ferryman didn't just leave. The more Stella refused his always so cordial offers, the farther away the willow seemed to get. She suspected it was the skeleton doing this, somehow distorting the path ahead of her.

On Stella's thirteenth decline to the ferryman, he gave up, his boat drifting further and further away, taking the lamp with it.

Whether the skeletal ferryman had trapped her in some illusion, the princess couldn't say, but after he left, Stella quickly reached the last stone floating on the pitch.

With a leap, her feet reached the grass—this time, green and healthy, which gently tickled her toes—and her tired legs gave way, causing her to sit on the ground.

All around, flowers of various colors. I don’t know the name of all of them, but I remember some names I learned in class. Adonis flowers, asphodels, cowslips.

Turning to look back, she saw it. Majestic and emitting a shrill cry, the same one Stella had heard before—a weeping willow, its yellowish-green shoots swaying slowly without any hurry, even though there was no wind there.

Intrigued by this, the princess got up from the grass, by this point not bothering to brush the dirt off her pajamas, and walked slowly to the willow.

Stepping through the dense curtain of leaves that pricked her skin, Stella saw the large, wide trunk with its pale bark and a stone stool nearby—the legs of the stool were carved from several lilies joined together, supporting the slate seat.

Behind the bench, in the tree trunk, there was a large oval hole. It was from there that the draft came that made the leaves rustle, a cold and lifeless air that made Stella certain of what she had to do there.

Without much thought, she walked to the bench and climbed onto it, her aching feet burning as they came into contact with the cold stone surface, bracing her hands on the edges of the hole. Inside it was even darker than outside, yet there was no sign of earth or rocks to step on.

Afraid, but still needing to move forward, Stella sat on the bench and from there, stretched one leg into the hole, and when her foot touched something firm, even with the absence of soil or any kind of ground, that was the signal she needed to fully enter that darkness.

The hole in the willow trunk didn’t close as she moved away.

Walking. 

Stella walked in that darkness for a few minutes, if she had to guess. 

There was no ground, no floor, although when her feet touched it, there was a ripple beneath her, as if she were stepping on a water surface.

Perhaps the worst thing about that place was the silence. If a pin dropped, she knew she could hear it, so deafening was the silence.

That gave her hope, too. To find what needed to be found in that nothingness. Even if it meant walking more than a thousand miles. Stella felt just like Alice when she fell down the Rabbit Hole after following the white rabbit in the coat.

Lost in a distant land and surrounded by madness of all kinds. She felt she only lacked the blue dress and a ribbon to fit the theme. If she walked any longer, she was sure she would hear the cry of a dodo bird.

And in the end, she didn't have to walk much further to find Alice. After all, the one in red was her, although that pajama didn't exactly flatter her when it came to screaming hysterically about cutting off heads.

In the distance, very far away, she saw it, distant enough to seem like an insignificant little speck of color in the darkness, but it felt like the first light she had seen since emerging from that sea.

Like a star in the night sky—like the North Star that guided human sailors in ancient times.

The princess ran without a second thought, feeling drawn toward that spark as if by a magnet, her heart pounding in her chest. Her feet stopped as soon as she recognized the scattered red hair, stumbling as she decided whether to get closer or back away.

It was Beatrix.

She had no doubt about it. It was the first time she'd managed to catch a glimpse of the face of that ghost that had haunted her for months. She was lying sprawled out on what could have been the floor of that place, her face serene in sleep and her cheeks flushed and stained with something shiny.

The color she'd seen in the distance was blue, a light blue shade, silk delicately wrapped around Beatrix's body, covering her arms entirely, her shoulders and neck exposed, and with a long, flowing skirt.

There was no breathing; her chest was so still that it made the fairy sigh. A reminder that she wasn't alive, but more dead than ever.

Feeling a slight tremor in her knees, Stella sat up abruptly. Her chest was tight, her breath trembling—was she crying? She hadn't even noticed the tears that had welled up in the corners of her eyes; perhaps it was the shock. The electricity coursing through her bones.

With one hand outstretched, Stella was torn between wondering whether she should wake her up or leave her like that for a little longer. If not in life, at least in death the girl could be at peace.

It would be a lie if she said she wasn't happy when she noticed the slight movement of her body; a sigh escaped her lips when she saw the eyelid tremble until it lifted, revealing a black iris instead of brown.

Beatrix didn't seem to notice her at first. She propped herself up on her arms and sat up, her much longer red hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyelids half-closed. Stella could see the small puffs of air escaping from her slightly parted lips, or she thought she could see.

Until, as if for hours, her gaze fixed on the blonde's stained pajama pants, and traveled up to her shirt, until finally it reached her face. Her eyes, which had been narrowing just as she woke up, widened like black hellebores. What stained her cheeks was gleaming and golden, tracing a path from her eyes down to her chin.

With a weak and broken voice, Beatrix spoke her first word after months of silent astonishment, "Why?"

Stella felt electric, as if a surge of adrenaline had been injected right into her heart. Trembling as if she were hypothermic, she raised her hand, her fingertips hovering a few centimeters from Beatrix's cheek. She wanted to ask so many things, wanted to wipe away the strange tears from her cheeks, wanted to pull her close and never let her go again.

"Stella?" she called out, and the spell broke, sending Stella's hand flying back as if it had been burned.

Her eyebrows were forming a crease in the middle of her forehead; for that moment, the princess hoped that the strong emotion that is taking over Beatrix had made her completely ignore what had just happened. Her face was now serene and polished, a blend of anger and irritation, like a mother’s gaze at a child before scolding her.

As Beatrix began to rise, the blue silks billowing and covering her feet, Stella felt obliged to remain seated on the floor, her shoulders slightly hunched and shy.

“How, Stella?” The princess quickly raised her head upon hearing her name called. Beatrix’s voice was heavy with uncertainty and a furious melancholy. Contradicting her irritable body language, she extended both hands toward the princess—who accepted the help, and without needing much, stood up, becoming slightly taller than the other fairy in front of her. “How did you get here?”

Stella felt her fingertips warming until Beatrix released her hands, “I, uh, I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know?” There was something in her voice that made Stella shrug. It was a low, calm, and serious tone—the fairy could feel her stern, regal gaze as she continued to speak, like someone saving her harshest words for last.

She shook her head slowly. Risking a glance, Stella could see her better now. The loose waist of the light blue dress, the gold shimmering under her cheeks, her much longer hair falling in waves.

She wanted to ask too.

She wanted to know how Beatrix was there, and she wanted to take her hand to run away from there.

Turning her face towards her, Beatrix seemed to allow herself to observe her, without any discretion or shame whatsoever. Her hand rose to her chin, and the tips of her fingers lifted her face until their eyes met.

With a sigh, Stella sees her eyes filling with tears.

“Perhaps that was it,” said Beatrix, drawing closer, the corners of her lips trembling, “Perhaps it was I who brought you here.”

Confused, and with her face burning red, Stella found herself asking, “Why?”

She laughed, a dry, joyless sound, and Stella pulled her hand away from Beatrix’s face.

Her fingers went to her hair, and she pulled out a Maiden’s blush rose, pulling a few strands along with it.

Stella didn't really notice the flowers in Beatrix's hair; the delicate sight is so unusual to her. It's strange to see Beatrix so disheveled and full of fragile things, when normally she's so impeccable and sharp as a blade.

“Look around.” Stella actually did, when she noticed that silence prevailed for a brief moment. "I've been immersed in this darkness for so long. My eyes have even lost their adjustment to the light."

"Can't you leave?" The willow tree’s exit was still there; Stella could see it if she squinted, a darkness brighter than the one she found herself in. “Wait! You’re the one who made the willow grow?”

The flower in her hand fell to the ground and was swallowed by the darkness below, and she looked at the princess with a certain astonishment, “You saw it?”

“Yes. It’s quite beautiful, imposing,” the light fairy smiled weakly, seeing the girl’s features soften. “The only healthy nature I’ve seen here so far. Alive, so to speak. Kinda ironic, if you think about it.”

Almost as if embarrassed, Beatrix takes a few steps back, and then Stella heard a clinking sound. Confused, they both looked back, but it seemed that only she couldn't understand what that was.

"Bea?"

"You have to get out of here," she said hurriedly, turning around with her eyes wide as plates. She stepped close to Stella. That clinking sound came again, increasing her curiosity. Beatrix murmured nervously, the phrase escaping through gritted teeth, "That thing can't know you're here."

Stella's heart sank, and she found herself falling into even more despair, "No, no, no, I can't go now! I just found you!"

But Beatrix seemed, for a moment, deaf to her pleas. Her eyes, so dark, no longer that soft shade of brown, were glazed over as she looked behind her—almost as if something were there, and only Stella and her still very lively eyes couldn't see.

It was like losing her again, so Stella's hands reached for her arms and pulled her into a hug. Beatrix cried out in pain, and the fairy noticed that her body, for some reason, hadn't fully leaned into the embrace. She worried that she'd done something wrong, and that her anguish had blinded her to the things around her.

Until she hears that clinking again.

This time, Stella pushed her arms away and, without looking at her face, rummaged through her skirt. A sudden movement that made Bea step back, but not before the blonde managed to see the chains that bound her feet.

The clinking was steel, and the steel was from the chains that were fastened to Beatrix's ankles.

Stella had so many things she wanted to ask. She wanted to ask why even in death Beatrix seems to find no peace. Why she was chained like a prisoner. Why she was hidden in the depths of a place like this.

But before she can ask anything, Beatrix was ​​too close to her.

Her icy fingertips rested on her cheeks, gently cupping her face, and soon she felt her cold lips on hers. It was tender, enough to make her close her eyes and let more tears fall.

Her hand landed on the side of her blonde hair, and there, her fingers rose and intertwined briefly.

How could she say that Death has the face of a lover, tastes of longing, and makes her feel at peace?

She would love to know how to put that into words.

Beatrix's ghost places a little kiss on her cheek and whispered to her,

"Don't find me, princess, or look for me."

"Wake up, and never return to purgatory."

"That already knows about you."

She swore she heard the sound of chains being pulled. She's certain she heard a cry of anguish and a sob of pain. And a Shadow.

Promising to return a stolen life.

It extended a twisted hand into a massive claw, and within it lay what she promised.

But there was a cost.

Beatrix's ghostly presence is a memory capable of fading.

On one condition.

Stella's insomnia has returned, worse than ever, or so they say.

Her friends are patrolling to check if she goes to the main courtyard in the middle of the night. Or venture deep into the forest, like last time.

The princess of Solaria knows she's not crazy.

She twirls the small blue flower—which was in her hair that day when she woke up—between her fingers every night until it withers.

Just like the flower's name, Stella won't forget Beatrix's warning.

Nor the treasure that devil offered her in exchange for a small favor.