"This isn't my body. Not my bed. Not my world. So why does it feel like I've always been here?"
Eloise opened her eyes to a ceiling painted with clouds and constellations that glowed faintly in the dark. Not stickers like the ones she'd plastered across her bedroom ceiling as a child, but moving, shifting constellations that shimmered like real stars. She blinked hard, once, twice. The sky didn't vanish.
She sat up slowly. Her head throbbed dully at the base of her skull, a tight pulse that made her wince. She was in a bed—massive, canopied, draped in blood-red silk. The fabric shimmered like water, smooth and silent. The sheets smelled of roses and something deeper, muskier, like old books and firewood.
Where the hell was she?
She threw off the covers—and froze.
The choir black gown she had worn last night were gone. In their place was a long red gown that clung to her shoulders and wrists like it was tailored just for her. The sleeves were sheer lace, the bodice structured and cinched. It wasn't just a dress. It was a costume. A uniform. A message.
She stood on trembling legs and looked around. The room was huge—twice the size of her living room back home. The floors were marble, veined with crimson. A tall window spilled pale morning light across the furniture: a high-backed chair, a vanity with a dark mirror, a table set with a single breakfast tray—and her invitation.
It sat propped against a silver teapot. The glowing parchment now bearing her name in swirling crimson ink:
Lady Eloise Morgan, The First OF Her Name
She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding.
Was this a dream? A prank? Was she drugged?
This certainly was beyond Halloween party aesthetics.
As if in answer, the door creaked open.
Two people entered—a man and a woman, both wearing identical robes the color of ash. They were pale. Not in the way of skipped-sunlight pale, but porcelain pale, as if sculpted from moonlight. Their eyes were silvery and strangely empty, as if emotion had been drained out of them long ago.
Definitely Not Halloween.
"Lady Eloise," the woman said with a shallow bow. "We hope your rest was undisturbed."
Eloise took a step back. "Where am I? Where are my clothes? What is this place?"
The man tilted his head. "You are in the Crimson Hall, my lady. All has been prepared for you."
"Prepared for what?" Her voice cracked. She hated the way fear curled at the edges. "What is going on?"
The woman offered a small, almost mechanical smile. "All will be explained tomorrow. Today, you are to rest. The Ceremony begins at dusk tomorrow night."
"What ceremony? Who are you people? Why are you calling me 'Lady'?" Her voice pitched higher. She was unraveling, and she knew it—but how could she not?
The man bowed this time. "Forgive us. We are not permitted to speak beyond our roles."
"Then get someone who can."
The two exchanged a glance. The woman's smile never faltered. "Breakfast is warm. If you require anything, ring the bell."
They left as silently as they came, the door clicking shut behind them. Eloise ran to it, grabbed the handle, and twisted. Locked.
Of course.
She slammed her palm against the wood. Once. Twice. A third time. Then she sank to the floor, the cold marble seeping through her dress, grounding her in this terrible, impossible reality.
Jessica had been right. Every warning, every suspicion—she'd ignored it.
She pulled her knees to her chest and pressed her forehead to them. A single tear slipped free, and then another. But she didn't sob. She couldn't afford to. Not yet.
You're not safe. But you're not dead. That means they want something. Use that.
She stood. Slowly. Deliberately. Her legs still shook, but her spine straightened.
If they wanted to call her "Lady Eloise," fine. Let them. She'd play the role, gather information, and find a way out. There was always a way out. Her father used to say that. Before he left. Before the silence filled their house like water in a sinking ship.
She approached the breakfast tray. Toast, soft cheese, fruit cut into perfect slivers, and a steaming cup of something floral and strange. Nothing looked tampered with—but nothing looked familiar either.
She didn't touch it.
Instead, she examined the mirror on the vanity. It was antique, with an ornate silver frame shaped like coiling vines. The reflection that stared back at her looked like a stranger—a girl in a gothic blood stained gown, face pale and haunted, eyes wide with sleepless confusion.
She touched her cheek. Real. Still her. But not.
Hours passed.
The light through the window shifted from pale gold to amber. Once, a bell chimed softly somewhere in the distance—too far to place. At another time, soft footsteps echoed past her door, but they didn't pause.
She tried the bell on the table. Nothing happened.
Later, when the sky outside turned a deeper gray-blue, the door opened again. Another servant—this one younger, maybe fifteen, with long silvery hair—entered with a bundle of black and red linens.
"Fresh garments, Lady Eloise," the girl said in a whisper.
"Wait—can you tell me what this Ceremony is?" Eloise asked quickly. "Please. Just tell me if I'm in danger."
The girl froze. Her hands trembled slightly.
"You're chosen," she said finally, her voice like cracked porcelain. "It is not for me to question the will of the Blood."
Before Eloise could ask what that meant, the girl bowed and left.
Chosen.
The word rang in her ears like a warning.
She stared at the invitation again. At her name, written like it had always belonged to some noble title.
She wasn't noble. She wasn't anything. Just Eloise Morgan, the girl everyone ignored until they needed someone to humiliate. The girl who hid in corners and sketched in margins and pretended she didn't care.
So why her?
Outside, the first stars began to burn through the twilight.
And inside, Lady Eloise waited. Surrounded by silence. Haunted by questions. Wrapped in velvet, fear, and the beginning of something she couldn't name.
Tomorrow, they said. Tomorrow, the Ceremony would begin.
And she would be ready.