A Fey for Valentines Day

Those Who Came Before

I don't know how long I sit there, trying to regain control.

Long enough for my tears to finally dry. Long enough for my breathing to finally slow from ragged, ugly sobs to a semblance of normalcy. Long enough to feel the cold of the marble floor seep through into my bones.

The hallway stretches in both directions, lit by flickering sconces that cast more shadows than light. Behind me, somewhere far away, I can hear the faint strains of music from the ballroom again. The game continuing without me. The clock still ticking. And here I am hiding in a corridor like a coward.

They deserve better than me.

The words echo in my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the fresh wave of shame. I meant every syllable. That's the worst part. The Sorceress's magic didn't push those thoughts into my head — they were already there.

It had just dragged them out for everyone to hear. Where they could hear.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. I can't bare to think of the way Alaric looked at me. Kael's expression. Before I turned and ran. I can't think about any of that, or I'll start crying again, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to stop this time.

Get up.

The voice in my head sounds like my mother — practical, no-nonsense, slightly disappointed. It's enough to make me push myself off the floor with shaking legs. My gown is wrinkled now, my face probably a puffy disaster, and I have no idea where I am.

I look back toward the ballroom — toward the distant music and the light spilling from beneath the doorway — and my stomach turns. I can't go back there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So I go the other way.

The hallway winds deeper away from the masquerade, away from the noise and the crowds. The sconces go forever, the shadows dark, but I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. It's all I can manage right now.

I pass through the hallway, every door I try is locked, some open into empty rooms filled with the darkness of space. And suddenly I realize this place is a labyrinth. A maze designed to confuse and disorient. The Sorceress's domain, extending far beyond that glittering ballroom.

I turn another corner, then another, losing track of my path. It doesn't matter. I'm not trying to get away. There's no where to go.

And that's when I find it.

The door is different from the others — larger, older, made of dark wood carved with symbols I don't recognize. It stands slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the gap.

I should keep walking. I should find my way back to the ballroom and face whatever's waiting for me there. I should-

Instead, I push the door open.

The room beyond steals my breath.

It's a gallery. Massive, circular, with walls that stretch up into darkness and curve around me like the inside of a tower. And every inch of those walls is covered in portraits.

Hundreds of them.

Hanging in gilded frames, row upon row, reaching so high I can't see where they end. Men and women, young and old, dressed in gowns and suits from every era imaginable. Reneissance velvets. Victorian silks. Roaring Twenties beading. Modern cuts that could be straight from Milan last season even.

All of them wearing masks.

I take a tentative step deeper into the gallery, my heels echoing against the stone floor. The portraits seem to watch me as I move, their painted eyes tracking my progress. It should be unsettling. It is unsettling. But I can't look away.

I stop in front of the nearest painting — a young woman in an emerald gown, her dark hair piled high, a delicate mask of gold filigree covering the upper half of her face. She's beautiful. She's also clearly terrified, her painted eyes wide with a fear that the artist captured perfectly.

Beneath the portrait, a small brass plaque reads: Elena of Florence, 1497, unchosen.

Unchosen.

My stomach drops. I move to the next portrait — a man this time, broad - shouldered and handsome in a midnight-blue coat. His expression is resigned, almost peaceful. James of London, 1823, chosen.

Chosen.

I walk faster now, scanning the plaques as I pass. Maria of Madrid, 1601, unchosen. William of Edinburgh, 1756, unchosen. Mei of Shanghai, 1889, chosen. Anastasia of Moscow, 1912, unchosen.

The pattern becomes horrifyingly clear. These are the mortals who came before me. The ones who touched the water, answered the fountains call, found themselves trapped in the Sorceress's game. Some of them won - chosen — their portraits showing faces at peace, happy even. But far more of them lost.

Unchosen.

I think of the Sorceress's words. Find true love by midnight, or everyone dies. These people — Elena, James and Maria and all the others — they stood where I'm standing now. They danced with princes and princesses and answered impossible questions and tried to navigate a game designed to break them.

And most of them failed.

I keep walking, unable to stop myself. The portraits blurring together — so many faces, so many names, so many lives that ended in this glittering nightmare. Some of the unchosen look peaceful, resigned. Others look angry, defiant even in death. A few look simply — tired.

And that is something I understand.

Near the center of the gallery, I find a portrait that makes me stop dead in my tracks. A woman, maybe my age, with red hair and freckles dusted across her nose. She's wearing a simple gown of pale blue, and her mask is plain white porcelain. Unlike the others, she's smiling — not a performed smile, a genuine one. Something real.

Catherine of Boston, 1952, chosen.

Chosen. She won. She found true love in this nightmare and escaped with her life.

I stare at her face, searching for some secret, some clue. What did she do differently? How did she succeed where so many others failed? Was it luck? Fate? Something she figured out that I haven't?

The portrait offers no answers. Just that quiet, knowing smile.

I move on, passing dozens more faces, dozens more stories that I'll never know. The weight of them pressing down on me — all these people, all these games, all this suffering. The Sorceress has been doing this for centuries. Maybe a millennia. How many lives has she consumed? How much pain and suffering has she fed on?

And for what? Entertainment? Power? A twisted sense of amusement?

I think of her silver eyes, her cruel smile, the way she laughed as she tore my secrets from me. She's a monster. A beautiful, ancient monster who treats human hearts like toys. And I hate her.

The realization burns through me, hot and fierce. I hate her. Not just for what she did to me tonight, but for Elena and James and Maria and all the others. For centuries of games and deaths and broken hearts. For those who've been trapped in this cycle, pitted against each other again and again while she watches and laughs.

For the Alaric and Kael.

I stop walking, struck by a sudden thought. Alaric and Kael have never played this game before — but they know the rules. Someone taught them. Someone close to them must have survived this nightmare and lived to tell the tale. Their father? Their uncle? Both? The brothers were raised on stories of this place. Warnings. It's no wonder that Kael is so bitter. No wonder Alaric looks so tired. They've spent their whole lives in the shadow of a game they'd never played — until tonight.

I look around the gallery with new eyes, scanning the faces for anyone who might be a face I'd recognize. I move deeper into the gallery, past faces, more names, more tragedy. There has to be something here — some clue, some answer, some way out of this nightmare. The Sorceress wouldn't keep this room hidden if there wasn't something she didn't want found.

I just have to find it.