((TW: Animal death and resurrection))

The affairs of House Vauleaux have always been public; Lady Vauleaux was a prominent member of the Gloomheart Court, and eyes watched the family from every angle. The Lord and Lady are notorious socialites, mingling among nobles and commonfolk alike, for the good of all Shadekind. But something changed upon welcoming their first and only daughter— the family shut their doors, strengthened their barriers, and kept their affairs private. It is said that Kehru did not speak or see another soul for a fortnight after Anora’s birth, so concerned was she for the girl’s health and wellbeing. A Shade birth is no small thing— many Shades don’t have the privilege of being able to harbor offspring, and fewer Shade-born children survive infancy. It’s different for every family and every child, and parents must be prepared for the curses they bear to be passed on to their heirs, and they must be prepared for the potential complications. It is for this reason that Kehru turned all her attention to her daughter in those crucial first days.

Lady Vauleaux had been optimistic. The Lucanis had already sired two Shade-born children at that time, and Kehru had all the magical and medical support she could need, with a large host of midwives and medical professionals at her disposal. All would be well. They had no other choice.

Remaining in a self-imposed isolation for a few days, or even a week, would not have been so suspicious. But as the second week was drawing to a close, with Lady Vauleaux refusing the company of even her closest confidants and handmaidens, rumors began circling with concern for the baby’s health. If Anora was born hale and whole, would there not be cause for celebration? Would there not be galas and balls memorializing such an occasion? When questioned, Lord Vauleaux would not be easily pressed to provide insights into his wife’s affairs. He vouched for his daughter’s health, to assuage the worries of friends and associates, but servants say that Kehru rarely permitted her husband into her temporary chambers during this time, so solemn was her solitude.

All worry dissipated as quickly as it came when on a full-moon evening, Lady Vauleaux emerged from her isolation with a beautiful, healthy baby girl in her arms— greeted with a kiss from her husband and the attention of her handmaidens.

A secret was born that night— one which would follow the Vauleaux family and every servant under their employ to the grave.

-

From a young age, there was always something strange about Anora. It was an unspoken thing, like a secret privy to few, always understood but never uttered. Something about her big eyes, the way sunlight made her skin glimmer like stars, the way she interacted with nature and animals and all the people around her. Whatever it was, it was forbidden to discuss. Speaking of Anora’s strange whimsies, the dazed look in her eyes, the way she seemed to be more like a flower in a garden than a young girl… like a face in a painting, or a doll on a shelf.

She was a delight in almost every way, with a pleasant temperament, a happy rosiness to her cheeks, a yearning for knowledge, a childish spirit, and a beauty that would only grow as she got older.

But there was also something wrong about her, too.

She would get lost in her head for hours, staring at flowers and clouds and listening to rain on the stained glass windows of her home. She never asked for much— though she always got what she wanted— and were she not required constant supervision, most would forget she’s even there. She was content to be left alone, reading or spending time outside under the shrouded garden of her home. An easy child, they all said. Naive and dreamy, maybe, but easy nonetheless.

But her unusual pleasantness and strange aura would quickly become the least ponderous thing about her. Her ethereal aura and ever-lost mind could quickly be disregarded over the years. It’s just how she was. No one else seemed concerned, and though the Lord and Lady of the house— and their foremost servants— seemed privy to some unknown detail about the girl, rumors about her strangeness quickly died.

Her developing interests became a much more concerning topic.

Perhaps it was inevitable as a young Shade that she may meet Death in some form— the curse she bore from her parents is a vile one, and one that leaves Death ever close at hand. Her parents shielded her from the gruesome reality of their survival: that living blood and flesh was an unfortunately necessary source of sustenance. She knew, in theory, what it was she drank, but never had to hunt for it, and never thirsted. So Death was never close to her, just a far-off thing she never had to confront.

When she did confront it, it overtook her mind.

It was a young bird, fallen from its high-up nest, yet unable to fly and still mostly featherless. It writhed pitifully, calling for its absent mother. And for however long it struggled, a young Anora watched, transfixed, as though she had never seen a creature hurt or dying. It hurt her to see, but some morbid curiosity compelled her.

“Is there any way to save it?” Anora asked the old maid who attended her, who stood a distance away, unable to act.

“No, child,” the woman would say. “And I suggest you get away from it.”

“Why?” Anora asked.

“Because such things ill befit a young lady.”

Anora thought this answer made little sense, but left the dying chick alone as it drew its final breaths.

Later, she would sneak out from her room, descending from her balcony clumsily, and return to the bird corpse. There it remained, still and silent. Its mother abandoned it, which was perhaps more tragic. Anora had half a mind to bury the thing. That’s what is often done for dead things, she thinks, vaguely recalling some story she read. She reached out to touch the dead bird, and in a ponderous turn of events, fleeting sparks flew from her fingertips.

And for a moment, briefly, the bird twitched.

This event would change her life in many ways, and she would become increasingly interested in the topic of death and all its forms. It wasn’t enough to just know death, but she had to understand it. The science was there, and she would absorb it all. And there were theoretical magical practices with death, which she would study too.

But little gave insight into her encounter with the bird.

Necromancy was a dark topic, and one that resulted in published works being heavily restricted. There were ethical dilemmas that made it an unfavorable subject, and one that people were discouraged from reading or interacting with in any practical way. This frustrated Anora. If she had some unforetold talent, was she not meant to nurture it?

Her mother didn’t seem to think so.

“I don’t want you reading those books,” she said, firmly. “That magic is dangerous, and could get you in trouble with forces greater than you know.”

It was a warning Anora emphatically ignored.

So she became known for her morbid relationship with death, and a growing talent for reanimation. If she couldn’t heal an injured animal from her garden, she would bring it back to life. Twitching became breathing, and breathing became full movement… the newly deceased were easy, and animals have small, hardy souls.

Like a fairytale princess boasts a host of tweeting song-birds and mouse companions, Anora would boast her own host of undead pets. They were half-decayed and skeletal, maybe, but given new life and undying loyalty to their reanimator, like a soul bond between Anora and the animals she brought back.

It was a very unfavorable sight, at first. Undead birds would perch on Anora’s balcony, giving her shiny trinkets in exchange for seeds they couldn’t digest. Animal habit and instinct never dies, even when the body corrupts. Anora named every one of them.

This strange interest of hers would become another one that would become typical of her, in time. Her mother opposed the presence of half-dead pets roaming the halls, but her father thought it was harmless.

“What are people going to think of her— of us— if she goes around making Shades of every rat she sees?” Her mother protested.

Her father was much more reasonable. “If this is something that intrigues her, and it allows her to grow her magic, then we should encourage it. Stifling it will only make her more determined.”

Eventually, her mother relented. But it made her harder on the girl, who would be made to take responsibility for the pets she kept.

Kehru decided she’d need to bring her daughter into shape. If she was going to run around breaking fundamental codes of ethics, then she had to be reared to perfection in every other sense. A suitable heiress and member of House Vauleaux. Kehru stopped expecting any less.

So her mother taught her how to act and present herself, of etiquette and social nuance, and of caution. “Do not speak or act idly, carry confidence with you at all times, and never betray your intentions to others.”

Easier said than done for a girl who idled and daydreamed in all she did, had the social presence of a field mouse, and would sooner go on about the latest stories she read or her rudimentary research into necromancy than ever keep her thoughts to herself. It was little surprise that she failed to meet her mother’s expectations in almost every way.

Though for all her mother’s preparations, Kehru always kept a shield around her daughter. It was hard for her to discuss the ways men might want to undermine or take advantage of her, or the harm that others are capable of, or the cruelty of the world.

How could she even bring up such dreary topics when Anora spends half her day staring out her window at things unseen? She was an innocent girl, and if Kehru played her cards right, Anora would never know pain or suffering.

As Anora came of age and entered the public eye, she became a target… all eyes were on the Vauleaux daughter, and suddenly her strange quirks would become weapons used against her. Rumors were untamed, wild things, and Kehru made every attempt to stop them before they started.

But even when Anora tried to behave appropriately around others, smile and socialize with all her strange prettiness and charm, there was always something to scrutinize. She had a flighty gaze, hard at eye contact no matter how she tried. Her hair was hardly made up, and she preferred to leave it loose, even at formal events, which was rather uncomely for a young woman in the upper echelons of society. She frequently held a far-off stare, or walked about aimlessly or in a trance-like state, only torn from it when she was spoken to. She was a pleasant conversationalist when you could get her to talk, but she spoke too softly despite her best attempts to articulate the way her mother taught her. And when she got excited about a topic, with her eyes lighting up like fireworks, it was difficult to get her to stop talking at all.

She wasn’t bashful. Just strange.

But she tried, truly. And sometimes she had to tell herself that she was better off keeping things to herself, and it helped to have her mother’s voice in the back of her mind. No one wants to hear about skeletons, Anora. Stand straight, Anora. Stop fidgeting, Anora. Someone’s talking to you, Anora, look up at them.

It wore her down. She just wasn’t made to be the elegant lady her mother wanted her to be, and even when she tried her damnedest to be likable and proper, she still felt out of place, like her mind was spinning and everything around her felt distant and unreal. Every uneasy glance at her, every face people made at her mannerisms, every polite dismissal, became a knife to her heart. And the fact that she was different became more painfully obvious at every social gathering.

She felt more at home in her garden, among her animals.

She felt more at home in the rare cases where she could be by herself, where she didn’t have to hide.

Anora knew she had to leave, even if it pained her. She couldn’t be what her mother wanted, so she was going to be what she wanted, where she could explore her magic and the dark sciences which fascinated her. She wouldn’t be Anora, heiress to House Vauleaux. She’d just be Anora.

So in an optimistic attempt to escape her mother’s stifling expectations and forced social performances, she applied to every far-off school and academy she could, writing letters madly for days hoping somewhere would take her. It wasn’t necromancy, really, that she wanted to study— according to her admission letters— it was a scientific study of the connection between the soul and the body. It was a subject that might garner intrigue, but was still vague enough to not have her denied outright for wanting to pursue necromantic studies. Some might be open to it, but she couldn’t assume others shared her fascination, especially considering her mother’s initial misgivings on the topic.

She didn’t expect to hear back right away. She expected weeks, months, a whole season, perhaps, before she even got so much as a letter of denial.

It was a stroke of luck that she received a letter by parcel stoat within a few days.

Anora couldn’t have smiled bigger if she tried.

“Mother!” She called, barreling clumsily down the hallway towards her mother’s study, piece of elegant parchment in hand. “Mother, I was accepted into the Conservatory at Pont-Ciel!”

The girl was beaming, glowing head to toe from sheer joy.

Her mother was stunned, if only for a moment, as she looked up from where she was writing correspondences from her desk. “The Conservatory?” She asked, “...You applied?”

There was some sort of hurt and pain in her question that made Anora immediately shrink in on herself.

“Y-Yes, I thought I would try—”

“That would require you leave home,” Kehru interrupted, eyebrow furrowed, “You don’t know the first thing about Pont-Ciel, or living alone. You’d be away from us, and our resources and protection.”

Anora glanced away nervously, suddenly reconsidering herself. Did she step out of turn? “B-But is this not proof of my merit? I-I would think you’d be happy,” she said, deflating.

“You need to stay here, Anora, where we can keep you safe. Everyone out there,” Kehru threw one arm out towards the window nearby. “Is going to want to hurt you and take advantage of you. I don’t want you in danger. You’re not going.” Kehru was firm, almost unyielding and wholly unwilling to consider allowing her daughter’s departure.

Like an angel sent from above, Senri just so happened to be passing by at this time, and caught their conversation. It was a timely intervention, for Senri’s hand on her shoulder calmed Anora immediately.

“I’m proud of you, Anora,” he said with a reserved smile. “I think this would be a good opportunity for you, and we’ll support your pursuit of education.” To Senri, it was unquestionable.

Anora could almost feel the heat emanating from where her mother sat, furious. “Husband,” Kehru said, venomous. “Do not undermine me.”

Anora took a cautious step back as Senri took a step forward, her father as calm and composed as a gentle stream. “If this is what makes Anora happy, then we must nurture it, not shun it. I hardly think it’s fair to deny her the privilege to attend an esteemed institution, where she can pursue that which she enjoys.”

“It’s not safe,” Kehru affirmed.

But Senri would not be deterred by his wife’s ire. “A flower needs nourishment if it’s to grow. She’ll never find satisfaction in life if she stays here.”

Kehru’s grip on her quill relaxed, seeing her daughter’s hurt gaze and her husband’s determined one. She couldn’t hurt Anora like that. Letting her go away would be a foolish decision, but Kehru couldn’t bear the thought of Anora resenting her forever for refusing to let her go.

Kehru put down her quill and closed her eyes, composing herself. There was a heavy pause that hung over the room like a miasma, Kehru’s quiet contemplation saturating the room with a dark energy.

After several long moments, she spoke. “Fine,” she said, but as Anora’s face lit up again, Kehru continued. “But you must write to us every fortnight, and visit every moon. And we will choose your accommodations and send you blood by parcel stoat. You are not to fraternize with any dubious organizations, and you will be kept tabs on by either a servant of the House or someone we trust.”

Though these were strict stipulations, Anora couldn’t help but nod, determined, eyes lit up with optimism. “I’ll make you proud, mother. I promise.”

“I know you will,” Kehru said, a sad fondness in her voice.

And it was within the month that Anora was riding to Veritas by carriage to catch the evening airship to Pont-Ciel, her father by her side. Kehru didn’t have the heart to see her daughter off, and spent the following days in a state one could only call mourning, a sad darkness to her eyes that betrayed some sinking emotion.

When this sadness had passed, after several long weeks, she would summon a dear acquaintance to the estate.

Someone she could trust.


“Nero, I would ask a favor of you.”