The Crimson Court

The invitation arrived sealed in crimson wax, slipped beneath the door sometime between dusk and midnight. No name, no crest. Only a single line: The Court awaits.

The old estate was alive with candlelight when I arrived. Velvet gowns drifted through the ballroom, laughter low and knowing. Glasses of dark wine caught the glow of the chandeliers as music carried the dancers slowly in circles.

At the centre of the room sat the Court itself — pale faces, ageless eyes, smiles that lingered just a moment too long.

Someone pressed a glass into my hand. “Don’t look so nervous,” they said softly. “You were invited, after all.” Across the room, the Crimson Court raised their glasses in welcome.