Eliza followed the sound, her bare feet padding lightly against the castle's cold stone floors. The music was growing louder and deeper, resonating through the once vibrant halls.

As she moved, she noticed something strange.

The castle—once a decaying ruin—seemed… different.

The cracks in the walls were vanishing, the faded tapestries regaining their deep, rich hues. The twisted, skeletal chandeliers flickered with a stronger, more defiant glow, and the broken statues lining the corridors stood a little taller as if remembering their former majesty.

The air itself seemed lighter.

Had the castle always been healing? Or was something—someone—restoring it piece by piece?

The music surged, no longer just drums, but layered—an eerie, enthralling harmony.

A guitar.

A deep, sorrowful wail of strings, vibrating through the stone and marrow of the kingdom itself.

Eliza’s breath hitched as she reached a set of heavy doors. They were different from the others, not worn or crumbling, but carved with intricate patterns—swirling vines and blooming roses woven into the dark wood.

With hesitant fingers, she pushed them open.

A garden.

Not a ruined, dying plot of land like she had expected, but a perfect sanctuary, untouched by time.

The grass was lush, thick, and wild, bathed in the cool silver glow of the Forever Moons. Crooked trees stretched toward the sky, their leaves glistening like gemstones, swaying gently in an unseen breeze. Flowers of every imaginable color blossomed in the soft light, their petals curling as if whispering secrets to one another.

There were stone pathways, winding gracefully through the greenery, leading to park-like elements—benches carved from obsidian and white marble, a crystal-clear pond reflecting the moon’s glow, ivy-laced archways that framed the night-like painted windows.

And at the heart of it all, beneath an arch of black roses, was them.

An undead band.

A skeletal drummer, arms moving with unnatural precision, tapping out a steady, thunderous beat against a set of drums carved from bone.

A violinist, their instrument made of polished ribs and strings of pale, silken hair, drawing a bow with a haunting, aching melody.

An organist, seated before an instrument of bones, the keys clicking as skeletal fingers danced over them, playing deep, sorrowful notes that vibrated through the air.

And in the center—a guitar of bone.

Its body is sculpted from a massive ribcage, its strings glistening with some otherworldly sheen. And there, strumming it with dark grace, was him.

Tenebrae.

Draped in flowing black, the prince stood at the center of the macabre symphony, his long white hair illuminated under the moonlight, his glowing green eyes half-lidded, lost in the music.

And he was singing.

His voice was raw, powerful, laced with something almost painful to hear—an emotion Eliza couldn’t quite name.

“There’s a darkness hidden in me,

Black fire calls my name,

One step from giving into rage,

Torn apart by those I loved,

Locked away inside their hell,

My life has started to fade.”

Eliza’s breath caught.

She wasn’t alone.

A small figure bumped into her side, startling her.

She turned to see Opal, the young Udine girl, standing just behind her. Her wide, ocean-blue eyes were transfixed on the scene before them, her small hands clutched tightly to the front of her robe.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them dared to.

They simply stood there, listening.

“I ran to you, to stop the pain,

Always running to your arms, Evil Queen,

But now I see, you were not good for me.”

The band surged with him, the violinist’s bow slicing across the strings, sending a chilling, heart-wrenching note through the garden. The organ groaned like a lamenting spirit, and the drummer pounded against the bones, sending deep tremors through the earth.

But Tenebrae didn’t falter.

His fingers moved skillfully over the bone guitar, each note deliberate, every word dripping with something bitter and real.

“This kingdom around me, full of potential and promise,

I won’t build you up just to let you fall!”

“This time, I’ll meet them face to face!”

Eliza felt something deep in her chest twist.

“There’s a fire inside of me,

Always burning, drowning inside,

Evil Queen, now I see,

You were never good for me.”

His voice carried through the garden, rising into the night, wrapping around the castle itself like an unchained spirit.

Eliza had never heard this Tenebrae before.

This wasn’t the cold, calculating prince who spoke in clipped, emotionless words.

This wasn’t the distant lich who kept himself locked away.

This was something raw, something alive—something full of fury and sorrow.

And the music, the way it coursed through the garden, how the skeletons played as though they had been waiting centuries for this moment—this was not a performance.

This was true.

Eliza swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

She glanced at Opal, who was staring, completely mesmerized.

The young girl did not speak.

She did not cry.

She simply listened, as though the words were reaching somewhere deeper than she had known she could be reached.

And maybe… maybe they were.

Eliza turned back to Tenebrae.

He hadn’t noticed them yet.

Or if he had, he did not care.

He simply kept playing.

And for the first time, Eliza wondered how much of himself he had been holding back.

After some time.

The castle had long since returned to its usual eerie quiet, the echoes of music fading into the shadows of the night. But Eliza found no peace. She wandered the halls, her thoughts tangled with frustration and unanswered questions.

She had learned that waiting for Tenebrae to explain things to her was useless—he wouldn’t. He never did.

So she went looking for Mirabella instead.

As she approached Tenebrae’s chambers, she slowed. The heavy doors always closed to all but his most trusted, were just barely cracked. Through the sliver of space, moonlight spilled onto the polished floor, casting long shadows over the deep violet and black of his bedding.

And there—on the edge of his grand, darkly regal bed—she saw her.

Mirabella.

The stitched woman was draped across his sheets, her clockwork-fabric clothing fanned out like delicate embroidery, brushing over his pillows, his covers—his space.

As if she were claiming it.

Eliza’s breath caught, an unfamiliar tightness twisting in her chest. It wasn’t her place to say anything—it wasn’t her place, period.

And yet, she turned sharply on her heel and left, jaw tight.

She found Lady Aura in the kitchen, her elegant centaur form moving with practiced ease as she cleaned up with a flick of her fingers, magic weaving through the room. Her tail—a long, scorpion-like appendage—swayed lazily behind her as she began preparing what looked to be a meal.