The invitation was delivered at 6 PM sharp.
Not a phone call. Not a knock on the door. Just a white envelope slipped under the door with the smell of lavender and ash.
It read:
> "Miss Alya Verma, your presence is requested at the Nightfall Family Dinner. Formal attire. Speak no lies."
I stared at it.
The phrasing wasn't just old-fashioned. It was... specific. "Speak no lies"? What kind of dinner warning is that?
Still, something in me knew this was not optional.
---
The closet in my room—usually empty except for a few neutral dresses the staff had prepared—now held a gown I had never seen before.
Black velvet.
Backless.
Sleeves that dripped like spilled ink.
It fit like it had been sewn for my body before I was even born.
There was no zipper. No tag.
Only a label stitched inside with red thread: For the one who dares to sit.
I tried not to overthink it.
By 7 PM, I was descending the spiral staircase, heels echoing like gunshots in the marble silence. I expected silence. Maybe one or two unfamiliar faces. But the moment I reached the bottom floor, I realized—
The house was… alive.
---
The dining room was enormous, easily the size of a ballroom. A chandelier made of cracked glass hovered over a long table dressed in midnight blue.
There were twelve chairs.
Nine were already occupied.
And none of them looked... real.
Their skin was too pale. Their faces unmoving. Their eyes too wide, too still. They sat like statues, but dressed in couture.
I recognized none of them. And yet, some part of me whispered: They've seen me before.
Aaryan sat at the head, in a tailored black suit.
He didn't smile when I entered. But his eyes tracked me like I was the only living thing in the room.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
I did.
The moment I sat, all nine heads turned toward me in eerie unison. I flinched.
A butler entered. He didn't walk — he glided, silent as vapor. He placed a silver dome-covered dish in front of each of us.
The dome lifted by itself.
The plate in front of me was empty.
Not a speck of food. Just a polished mirror surface.
I looked around.
Everyone else had food — meats I couldn't name, fruits that looked blood-soaked, drinks too dark to be wine.
But no one was eating.
They were waiting.
Aaryan finally spoke.
"Tonight," he said calmly, "we welcome Alya Verma into the House of Nightfall."
Someone two seats away, a woman in a sapphire dress, tilted her head and said in a voice like bells underwater:
"She smells like hope."
Another, a boy no older than sixteen, whispered, "She'll ruin everything."
"No," the woman corrected. "She's the one who might survive it."
I leaned closer to Aaryan. "Who are they?"
"My family."
"Your… living family?"
"No," he said. "They're the ones who never left."
My blood turned to frost.
"You mean they're—?"
"Bound," he said simply. "To the house. To me. To the curse. Some by choice. Some by accident. A few… because they lied at dinner."
I looked down at my plate again.
My reflection blinked back at me. Except… it wasn't mine.
The girl in the mirror had longer hair. Softer cheeks. My sister's face.
She mouthed something.
"Don't drink the wine."
But there was no wine in front of me.
I looked to my left.
Now there was.
A full glass. Red. Tempting. Still.
Aaryan picked his up, held it toward me.
"To truth," he said.
I didn't move.
The woman in sapphire leaned toward me. Her mouth was wrong, like it stretched too wide when she smiled.
"Speak a truth about your heart," she said, "or the wine will do it for you."
I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry.
My chest ached.
So I whispered:
"I never forgave my sister for leaving me behind."
Silence.
Then all nine figures smiled. Wide. Too wide.
Aaryan drank. The rest followed.
I did not.
My glass disappeared.
Just like that.
---
After dinner, I tried to leave.
The hallway didn't let me.
Every door I opened led back to the dining room.
Over and over and over.
Until I finally asked aloud, "What do you want from me?"
A voice echoed from the chandelier.
"To see if you break slower… or faster."
---
When I finally made it back to my room, the gown melted off like mist.
There were scratches down my spine.
Like fingers had danced there during dinner.
I didn't feel them.
But now I saw the bruises blooming.
And on my pillow was a note. This one written in gold ink, barely legible.
> Seven brides sat before you tonight.
Only one left the house alive.
She was the first. You are the last.
The mirror does not want a repeat.