10/03/2025: The Forge, the Baby and the Vampire Convention

The official letter arrives on heavy parchment, sealed with the university’s emblem pressed deep into crimson wax. Reyna breaks the seal and unfolds the stiff paper, her eyes scanning the formal script. The forge—the Strixhaven forge, where she hopes to spend hours coaxing metal into submission—has been requisitioned for the next two semesters. Reserved for Urzmatok Grojsh.

The name sits there on the page like a stone in her boot. Urzmatok, nephew of Board Chair Brunhilde Grojsh. The letter explains in painfully bureaucratic language that he requires the facility to complete a Very Important Project for the benefit of the school. The words blur together into meaningless corporate courtesy.

Reyna sets the letter down, her jaw tight. No forge means no practice. No projects. No way to keep her skills sharp or work through the designs that wake her at three in the morning demanding to be made real.

The next morning, she sits in the dining hall with the Strixhaven Times spread across the scarred wooden table. The smell of breakfast—porridge, fried sausages, burnt toast—mingles with the musty scent of newsprint. Her eyes catch the headline on page three, and a surprised laugh escapes her throat. Someone robbed the forge during the night. Every tool, gone. Chisels, hammers, tongs—vanished completely.

She reads the article twice, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

⚔

The following afternoon, Squid appears in the Biblioplex at Reyna’s elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. Their small hand tugs insistently at her sleeve. “Come see! Come see the gift for the chef!”

Reyna follows the child across campus, past the main buildings and into the less-traveled paths. Dead leaves crunch underfoot. They wind behind the Hex Tower to a copse of trees where the sunlight filters green through dense foliage. The air smells of damp earth and old bark.

Squid leads her to a clump of bushes, brambles tangling together in a natural screen. With a flourish befitting a stage magician, the child pulls aside the branches and reveals a leather satchel. It bulges hugely, seams straining.

“For you!” Squid announces, beaming.

Reyna crouches down and unbuckles the flap. Inside: chisels of every size, their edges still bright. Ball-peen hammers and cross-peen hammers. Tongs with various jaw configurations. Hole punches, drifts, fullers. A leather apron, stiff and new. Heavy gauntlets that smell of tanned hide. Even a pair of darkened glass goggles for eye protection.

Her throat tightens. “Thanks, Squid,” she says, and means it completely.

Squid rocks on their heels, pride radiating from every pore. “I got them all. Every single one.” Their voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Urzmatok doesn’t deserve all the tools all the time. And you’re a better blacksmith, anyway.”

The words land like a bucket of cold water. Reyna’s head snaps up. “You stole these for me?”

Squid’s grin widens, utterly unrepentant. “Titania would say I borrowed them.” They pat the satchel affectionately. “They’re too heavy for me to bring upstairs to the Hex.”

⚔

Reyna grabs the satchel’s shoulder strap with both hands and heaves. The bag barely moves. She tries again, muscles straining, and manages to drag it a few inches across the ground. The leather scrapes against stone and dirt, making a sound like a grindstone. It takes hours to move the bag to the foot of the spiral staircase of the Hex Tower.

Reyna stares upward into shadow. She positions herself one one of the narrow stone steps above the satchel and starts pulling it upward, one agonizing step at a time. The bag thuds against each riser. Thump. Scrape. Thump. Scrape. The sound echoes in the confined space, bouncing off ancient stone walls.

Her shoulders burn. Sweat prickles along her spine despite the cool air. The leather handles dig into her palms even through her calluses.

By the third-floor landing, her breath comes in harsh gasps. She pauses, leaning against the cold stone to rest.

A door clicks open. Quentillius emerges from his Hex, locking it with careful precision. He turns and sees her, his expression souring immediately. His robes are immaculate, not a thread out of place. The scent of expensive cologne wafts from him—something with bergamot and self-importance.

“You’re in my way,” he says, each word clipped.

Reyna grits her teeth and hauls the satchel up another step. “I’ll be past in just a moment.” The words come out strangled with effort.

Quentillius taps his foot against the flagstones, the rhythm impatient and irritating. Tap. Tap. Tap. “You people are always making noise, always getting in trouble…”

Reyna freezes mid-pull. Her hands go still on the leather. “You people?” she demands. 

“Get going!” Quentillius barks. “I’m going to the forge to look for clues. I’m sure I can help solve this crime. The Strixhaven Times will reveal the identity of the thief and publish where the tools have gotten to!”

Reyna’s heart hammers against her ribs. She resumes dragging the satchel, moving with renewed urgency despite her exhausted muscles. The bag passes Quentillius with perhaps six inches of clearance. He doesn’t look down at it. Doesn’t seem to register the distinctive clink of metal tools shifting inside.

She hauls her contraband upward, step by grinding step, until she reaches her own door. Once inside, she collapses against the wall, breathing hard. The satchel sits in the middle of the floor like a trophy.

After her heartbeat slows, she begins moving furniture in Titania’s destroyed room, her mind already redesigning the space. A forge. A small one, yes. But hers.

⚔

Alister walks across campus with the baby cradled carefully against their chest hidden beneath their cloak. The infant gurgles contentedly. The buttons have finally worked their way through the child’s system—an unpleasant discovery made in the infirmary. The earring, consumed hours earlier, has yet to reappear. Alister tries not to think about where it might currently be lodged.

The autumn air carries the scent of wood smoke and dying flowers. Students hurry past in small clusters, their voices rising and falling in animated conversation.

Then Alister sees the posters.

They’re everywhere. Nailed to trees, stuck to notice boards, plastered across stone walls. The same face repeated dozens of times, rendered in stark black ink. Their own face, staring back at them from every direction.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS FEY?

WANTED FOR KIDNAPPING!

The words scream from the parchment in bold lettering. Below their portrait, a description. Distinguishing features. Last known location.

Alister’s stomach drops. They pull the baby closer and murmur the words to Pass Without Trace. Magic settles over them like a veil, soft and obscuring. The world seems to dim slightly at the edges. Their footsteps become silent. Even their presence feels muted, as though they’re only half-present in reality.

They move quickly but carefully through campus, avoiding the main paths. Campus security patrols drift past without turning their heads, their attention sliding away from them.

Alister slips inside the theater, the door closing with barely a whisper.

Inside, chaos. The mother paces back and forth across worn floorboards, her movements jerky and desperate. Her eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles. Tears have left salt tracks down her cheeks. She’s shouting at Rampart, her voice ragged and breaking.

Then she sees Alister.

“Thank gods you’re back!” She lunges forward and snatches her son from Alister’s arms. The baby, startled by the sudden movement, lets out a confused yelp and begins to cry. The mother clutches him to her chest, her whole body shaking with sobs of relief. She rocks back and forth, murmuring into the baby’s soft hair, checking him over with trembling hands for any sign of harm.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ 

The fey clears his throat, and begins, “Madam, I am happy to calm the child if….”

She jerks the alarmed baby away from Alister. The child begins wailing in earnest. “How DARE you…” she hisses at Alister. She wheels to turn on Rampart, demanding, “Why was my precious Snuggums with this…this…they don’t even have buttons on their shirt! And they are missing an earring.”

Alister says, “Yes, about the earring….I am happy to offer my services to allow you and the child’s father an evening out…”

The woman stomps from the theater, the baby’s anguished cries fading in her wake.

⚔

The 52nd Annual UpirCon descends upon Strixhaven University the following week. Banners hang from every available surface, printed in deep crimson and midnight black: Daylight Supremacy and Its Victims: A Call for Haemophagic Equity. The words curl across fabric in gothic script that seems to shimmer slightly in shadow.

Famous vampires arrive in coaches that clatter across cobblestones after sunset. Creatures of the night emerge in swirls of dark cloaks and the rustle of expensive fabric. The air grows thick with perfume—roses and earth and something older, harder to name. Conversations drift through the evening in a dozen languages, punctuated by laughter that sounds like wind chimes made of bone.

Aurora Wynterstar, one of the few dhampir students on campus, displays something approaching enthusiasm. For Aurora, this means the corners of her mouth lift perhaps a quarter-inch and her usual pallor takes on the faintest suggestion of color. She drifts through the crowds of CotNs, pronounced ‘Cottons’—Creatures of the Night, as she calls them—with the closest thing to joy Titania has ever witnessed on her face.

⚔

The Hex friends receive their assignments from their respective House majors. Each must document the convention according to their discipline’s strengths.

Titania, as a Lorehold student, draws interview duty. They’re tasked with conducting formal conversations with the conference’s keynote speakers: Countess Orloc, RhD; Dr. Barnaby Collins; and Professeure Lastette de Lioncourt. The names carry weight even in print, centuries of accumulated reputation hanging from each syllable.

KFC, the other Lorehold student, gets photography duty. She arrives at the first panel session with her camera bag slung over one shoulder, the leather worn soft from use. The flash powder smells sharp and chemical. She sets up her tripod, adjusting the legs on the uneven floor, and immediately notices Quentillius doing the exact same thing three feet to her left.

He’s positioned himself for the identical shot, his more expensive camera already mounted and ready. He shoots her a smug look.

“Excuse me,” KFC says, trying to maneuver around him.

Quentillius shifts his tripod to block her angle. “I was here first.” His voice drips with false courtesy. “The Strixhaven Times needs comprehensive coverage.”

They engage in a silent battle throughout the evening, each trying to capture the best vantage points. Quentillius appears at every session, always underfoot, always exactly where KFC needs to be. His flash goes off milliseconds before hers, startling speakers mid-sentence. He “accidentally” bumps her tripod just as she’s about to take a shot, sending her carefully composed image into blur. Finally, KFC lets Quentillius have the room to himself. 

The Prismari students approach documentation differently.

Hester sets up an impromptu studio in one of the side galleries. She arranges velvet drapes behind the dais and positions mirrors to catch candlelight—no magical illumination, the vampires prefer flame. She works in charcoal and ink, her fingers smudging shadows across heavy paper. The portraits of the nine vampires emerge with unsettling accuracy, capturing not just features but something deeper. The way certain subjects don’t quite meet their own reflections in the mirrors. The subtle wrongness in the proportions of their hands.

Debbie moves through the panels with recording equipment—a speaking stone enchanted to capture and preserve sound. The device hums faintly in her pocket, warm against her hip. She positions herself near the speakers, trying to remain unobtrusive. Later, she’ll spend hours transcribing and editing, transforming academic lectures about hemophagic marginalization and nocturnal being rights into podcast episodes complete with atmospheric music. She’s already picked out something suitably moody in a minor key.

Reyna designs a menu for the non-blood-drinking attendees. She works in the makeshift forge she’s created in Titania’s former room, the heat making sweat run down her temples. She hammers out menu holders from scrap iron, each one shaped like a crescent moon. The metal rings with each strike, a sound that resonates through the Hex Tower. 

⚔

The first night of UpirCon runs from sunset to dawn. When the eastern sky begins to pale, the crowds thin rapidly. Coaches depart in a rush, their occupants fleeing the approaching sun with varying degrees of urgency.

Titania stumbles into the bar just after sunrise, exhausted. Their clothes smell of old parchment and the peculiar mustiness that clings to beings who measure their age in centuries rather than decades. Their feet ache. Their throat is raw from hours of careful questioning and even more careful listening.

Aurora sits at the bar, practically glowing. For Aurora, this means she looks almost alive. She cradles a stemmed crystal goblet between pale fingers, sipping with obvious pleasure.

Titania collapses onto the barstool beside her. The zinc bar top is cool against their forearms, soothing. They notice the array of food and drinks lined up. The menu for the Not Cottons include rare meats, iron-rich vegetables, pomegranate dishes that won’t make the vampires uncomfortable with their visual similarity to less socially acceptable beverages. There are, of course,  no solid foods on offer for the Cottons. Instead, like a laboratory experiment, beverages in identical cut crystal glasses. Labels mark each one: A+, B-, O-, AB+. Shot glasses of tomato juice sit at the end, looking almost apologetic.

“Are these grades?” Titania gestures at the goblets, confused. “I only recognize the tomato juice.”

Aurora takes another delicate sip, her eyes half-closing in contentment. “Blood types.” The words come out soft, almost dreamy. “I get so very tired of the artificial blood they serve in the cafeteria. This is free-range. Collected by volunteers giving to the Blood Red Cross.”

The information settles over Titania like cold water. They recall seeing the posters around campus over the past week—cheerful announcements about blood drives, the Blood Red Cross logo prominent at the top. They’d assumed it was for medical purposes. Storage for the infirmary.

Titania reaches for the tomato juice. The glass is pleasantly cold. The liquid inside is thick and slightly pulpy, safely vegetable in origin. They take a long drink.

⚔

With UpirCon successfully documented, the Hexmates turn their collective attention to the approaching All Hallow’s Eve Costume Ball. It’s scheduled for the following weekend, and the ballroom needs transforming.

They gather supplies: black fabric that pools like shadow, paper lanterns that will hold enchanted flames in orange and purple, wire frames for constructing elaborate decorations. The smell of paste and paint fills the common areas. Someone suggests enchanting the decorations to move slightly, just enough to be unsettling in peripheral vision.

Costume planning begins in earnest. Fabric scraps litter every available surface. Hester sketches design ideas, her charcoal flying across paper. Debbie researches historical accuracy for whatever concept has seized her imagination this week. Reyna considers whether she can incorporate any metalwork into her costume without making it too heavy to dance in.

The excitement builds like pressure before a storm, crackling and electric in the air of the Hex Tower.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​