The hexmates gather in the common room of the Hex as evening shadows lengthen across campus. Excitement hums through the space as they prepare for the 332nd Strixhaven All Hallows Costume Ball.
Hester adjusts the floor-length red cloak across her shoulders, the fabric heavy and warm. She extends her wings experimentally, and the eagle’s pearly feathers she has attached over her own shimmer in the lamplight, doubling her wingspan. The enchanted feathers shift and rustle as she flexes them, creating the illusion of massive raptor wings. She catches her reflection in the window and grins. “What do you think? Talon enough?”
“Very intimidating,” Reyna assures her, tugging on her own tall boots. She smooths down the leather and velvet outfit she has assembled—a careful recreation of another video game character.
KFC emerges from her room in a blue and silver jumpsuit that catches the light with every movement. The fabric hugs her tall frame, and she has added silver accents at the wrists and collar. She strikes a dramatic pose and receives a thumb’s up from her hexmates.
Alister finishes adjusting the collar of their costume while Titania watches from behind their eyes. Squid bounces around them in a makeshift ghost costume—a white sheet with eyeholes that keeps slipping sideways.
“Hold still, Squid,” Alister says, trying to straighten the sheet. “You’re going to trip.”
“Ghosts don’t trip,” Squid protests, then immediately catches their foot in the fabric and stumbles.
⚔
The Grand Strixhaven Ballroom blazes with light, mist and magic. Illusory stars drift across the vaulted ceiling, occasionally bursting into showers of golden and silver sparks that dissipate before reaching the crowd below. Long tables line the perimeter, laden with goblets that refill themselves and platters piled high with roasted meats, candied fruits, and pastries that steam in the cool evening air. The scent of cinnamon and honey mingles with the sharper notes of mulled wine. A bank of jack-o-lanterns of every size line each of the walls, and there are bales of hay on which costumed students are seated.
The space is filled with a riot of creative costumes. A group of Witherbloom students wear elaborate vampire outfits with feathered, black masks and trailing robes. Several Lorehold scholars have dressed as historical figures, complete with floating scrolls that document their supposed achievements. A Quandrix student has transformed themselves into a walking mathematical equation, numbers and symbols orbiting their body in glowing paths.
At the front of the room, the stage is lit at the top of a flight of marble stairs rising from the floor. Only the mic stands and a drum kit are illuminated in the pale green light. In the wings, Cadorus and Debbie stand tuning their instruments. They are all that remains of SlashNBurn. Zanther, their former drummer, has been conspicuously absent from rehearsals ever since the incident with Debbie. Zanther has started giving all his free time to managing the Instagram of Phineas, his pet squirrel.
The remaining duo is expected to provide entertainment for the evening, though the crowd seems uncertain about what to expect from the diminished band.
Four rodents move in the shadows back stage with disturbing alertnessness. The largest one—a rat the size of a small dog—walks on its hind legs with an almost human gait. Its fur is mottled grey and black, and a scar runs across its snout. Three smaller rats flank it, moving in formation like trained guards. They wear tiny leather harnesses with metal studs.
“There’s the Rat Mafia ,” KFC mutters, watching them navigate between band’s feet. The name is a joke among the hexmates, but there’s nothing funny about the way the rodents move—alert, aggressive, territorial.
The large rat’s eyes scan the crowd constantly, its whiskers twitching. When a Quandrix student accidentally steps too close to Debbie’s equipment bag near the stage, one of the smaller rats darts forward and bares its teeth. The student jerks back with a yelp.
“They’re guarding her stuff,” Hester observes, her enhanced vision tracking the rodents’ movements. “Or guarding her.”
“Protection, apparently,” Alister answers. “Ever since the band started falling apart, there have been unsettling stuff coming from the fans about Zanther’s departure.. Threatening the band for dumping him!.”
The largest rat positions itself at the base of the stage, directly below where Debbie performs. Its head swivels slowly, surveying the amphitheater like a tiny, furry sentinel. The three smaller rats spread out in a loose perimeter, their bodies tense and ready.
On stage, Debbie hits another wrong note, and the large rat’s tail lashes in what might be irritation. It chitters softly, and the sound carries an edge of menace that makes nearby students unconsciously step away.
“But it was Zanther who walked away!”
“Apparently very loyal fans of his.” Alister watches as one of the smaller rodents intercepts a student who wandered too close to the stage stairs, forcing them to take a different path. “Unsettlingly loyal.”
The performance continues, each song slightly worse than the last. But the Rat Mafia never wavers, their small forms creating an invisible barrier around Debbie and her territory. The large rat’s eyes gleam red in the magical lighting, and its scarred face holds an expression that seems far too intelligent for an ordinary rodent.
When someone in the crowd whispers a criticism about Debbie’s vocals a bit too loudly, the large rat turns its head toward the sound. All four rodents go still, focused on the speaker with an intensity that makes the student fall silent and edge toward the exit.
Reyna, Hester, KFC, and Alister gather near Beckaylee’s catering table, which takes up an impressive section of the western wall. Beckaylee has outdone themself—the table practically groans under the weight of vegan dishes of every sort, each one more elaborate than the last. She bustles behind it in a chef’s costume complete with a tall white toque, directing their student helpers with confident instructions.
From their vantage point near the table, the hexmates watch the parade of costumes move past. A Silverquill student glides by dressed as an ancient poet, their words literally floating in the air behind them in glowing script. Two Prismari students have coordinated their costumes to create a living painting—one wears colors that bleed into the other’s canvas-textured robes..
Then the grand doors at the far end of the amphitheater swing open.
A swirl of unseasonable snowflakes precedes Aurora’s entrance. The flakes drift through the doorway, catching the light from the illusory stars above. They don’t melt when they touch the warm floor—they simply fade like morning frost in sunlight.
Aurora steps through the doorway, and conversations falter. Students turn to look.
She wears a ball gown of midnight satin that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. The fabric flows around her like liquid shadow, the skirt pooling on the floor in elegant folds. Her hair, normally dark, has been transformed to match the silver of her elbow-length gloves. A pale blue aura surrounds her entire form, glittering with gently falling ice crystals. Her face is framed with a soft glow that is similar to moonlight.
But it’s the crown that draws every eye. It shines faintly, showering Aurora with silvery light.
The delicate fillagree sits atop her head like it was crafted specifically for her. Ice crystals form along its intricate curves, melting and reforming in endless cycles. The platinum itself seems to drink in the warmth from the air, radiating cold in return.
Aurora moves into the massive space, and the temperature shifts before her. Students near the doorway shiver and reach for their cloaks. The snowflakes continue to fall around her, and a small personal blizzard follows in her wake.
She approaches the catering table where her friends wait. With each step, the temperature drops further. The air grows sharp and brittle.
KFC feels her flesh prickle as the zone of frigid weather expands to encompass her. The fine feathers on her arms stand up. Her breath mists in front of her face. She takes an involuntary step back, trying to escape the worst of the cold.
Aurora reaches them and crosses her arms, rubbing her hands along her bare shoulders. She shivers slightly, her silver hair stirring in an unfelt breeze. “I should have brought a shawl,” she mutters. “It’s so cold in here…”
Hester and Reyna exchange glances. The rest of the ballroom remains comfortable—even warm from the crowd and the braziers. It’s only Aurora’s immediate vicinity that feels like the depths of winter. Hester spreads her wings slightly, the eagle feathers rustling. “Aurora, you’re the center of your own winter storm.”
KFC shudders as the cold that precedes Aurora makes her skin ache. The chicken barbarian studies the dhampir’s crown with growing fascination and unease. “Aurora, where did you find such an amazing tiara? It’s… it’s a perfect for your ice queen costume.”
Aurora’s face brightens. Her hand reaches up to touch the crown, and frost spreads from the metalwork up her elbow length gloves, crackling softly. “Right? One of my hexmates, Javenesh, works in the Anthropology Department of Lorehold College. I was helping him clean one of their stockrooms last week—so much dust, you wouldn’t believe—and I found this in a box of things to be trashed.” She laughs, and her breath creates a small cloud of mist. “Can you imagine? Someone was going to throw it away! It pulls the whole costume together, don’t you think?”
“Trash?” Reyna’s voice sharpens. “Aurora, are you sure that’s what the box said?”
“Definitely. Big red letters. “‘FOR DISPOSAL.’” Aurora touches the crown again, admiring it. “I showed it to Javenesh, and he said if it was marked for disposal, I could probably take it. He even helped me clean off some of the grime. There were all these symbols etched into the base where some sort of dirt was stuck, but they polished up nicely.” Aurora looks around, seeming to notice for the first time the frost forming on nearby surfaces, the mist from everyone’s breath, the way students have cleared a circle around her. Her silver-gloved hands touch her own arms, and her eyes widen. “I… I thought that was just part of the enchantment I cast on the costume. The ice queen effect.”
The cold has intensified. Several nearby students drift away, seeking warmer areas of the ballroom. A thin layer of frost begins to form on the surface of Beckaylee’s nearest serving dishes.
Alister steps forward, Titania’s concern evident in their shared expression. “Aurora, I don’t think that box meant it was going into the garbage. Maybe it meant ‘disposal’ as in getting rid of something safely.” Alister makes a sigil in the air near Aurora.
“And that’s no enchantment you cast,” Alister announces quietly. “That crown is doing something. Something powerful. I am picking up a great deal of conjugation magic with my Detect Magic spell! ”
“What do you mean?” Aurora frowns. Her hands drift up to the crown so she can remove it to better examine it. Her silver-gloved fingers wrap around the cold metal, and she pulls.
The crown doesn’t move.
She pulls harder, her fingers slipping on the ice-slicked surface. The metal feels fused to her head, as immovable as bone. “It’s… it won’t come off.” Her voice stays light, almost laughing. “It’s stuck. Must be something on my hair…maybe the dye. And I used so much product…”
She pulls again, this time with both hands, her shoulders hunching with effort. The crown remains fixed in place. The temperature around her drops another degree. Frost crawls down strands of her silver hair, turning them rigid and brittle.
“Aurora, stop pulling,” Reyna says, reaching toward her. But the damaging cold forces her hands back. Reyna shoves her hands into her arm pits to warm them up.
“I can’t—it won’t—” Aurora’s fingers scrabble at the crown’s base, trying to find purchase beneath it. Her breath comes faster, creating clouds of mist that hang in the frozen air. “Why won’t it come off? It’s just a crown. It’s just—” Aurora makes a small sound of pain and fear. Her hands shake as she tries again, this time wedging her fingers beneath the metal band. She pulls with desperate strength. The crown doesn’t budge. “Get it off me. Please. Someone—” Aurora, frantic now, turns in a circle, her midnight gown swirling, snowflakes spiraling faster around her. Students back away from the expanding cold. “Why can’t I—why won’t it—”
KFC steps into the frigid zone despite the pain, her teeth already chattering. She reaches for the crown. Her fingers touch the metal and recoil instantly. “It’s burning,” she gasps, though the word makes no sense. The crown is cold! So cold it burns.
“We need help,” Alister says urgently. “Now. Aurora, stay with us. Look at me.” With a ripple in the air around their body, Titania takes command of their body.
But Aurora’s eyes have taken on a distant quality, as though she’s looking at something far away. As though she’s already somewhere else. Somewhere cold and dark and endless.
From across the vast parquet floor, a massive figure, both broad and tall, in an elaborate plague doctor costume watches their conversation. The long beaked mask turns slowly, following Aurora’s every movement. The figure’s gloved hands clench at their sides.
Squid tugs on Titania’s sleeve, their ghost costume slipping sideways again. They point at the plague doctor. “That bird-face is staring. They feel wrong.” Titania pats the child upon his costumed head and moves towards Aurora, “I’m going to have a word with that crown!”
Squid, tagging along, mutters, “Crowns don’t talk, do they Titania?”
”Some do, my dear. Give me some space and a moment, please.” She stands erect, hands on her hips, before the panicking Aurora, and haughtily demands. “Ahem, excuse me, might I ask you to release our friend, Aurora?”
”You,! It’s Titania, no?” cries the crown in a voice that sounds like breaking glass. “You owe me money!”
“I…what?” stammers Titania, now mystified by the crown’s claim. Several yards behind her moving at speed, the large plague doctor is approaching.
”Midsummer’s eve, fifteen decades back. Too much briar wine and a foolish bet on cards that
The music continues. Students dance, but very unenthusiastically. SlashNBurn’s former drummer, Zanther leans against the grand piano in the corner, studiously avoiding looking in the band’s direction. Phineas, on his shoulder, chitters for the phone that Zanther is using to live stream.
On stage, Debbie adjusts her guitar strap and leans toward the enchanted voice amplifier. Cadorus stands beside her with his bass lute, looking uncomfortable. The crowd’s attention shifts reluctantly from Aurora’s crisis toward the stage as the first chords ring out.
Debbie strikes a power chord that reverberates through the ballroom. The sound is technically correct but lacks the raw energy that SlashNBurn once possessed. She launches into one of their better-known songs, but her voice wavers on the high notes. Without Zanther’s driving percussion, the song feels hollow—like a skeleton of what it should be.
Cadorus does his best to fill the gaps, his lute work competent and professional. But competent and professional aren’t what made SlashNBurn memorable. The magic that once crackled between the full band has dissipated, leaving behind something merely adequate.
Debbie’s fingers fumble slightly on a transition, and she covers it with a dramatic gesture that doesn’t quite land. Some students near the stage glance at each other polite smiles that don’t reach their eyes. Others drift toward the refreshment tables or the dance floor, no longer interested.
The song ends to scattered applause. Debbie’s jaw tightens, and she calls over one of the larger rats who has been menacing Zanther’s squirrel. She instructs the creature to keep time on one of the drum pedals, then launches immediately into the next number without waiting for a response from the rodent. Unsure, the rat complies.
But it’s not this performance that draws the hexmates’ attention. The very large individual in the plague doctor costume approaches Aurora, hands extended, as if threatening to tear the tiara from her head.
Reyna spies a bit of swinging elephant’s trunk as the plague doctor mask slips. “Rampart!” she gasps. “What? Where? I haven’t seen Rampart all evening,” responds KFC, scanning the crowd. “The plague doctor,” calls Reyna, “Rampart’s the plague doctor! Don’t let him near Aurora! He’ll tear her head off taking the crown!”
The two move quickly to intercept the costumed Rampart.
Titania, drawn by Squid’s tugging, spies
