The moonlight spilled through the arched windows of the old manor, illuminating Andora as if she were a jewel placed on a velvet cushion. She stood in the grand hall, her red and white plaid dress hugging her figure with a precise blend of elegance and whimsy. The skirt flared delicately at her knees, with tiny lace accents at the hem that whispered of bygone eras. Her white stockings peeked out sharply against the mahogany of her boots, lending an air of both innocence and defiance. Her blonde hair, gathered into an artfully loose ponytail, swayed as she turned her head—blue eyes scanning the room like a falcon measuring its prey.
The manor’s walls were an amalgamation of crimson and shadow, their once-gleaming tapestries faded from centuries of neglect. Andora didn’t belong to this decaying world of hollow opulence—it was her ingenuity and will that brought her here tonight—a reclamation, not just of a physical space, but of a legacy stolen from her bloodline generations ago.
She moved toward the center of the hall, her gloved hand clutching a small, timeworn instrument. A violin. Its wood, slick with polish and older than any relic in the manor itself, radiated a faint warmth. Andora’s delicate fingers brushed the strings, and for a moment, she imagined them resonating against voices long silenced. Her stride was confident, her chin raised just enough to convey that no ghost, no memory of betrayal, could stop her now.
The Gathering Storm
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice echoed from the shadows. It was coarse yet laced with unsteady resolve. A man stepped out from a curtained alcove, his long coat swaying behind him. His face was pale, hollow, and worn. Time had carved valleys into his cheeks, but there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes.
“Really, Geralt?” Andora’s voice dripped with sharp sweetness. “You, of all people, expected me to cower in some cobblestone alley while you squander the last of what isn’t yours?”
Geralt’s eyes flickered to the violin. His lips twitched in recognition. “That… was buried. Forgotten. How did you find it?”
“I listen.” Andora’s smile was razor-thin, her red lips painted with the precision of someone who took care not just in battle, but in defiance. “To whispers your kind thought lost. To stories that refused to be silenced.”
The Dance of Betrayal
Geralt lunged toward her, his hand reaching for the violin, but Andora twisted away like mercury slipping between iron fingers. “Not so fast,” she said, taunting him with the bow she pulled carefully from beneath her skirt. The red plaid of her outfit shimmered faintly in the moonlight, catching Geralt’s frustrated glare.
A long silence hung between them—both waiting for the other to move. Finally, a bitter laugh escaped Geralt’s lips. “You have no idea what playing that will cost, do you?”
Andora tilted her head, her ponytail catching the silvery light. “Oh, I know exactly what it costs. Power never comes cheaply. The difference between you and me, Geralt, is that I’m willing to pay.”
With that, she positioned the violin against her shoulder and drew the bow across the strings. The sound wasn’t just music; it was a ripple through the air, through time itself. Every corner of the manor seemed to shudder. Phantom drums reverberated against the stones; translucent figures appeared in the corners of the room, their eyes glowing faintly as they turned toward the sound.
“Andora!” Geralt growled, panic overtaking his composure. “You’ll wake them all! Put it down!”
She played on. Notes of anguish and triumph swirled from the violin like the spinning threads of an ancient loom, weaving the stories of those who had been silenced for centuries. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on Geralt, whose visage twisted into something unnatural, a dark shadow peeling away from his skin like a second self trying to escape.
The Final Note
“You… have no idea… what you’ve done,” Geralt hissed, his words breaking as he dropped to his knees. The shadow clawing at him grew larger, a monstrous, ephemeral beast that contorted and howled against the crescendo of Andora’s melody.
“What I’ve done,” Andora replied, her voice calm even as beads of sweat gathered on her brow, “is what should have been done centuries ago. What you and your ilk tried to bury: the truth.”
With a fierce flourish of the bow, she struck the final note, and the manor exploded with light. The walls melted into a swirl of silver and gold, and the spectral figures raised their arms as if they were tethered to the sound, their chains breaking with every vibration of the strings. Geralt let out one final scream before he dissolved into the very shadows he’d tried to command.
Andora lowered the violin, her breath ragged. The ruins of the manor reassembled around her—not as the hollowed carcass it had been, but renewed and resplendent. The air smelled of roses, the floral essence mingling faintly with a touch of the sea.
She adjusted her blouse, the white plaid of her skirt now carrying faint flecks of ash. Brushing her ponytail aside, she clutched the violin tighter and walked down the hallway, her boots echoing like a victory march.
The world she stepped into was no longer the one she had entered. But Andora had never belonged to the old world anyway.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Red and White Plaid Outfit with White Stockings, Blonde Ponytail, and Modern Vintage Style
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