The room seemed to breathe around her.

Constance sat still at the table, white dress pooling like water, a black dahlia pinned to her wide-brimmed hat. The air felt heavy, humming with something that could invoke fear into even the bravest.

“You knew what I was before you came here,” she said, her voice low and steady. “A pact is no mere promise. It is a tether. Once bound to me, there is no release. Only death can do us part.”

The faintest smile touched her lips, not warm but knowing.

“Of course, you will never face death yourself with me around.”

The candle nearest to her sputtered, her obsidian horns casting jagged shadows across her face.

“If you take my hand,” she whispered as she continued, “you will carry me within you. When others look at you, they will see me too, the shadow of a dahlia born from your soul.”

The lights seemed to dim as she got up and slowly stalked closer to you, those Violet eyes never planning to leave yours anytime soon.

The woman suddenly stopped in front of you. She extended a gloved hand, palm up, fingers poised as though you’ve already made the decision to shake her hand.