Back? # **Chapter One: Silent Night, Unholy Night** --- Song(s): **12 Days of Christmas (Villain Pub Edition - How It Should Have Ended** --- *Mistvale, 3:00 AM* The creak of an old wooden door pierced the silence of the night, followed by rickety stairs cracking underneath a catlike tread. A tall figure, concealed beneath a thick black robe, swept towards the dark, drafty chamber at the bottom, lit only by the faintest sliver of moonlight. The figure raised their arm, fanning their long, pale fingers forward and muttering an incantation under their breath. All around the chamber, stacks of haphazard candles crackled to life, wicks flickering with an amber glow. At the head of the room, an elaborate altar awaited. Its centrepiece was a fireplace, a bookstand on its mantle and a polished iron cauldron resting in its hearth. On either side were tables laden with crystals, herbs, and other tools of the occult, and twin bookshelves holding tomes of every shape and size took up the remaining wall space. The only out-of-place detail was a festive rug tossed haphazardly at the base of the fireplace, its woven snowflakes slightly wrinkled and dirty from age and use. The figure’s eyes swept the room, ensuring they were alone. Satisfied, they lowered their hood, revealing a tall, gaunt woman. Strands of stick-straight brown hair were plastered to her cheeks, and her eyelids drooped over her glassy amber eyes. With the forces of a sudden awakening and a nasty hangover working against her, she tried to make herself at least somewhat presentable. Taking an elastic off her wrist, she swept her hair back into a sloppy ponytail before exchanging her pink bunny slippers for black flats. Not nearly as warm or comfortable for this cold winter’s night, but leagues more professional. She couldn’t be bothered to take off her pyjamas, so her bathrobe would have to suffice as a reasonable facsimile for ritual garb. Once satisfied, she retrieved a bottle of iced coffee from one of two minifridges in another corner of the room -- the one marked ‘Snacks,’ not its twin ‘Ingredients + Stuff.’ The coffee wasn’t a potion, but she hoped the caffeine inside would magically keep her conscious. Then, making her way back over in the dim candlelight, she tripped over the black, vaguely feline blur that was her pet house demon, Miette. She then decided it would be wise to turn on the light fixture overhead, sacrificing aesthetics for practicality and preventing any unfortunate accidents. Bathed in an artificial fluorescent glow, she was finally ready to begin her work. Willow Denton wanted absolutely no part in what she was doing. It was three in the morning on Christmas Eve, for gods’ sake -- no one sane would be sneaking around in the freezing cold basement. She’d love nothing more than to be snug in her bed, especially since she needed to be in top condition to perform alongside her friends at their concert that night. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be up late partying a few hours prior. But she couldn’t help herself -- it was Tibbs’ Eve, and she was going to enjoy herself, other plans be damned. Besides, not being there would have raised suspicions, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t need to worry about her upcoming performance. Why? Well, it all had to do with why she was in the basement in the first place. Willow’s family were the founders of the OLYMPUS Organization, a shadowy cult bent on world domination in the name of magical supremacy. Under the aliases of ‘Scylla’ and ‘Endymion,’ Willow and her twin brother Spencer were high-ranking agents of the Organization, expected to carry on their family’s legacy and lineage. This especially applied to Willow, as she was the firstborn magical child of OLYMPUS’ leader, Gaea, and would thus inherit the leadership position once its current holder retired. Her entire life had been spent preparing for this future, and her mother had enacted countless rituals and pacts to give Willow as much power as possible. The only hitch in this plan was that Willow was entirely disinterested. She longed for a peaceful, mundane life and shared none of her family’s hatred for those without magic. Even worse, she had befriended the heroes who sought to bring the Organization down once and for all and worked as a secret informant into OLYMPUS’ inner workings and schemes. Of course, her mother knew none of this, and she’d fight tooth and nail to keep it that way. Members of OLYMPUS were expected to be members for life, and those who dared to dissent met a swift demise at the tip of a knife or wand. Gaea was particularly fond of turning traitors into “the vermin they are” and using them as food for her pet raven, Giovanni. Although Willow was granted leeway as the leader’s daughter, her punishment would be no less cruel if she were caught. In the face of betrayal, blood meant nothing. Just ask Gaea’s twin brother. (On second thought, don’t. After all, ravens can’t speak.) So, Willow lived on the edge, delicately balancing her villainy with her heroism. Fortunately, her mother trusted her and left her to her own devices, so her methods were carefully calculated to provide the needed results, but be easily thwarted by the heroes and ultimately harmless. Her current plot, the reason she was in the basement, was much the same. In less than twenty-four hours, the Magispace would be hosting a grand Festival to celebrate Christmas Eve and the Feast of Hope, with crowds from both worlds gathering to ring in the season with lights, food, music, and fun. Of course, that was the intent. But OLYMPUS had other plans. Willow had been tasked with ruining the festivities and had chosen to summon a snowstorm. Her mother initially dismissed the idea as ‘tame,’ but she had been convinced over time. The instantaneous, magical nature of the storm would ensure that no one could prepare for or mitigate the damage beforehand. The harsh, blinding squalls, weighty ice, and mighty gales would keep the people of Mistvale cold, lonely, and miserable, cutting off power and transport to put a hold on their holiday plans. She’d even ensured that the Festival would be ruined, considering that four of its key performers were due to return from a tropical vacation right as the storm hit its peak. It wasn’t an ideal solution. Her friends had worked hard to make the Festival the best it could be, and they wouldn’t be happy that she had a hand in its destruction, to say the least. Not to mention that some of them -- including her lifelong best friend Astral -- would be spending the holidays at the mercy of air travel logistics, which wasn’t a fun experience at the best of times. However, considering the alternative, Willow had no choice but to upset her friends. At least they understood the dire circumstances and would eventually forgive her. Her mother, on the other hand, would not. There was only one other variable Willow needed to worry about: Spencer. He was even less aligned with OLYMPUS’ ideals than Willow and would no doubt try to stop her if he knew what she was doing. She knew that if she had to do this in front of him, she’d never be able to go through with it. Fortunately, he was sound asleep upstairs and had no clue about her plans. By the time he awoke, the deed would be done, and neither of them could stop it. From a hidden compartment in the back of the bookshelf, Willow unearthed an ancient leather-bound tome, coughing as she blew the dust off its cover and placed it gently on the mantle. This was no ordinary book and demanded the utmost care and respect. This was the spellbook of Eira, Lord of Frost and Despair, one of the Four (formerly Five) Demon Lords. It was part of a quintet, a gift to OLYMPUS’ founder in exchange for her bloodline’s eternal servitude. These books were the family’s most prized possessions, as the spells within allowed their caster to draw on the Lords' pure, primal powers. Permission for any member of OLYMPUS to see the books -- let alone use them -- was scarce. One of the five had been stolen before Willow was born, and the remaining four had been closely guarded ever since. But Willow’s plan required more power than she could access, so Gaea had allowed her to borrow the book temporarily and call upon her family’s icy patron. Taking care not to rip the aged parchment, Willow flipped through the pages until she found what she sought. The book’s looping script, penned in sapphire ink, began to glow, illuminating the instructions it contained. After bringing a cauldronful of water to a boil, she diligently sprinkled in powdered hemlock, crushed peppermint leaves, and burnt rose petals, purging her mind of any doubt. As long as she kept her head clear, she could get this done and over with, and sleep peacefully for the remainder of the night. Once the potion’s base was done, it was time for the part that would transform it from some soggy herbs into a potent ink. The disgusting part. If there was one thing demons loved most, it was for suffering to be wrought and lives to be taken in their name. You needed to give them the respect and reverence they demanded to harness their power. And that meant one thing: sacrifices. If Willow were truly villainous, she could have used OLYMPUS’ unnervingly large stockpile of victims. The Organization held a surplus of misguided ‘heroes’ and souls unfortunate enough to stumble across the threshold of the group’s secret base during a leisurely hike through the wilderness, held at the ready — both dead and alive — for illicit deeds. That morbid possibility was entirely out of the question, so she’d have to improvise with some mice. Whispering her apologies, she worked her way through the next step. But, when she reached for the fifth and final mouse, her hand collided with the empty wooden table. “UGH! Miette, that wasn’t for you!” Sure enough, Willow turned just in time to see the demon making off with her prize, its tail dangling from her mouth as she skittered away. At least she had enjoyed it. Willow was stuck. If she couldn’t make enough of an offering, the fickle demon lord would ignore her calls entirely. She didn’t have any more animals to use, she wasn’t about to go looking for any at this hour, and people were completely out of the question -- especially the only other occupant of the house, Spencer. Glancing at her reflection in the cauldron, an idea struck her. Technically, it was cheating, but the intention was there, and that was what mattered. Without a second thought, Willow seized her ponytail and dug her knife through its base, severing it and leaving the rest of her hair in an uneven, dishevelled pseudo-bob. “O, gracious and generous Lord of Frost, icy turmoil incarnate,” she began to incant, dropping small bundles of hair into the cauldron. “Please accept the sacrifice of my hair, the time and energy it took to maintain it, and the beauty it provided me. I pledge that I shall not regain it through arcane means, only at whatever pace you will. This I promise you, o Lord of Despair.” With this, the potion began to thicken and glow with a faint, milky-white light. Her improvised offering had worked, and the potion was ready. Rolling up the rug at the altar’s base, Willow revealed a large circle on the hardwood floor, drawn a few days prior while Spencer was at work. The carpet was a shoddy disguise, but Spencer rarely went in the basement by himself anyway, so it was enough. Willow retrieved the crystalline knife she’d been given upon acceptance into OLYMPUS from the pocket of her robe. Dipping its tip into the potion, she then drew an elaborate, snowflake-esque design within the confines of the circle. The pattern conveyed her intentions for the spell and would part the veil between life and death, permitting Eira’s power to leak through. The original illustration in the book had become smudged and torn throughout the years, so Gaea recreated it on a separate piece of paper and fastened it to the book with a paperclip. After checking, double-checking, and triple-checking that everything was in place, Willow was prepared to unleash the storm. Pacing the circle's perimeter, her dark hair took on a vivid amethyst hue and rose into the air around her, crackling with pure magical power. She raised her arms…and hesitated. Something felt off. Maybe she should wake Spencer up for help, or backup at the very least. Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. No. This was her spell. He didn’t need to be dragged into it. He needed a good night’s sleep in case the concert went ahead despite the interruptions. She wouldn’t be surprised -- when the heroes put their minds together, they could move mountains. Pushing any final hesitations away, she brought the knife’s edge against her hand, gently pricking the pad of her thumb and allowing a single drop of scarlet to dot the middle of the circle. The lightbulbs in the room burst with a series of pops, the candles snuffed out by the whirlwind of frigid mist that began to gather in the circle. Willow had expected the mist to rise towards the ceiling and dissipate. Instead, it coalesced into a loose cloud of glitter and snow, before solidifying into the form of a tall man with frostbitten skin and grand, white, feathery wings. His lean, proud frame was clad in regal velvet and silver, and his wispy hair shifted between hues of yellow and blue like sunlight over ice. He pursed his glossy navy lips, glaring down at Willow with the haughty gaze of a nobleman. She instantly dropped into a deep, reverent bow, though she couldn’t tell if it was from instinct or pure fear. Her spell was only meant to summon Eira’s power, not him! There must have been something wrong with the circle! Or maybe, Willow realized as she began to tremble from terror and the rapidly mounting chill in the room, everything had worked perfectly. After all, her mother had never really approved of the snowstorm idea, and the necessary illustration being that damaged -- especially since the books were so heavily protected and otherwise pristine -- was too suspicious to be pure coincidence. The people of Mistvale weren’t going to be simply inconvenienced. They were doomed. As Eira’s slender fingers pointed towards her chest, she glimpsed a glint of icy blue magic against dagger-sharp talons. The room began to whirl around her, and the chill of a thousand winters seeped beneath her skin. Looking down towards her shaking hands, she watched as her skin and bones stretched and contorted, a nauseating agony too strong for her to bear. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, and the world faded to black.