gothic speculative fiction
Projects
The Haunting of a Boogeyman
gothic fantasy, horror, monster romance serial
Anaïs de la Croix, Gravemyr - Heiress Kemper Fontaine, daddy's girl and daughter of billionaire Marc Fontaine, has built a pristine philanthropic career teaching demons, vampires, and ferals how to pull themselves up by their bootstraps—though she’d never actually socialize with them. But Kemper's perfectly manicured world is cracked wide open when she is viciously attacked, only for a roaming demon to do the unthinkable: save her life.
--- plotting & writing---
The Arcanum
interactive fiction game, fantasy, horror, romance.
Emmrath, Solmyr - Your parents have enrolled you in a prestigious academy on a remote island. You must choose your academic focus, network, and build your skills, while juggling the responsibilities of your social life and expectations of your distinguished parents. Will you become a powerful mage, a master tactician, or end up in an early grave?
--- plotting & writing---
The Hunt for Goodwill
& Intentions
Epic fantasy, horror, (monster) romance, ensemble cast.
The Damacaun, Solmyr - A ragtag group of friends meet, adventure, grow, and break together. Culminates in the Blacktide War. Comprised of two separate series to tell the entire story.
My passion project.
--- plotting & writing---
Signs of Life
interactive fiction game, science fiction, horror, romance.
The Yomi - Set in the distant future, you are born a colonist on an asteroid pummeling through the Expanse. You sought to escape your small town existence and find grand adventure. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), you were arrested, and are currently being held on the prisoner starship Yomi.
--- plotting ---
Nightfall
interactive fiction game, fantasy, adventure, romance.
Set in another fantasy world far beyond the stars from Solmyr, Nightfall tells the story of a group of adventurers traveling the land, each with their own secrets and private motivations.
--- plotting ---
The Library
Codex
The Haunting of a Boogeyman
The Haunting of a Boogeyman is a gothic high fantasy romance set in an elite society where "ferals"—dangerous creatures disruptive to the social cohesion of Anaïs de la Croix—are expected to earn their right to exist through their ability to be hard working, productive members of society.Heiress Kemper Fontaine, daughter of Marc Fontaine of Fontaine Industries, is the flawless face of this regime. Kemper's charity teaches refinement to the very monsters she disdains, all while she hides behind high town's protective suppression wards. But her pristine, manicured world is shattered when she is viciously attacked on a dark street that should have been safe, only for a roaming feral to do the unthinkable: save her life.
Table of Contents
Chapter I - Red Trails
Chapter II - T.H.R.U.
Chapter III - A Drowning (TBA)
Trigger warnings
(updated 5.9.2026)
violence, physical assault on a dark street, PTSD, drug use
© 2026 Gabriel Greysin. All rights reserved.
T.H.R.U.
Edited by Ley Taylor Johnson
It has been said that Kemper Fontaine, heiress of Fontaine Industries and proprietor of the Fontaine Foundation, is a soulless doll. The strings twined into her bones are attached to her father’s fingertips, casting a dancing shadow on the walls behind her.Certainly, this gala that she is hosting for her father is a gem encrusted extravagance that, frankly, has him reeling—at the audacity that Kemper remains so blithely ignorant of the sheer size of her treasure trove of resources, yes, of course, but also in simple admiration.Her nepotistic naïveté left room for the construction of massive chandeliers, hallways full of art, and bounties of food on tables as long as the ancient lizards that lurked in the swamps of his home. Sights so dazzling and of a like he had never before witnessed.The chandeliers are mounted in a line down the ceiling of the long hall, decorated by small flames twinkling in bright yellow hues. Delicately carved marble statutes are set against columns chiseled into narrow, faceted shafts with sharply carved capitals, ending in a three point arch five times the height of the tallest gargoyle here.Between the columns, heavy crimson draperies gathered in deep folds and tied back with gilded cords frame the hall in sweeping curtains, their lower edges pooling just above the marble floor, where candlelight catches the faint glimmer of apricot in the shot silk weave.The heady ambiance of the hall offers refuge in the deep corners of the walls. Small, pale blue lights stream uselessly down into a haze of sunset, offset by deep reds beneath the crown of each archway.A massive mural, freshly finished, glistens in reds, oranges, and yellows. Abstract but beautiful, the brush work is fatty and wild, worked by a wrist that lashes out in crashing waves to form a crimson sea. But the artist was not here to view its opening glory, he was certain.This Gala had kept the city’s working class busy and fed for months. None of those workers were here tonight. Nor would they receive even a nod now that the extravaganza has commenced.The guests pour into the hall, fresh off the river of crimson velvet, where they had posed and smiled and fed their narcissism. They find their name tagged seats, bringing with them a roar of gossip that crowds the hollow chamber. All the grand lights go out in a whoosh, leaving only the small candles at tables.A hush falls as a lone assistant approaches the stage, and into the air is born a blue and purple glow that slithers along after the weave of their hands as they evoke light. It grows and their hands come together in waves, cupping the light and pushing it ahead, until it is gathered in a multicolored beacon center the empty stage.The click click click of heels on the pristine mahogany steps cuts the silence as Kemper rises from the dark. White and encrusted with glittering diamonds, the heels flow into the rich, deep brown of long, shapely legs, twinkling through the slits of a curve-tight dress. She glimmers in the spotlight, brilliant as the sun. She is radiant.“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
# # # Kemper # # #
Kemper had practiced these words for weeks.The Celestial Zenith Gala would determine the rest of her life. The color-coded binder she had created in the process of planning this gala was close to bursting—as was she. It sits, carefully guarded, beside Enzo in the wing, her two most reliable support systems, both unseen but ever at her side.The constriction of the bandage on her palm jolts through her nerves as she hides it carefully behind her back. Expectant eyes are on her. All of them. Her father’s friends, business associates, her peers and colleagues. Everyone who meant everything. She can’t fuck this up.“When we look at the margins of our city,” she begins, clear and strong, “we often see a deficit. We see individuals—and indeed, entire species—who have allowed themselves to fall out of sync with the pace of progress. Looking out at this room, behind the comfort of our silver-woven tapestries and the localized suppression wards, it is easy to forget the chaos thriving just beyond Hightown’s walls.”Perfect, strawberry curls delicately frame Kemper’s heart shaped face, dancing in her peripheral vision. Dozens of pasty white faces peer up at her, expectant with their inscrutable gazes and the hardened, austere lines that shaped them.At the forefront, she finds the only smile that matters among the crowd. Crinkled, proud blue eyes in a charming, pressed black suit. Her father, the indomitable Marc Fontaine. She takes a breath. It does nothing for the dread in her bones.“It is easy to look at the unhoused; those struggling with illness; the populations relegated to the lower sectors; and see a societal burden. A year ago, our intake cells were handling entities that couldn’t work a midday shift without maiming, or whose natural output was purely destructive energy.”There are nods. Good. But not enough. She renews her blinding public smile. “But at the Fontaine Foundation, we do not believe in permanent liabilities. We believe in underutilized assets. We look at entities originating from negative energy, nocturnal-variant personnel, and shifting creatures, and we do not see a lost cause.“True compassion is not a handout. Handouts encourage stagnation; they reward the very behavior that caused the deficit in the first place. No, true compassion is giving someone the tools to audit their own life, to take personal accountability, and to pick themselves up and persevere.”Her father beams, a beacon of pride. Her heart swells in tune with his, knowing at that moment how he loves her. Her shoulders are beginning to scream.“Our curriculum does not coddle. We teach presentation. We teach discipline. We teach adaptability. We address unregulated dietary impulses, volatile output tendencies, and unstable biometric variances. We take those who have slipped into the shadows and we make them marketable, streamlining their transition back into a productive, self-reliant workforce.“We are not just changing lives; we are expanding your labor pipeline with individuals who finally understand that survival is a personal choice. Because true charity isn’t carrying someone who refuses to walk—” The applause begins before she’s even completed her speech, “—it is showing them that they are capable of standing on their own two feet.”Kemper closes with a seamless transition into the evening’s fundraising targets and steps aside for Leeta, the auction host. She descends the stage, heels clicking in a steady, rehearsed meter against the marble, each step a testament to the three weeks she’d spent breaking in the shoes to avoid a stumble.Months of performances of perfection leave her body like a rising ghost. Immediately, the weight of the entire world crashes down on her, and her broken body works mechanically to escape their watchful gaze. A shot of relief floods her only once the shadows reclaim her; sprang as a fleeing hare, bounding into the tall grass.She sees Morgan—her father’s assistant—leave, scribbling in his notebook, and knows it’s safe to take her seat. She finds it at her father’s side, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders for a crooked hug. His hand squeezes her shoulder with a firm, proprietary warmth, and every inch of stress rolls out of her body.She knows he’s proud of what she’s doing, of how she’s improving these people’s lives, of how she’s bettering the world—and them. Here, in her father’s love, none of the rest matters.“Hey.” With him, her tone is small.“You performed beautifully, sweetheart,” his voice ever smooth as he reassures her. “Perfect pacing. You had everyone hooked. Vance actually stopped chewing for a moment.”Kemper leans into his side, basking in the praise. “I was worried I lost them during the middle segment.”“No, you reined them back in. But remember to keep your chin up—always. A Fontaine never looks down at the people; they look through them.” A genuine smile crinkles warmth at the corners of his eyes, and he leans down to kiss the top of her head. “But it was magnificent. The auction numbers are predicted to trend twenty percent higher than the last fundraiser.”The aristocracy, businessmen, and celebrities that dot the round, golden leaf tables of the hall begin to raise their paddles to bid on the first auction lot—a reclaimed feral artisan piece that Kemper had personally overseen the attainment of.She had learned of it via her favorite information broker and had gone to the small, broken down shop with Enzo at her heel to collect the rusted locket. It was stripped of the beautiful, tiny painting of an unknown woman inside and turned over to Toriihana, her private waveweaver, to purify the locket of whatever lingering remnants remained.“Look at them,” he nods towards the crowd, the charming mahogany curl at his forehead bouncing. “They love the show you’ve put on. The theatre of it all. They’ll spend double the market value tonight just so that they can brag about their contributions towards the social cohesion fund.”A small laugh escapes Kemper even as the tightness in her chest knots in circles. The good humor of her father’s presence always brought out the best industry in her. “It’s a good cause, dad.”“It’s an excellent cause,” he agrees smoothly, turning his proud gaze to her once more. His hand moves from her shoulder so he can turn to face her directly. “Tomorrow, those same men will be breaking down my office door asking to lease the very workforce you just convinced them is safe to hire. You didn’t just raise charity capital tonight, Kem. You created demand.”Kemper’s chest and cheeks warm and she catches herself before she rocks herself. The urge to flee recaptures her, and the bar looks like a haven right now.Her father reaches into his pocket to pull out the small, slim rectangular tin that contained his soothing powder. He always has it on him. He takes her hand and discreetly slips it to her by placing his palm on her own in the mimic of a congratulatory shake. “Go take a breather. We will meet in front of the ice swan and begin our greetings in ten minutes.”
# # #
The candy-colored lights bloom, and the sharp, orchestral rhythm of the evening’s entertainment trumpets the musical initiation into a smooth, rolling aria. On the high balcony overlooking the hall's first floor, old businessmen speak amongst themselves in low, familiar tones.Kemper is not sure how she is supposed to take a breather. Her father had never slipped her his calming powders before, and she was not of the mind to take them despite her acceptance. She catches her hands working each other, fingers rubbing and pinching each other, and she snaps them down to her sides. Over to a dark corner she scurries, her pace controlled but her heart hammering.She had felt fine, relaxed even, just moments ago. But in the aftermath of the encounter with her father, she wants to scream. Just too much pent-up energy, probably, from having to present.From last night.Her hands feel warm and wet. She’s all too aware of the bandage wrapped around her palm, too aware of the dull ache of a deep cut.A man whose face she couldn’t even identify.A darkness she couldn’t breathe through.No. She can handle this. There’s nothing else; she doesn’t even have to perform for the closing ceremony. She forces herself to take a deep breath.But it doesn’t help. She remembers the feeling she had when she was attacked; the dread, cold and churning and so sure her end was fast approaching, curling up in her rib cage as if it had found an old home.
She was going to be sick. She should go recover herself in the bathroom. She turns——and runs face first into the expensive fabric of a chest bigger than her. A squeak rips out of her, and it is greeted by a low, amused chuckle.“Might I say… you look like a fine pastel sunset, chérie.” A deep, uneven voice, crawling like mud through her mind, gunks up into the nooks and crannies, just out of conscious reach. But she could not help but be so, so aware.“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” A delayed but sticky-sweet titter leaves her and she plasters on a smile.Slicked back hair, pale skin, black eyes. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, in the crooks at the corners of his mouth. He is dressed impeccably, in an expensive black suit. A scarlet rose sits clipped to the lapel of his tailcoat.He stares down at her expectantly.She hesitates, completely out of her element. “You’re kind to say so. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”“No, I have not had the pleasure… but we are rectifying that now.” He agrees and tilts his head like one of her father’s hounds. Long, straight raven black hair drapes across his shoulder.“I’m Kemper Fontaine of the Fontaine Foundation. My father—”“Oh, yes, I am aware of precisely who you and your father are. I would wish you congratulations on the amount you raised tonight, but… I’m afraid to ponder… will these donations even cover the cost of this Gala?” His black eyes linger on her face. “You must be exhausted from your little play.”He might as well have slapped her; she jerks back. “Excuse me?”“Your father has quite a number of controversies, does he not?”Details don’t seem to stick to him from one split second to the next, and yet, she could not truthfully say that anything changed about him, either.“The prison revolt in low town’s docks,” he continues, “dozens of worker and citizen protests and uprisings…”It seems each moment she struggles to recall what she had just seen, as if falling out of a dream upon waking. He smiles at her like he’s in on her little secret. She doesn’t have a little secret to be in on, and if she did, this creep sure as hell would not be involved. This man is just plain difficult to look at.“My father is a man of business,” she tries, “and in the public eye, at that. He is a good man with a good heart, and I only wish for the rest of the world to—”“—and that is not to mention the factory explosion on Renalt.” The man goes on as if Kemper hadn’t spoken. “A hundred dead—that you’re willing to admit publicly—most of them the families of your workers, women and children and men, all of them good people in some facet…”The smile morphs into a wicked smirk, and something creaking and wrong and wet drops out of her chest and crashes into her stomach. Were his eyes all white before? The tiny pinprick black holes at the center pierce through her. Simply entertaining the silly notions of a young, stupid little girl.“Of course the workers disagree with him.” Kemper forces her clenched teeth apart. She can’t accept that she’s just going to have to sit here and listen to this asshole come for her and her father. “If it were not for his business acumen, they would have no jobs, no homes, no food. He provides them with everything. They all simply need someone to hate—”“You do not believe your father takes advantage of the people’s situation?”A burning rush floods her, overwhelms her. “Someone,” she insists, “to blame for their strife and struggles. It’s simply redirected rage. We must know not to take it personally.” He is so calm. He would not be so calm if she broke his crooked-ass nose—“But you do, chérie.” He slips in like poison. “And here you are, bleeding in a dark corner, whispering to yourself that everything is perfect.”She is perfectly fine.“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kemper summons her haughtiest laugh. “I am doing fantastic; my Gala went precisely as expected and I will bring in monumental donations—which far exceed what has been spent on this evening, by the way. My father doesn’t need me to hide his so-called controversies.”He’s smiling, and she hates it, but it’s pouring out of her now in the most clipped fashion she can manage.“If you actually knew about the work the Fontaine Foundation is doing, you’d see that we are actively repairing the fractures in low town. We are giving those people—and the ferals—a chance to integrate into real society. To improve. To become something more. No longer a drain on our resources, but an active contributor to the success of Anaïs de la Croix.”Static, flickering, real, unreal, he stares directly down at her. It feels like his eyes are all black, no white at all, but every time she’s sure of that, on second glance, there’s the white to prove her wrong. Where did his pupils end and his irises begin?“Your charity does not exist to save anyone.” He speaks like he knows what she does not know; facts that are stalwart and immutable. “It exists to commoditize them. To strip them of all that they are. Do you truly believe a wolf forgets the taste of blood just because you taught it table manners?”Despite the care she took in the light design of her gala, none of those warm pastels are reflected back at her in his gaze—or his clothes.“You don’t understand at all—”Wait.Ice spreads through every cell of her being and the delicate hair at the back of her neck rise.He is not human. The thought strikes her like lightning.Everything around her shrinks away. It is just her, here, hiding in a dark corner of her own Gala, standing less than a foot from this… creature.“Don’t I?” he flickers. A black silhouette. A man. A monster.Her fists shake at her sides. He moves closer to her, gets far too in her personal space, and she’s so close to calling for Enzo to break this man into pieces, but that ugly, all-knowing look on his pissant face makes her want to do it herself. “Does it make you feel safe, holding the leash? Are you sure you’re fit to defend your empire when your foundation is already cracked and rotten?”She hears the seething coil of rage gathering in her throat leak into her language, “Do you—”He leans in to close what little distance remains, and as she tries to retain it, her back hits the wall.She’s going to fucking scream if he interrupts her one more time.Her hands shoot up to shove him back, but—her father. So many of his associates. She could not lose her cool here. They linger awkwardly between them, ball into fists, and she thinks she might actually deck this asshole in her beautiful gala.“It’s a fascinating experiment, Miss Fontaine.” He leans in so close she smells him, a harsh, violent metallic odor that makes her nearly gag—and then he breathes her in like some sick pervert, and the air around her thickens like mucous, chokes her, suffocates her, and she gasps.The wound on her palm weeps red through the bandages as teeth take hold of every nerve in her body, and she feels her soul trying to claw it’s way out of her cage to escape the overbearing empty abyss that drags her in. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch the cool air.“You speak as if you believe what you are doing makes you a kind person. As if you are good enough. But we both know, just between the two of us…”All she gets out is a deep, cavernous: “What?”His lips move, but she knows his voice is in her head, a nasty little scratch, quiet and rusty and grating.“You’re not.”She feels wet drip onto her shoulders. A triumphant smile mocks her and he steps away. She gasps as all the air rushes back into the room and the sound of chatter and laughter and music all around them crashes onto her once more. She wants to slap it right off his face. Ugly cockroach looking motherfucker.She should have left the moment she realized what he was. Ferals rarely kept a respectable manner, no matter how well dressed their packaging.As soon as there is enough air in her lungs to speak, she stifles her violent thoughts and draws on the last pieces of bitter decorum she has.“Fascinating,” her voice is drenched in her mock sarcasm. “A truly provocative thesis, sir. I would love to stay and debate the ethics of philanthropy with you, but as you so astutely pointed out, this is an extravagant gala, and I have dozens of generous donors I must return to. Do enjoy the rest of the evening. Try the caviar—and try not to choke on it.”That earns her his first real, toothy grin, and she hardens every muscle so that she doesn't recoil at neatly stacked row of eerily thin shark teeth. Bugs tunnel just beneath her skin, and she has to make her exit before they burst out of her and bleed her dry.“Right,” he purrs, and backs off. She cannot handle him a second longer. She doesn't bother beyond a robotic wave of her hand, turns, and flees into the sea of grating, graying men.
This work is intended for readers only. Do not copy, share, or redistribute this text without explicit permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Unauthorized reproduction, redistribution, or use of this text for AI training is prohibited.
© 2026 Gabriel Greysin. All rights reserved.
Red Trails
Edited by Ley Taylor Johnson
Four-inch stilettos are ill-suited to walking home in the dark while tipsy, but a little discomfort is a small sacrifice to avoid bare feet on the street. She has no desire to shred her soles into steak tartare on a cracked beer bottle. The slinky straps bite into the back of her heels as she pinches her clutch tight against her side.Pain beckons to all sorts of daemons from the crevices of the streets, but weak manifestations can’t reach her here. Dwelling on such thoughts, however, is always a risk. The last thing Kemper needs right now is to be waylaid in the earliest hours of a new day on an empty central avenue by a nefarious boogeyman drawn to the taste of her misery and self-pity.To be fair, it’s pretty unlikely here in high town. Anaïs de la Croix is a safe place to walk at night. There is no reason for her to take off her heels; it’s not like she would ever need to run in them. The citizens of high town are a blissful crowd safeguarded by the extraordinary power of the suppression wards, cultivated and treasured by humans and gargoyles alike. Still, there’s always the chance that something might get past, especially the particularly robust accumulations.Just thinking about it sends a quiver through her stomach. Nothing is going to happen. She’s safe. Hands sweaty—probably because she’s been walking for half a kilometer in heels—she can’t help but take a quick survey around her.The vision of the still street swims with the movement and she giggles nervously. As she looks directly ahead, her whole body flinches, hushed to silence by the dark silhouette in the shadow between the orange glow of the gaslamps.There is a man watching her. Waiting for her.The hair at the nape of her neck rises. She freezes. The closest lamp’s flame flickers, threatning to blow out.The air becomes dense as her heart begins a gallop. It can’t be real. But she can’t be stupid enough to deny what she sees, even if she is drunk and making shit up in her head. She knows another way to her high-rise, so she turns and nearly slams into a man—two men behind her. A screech tears from her lungs as they surge forward and grab her bare arms. If Enzo were here—But Enzo isn’t here, as she is so acutely aware the moment her clutch is ripped from her grasp. “Who do you think you are? Do you realize wh—”“Shut up!” he slaps her so hard her body rag dolls back and it rattles her bones.Laughter bounces around the slimming space between the mountainous high rises, and nausea roils in her gut as she is jerked in a hundred different ways. Grime-caked hands tear the fabric of the dress Nimeer designed and made by hand for her, and the boiling bursts over when she sees the glint of steel.A savage scream explodes from her as she snatches her arm from their grasp. She catches the blade of the knife slicing through the Seivite silk. It sinks into her palm as she yanks it from her their hand, sending it clattering uselessly onto the street. A heavy presence thickens the air, bearing down on her, and a chill runs down her spine.“Fuck! Hold her!” a snarl grates against her ear and her arm is snatched back and squeezed so grievously a hoarse scream wrenches unbidden from her throat.That’s it—she’s going to tear his throat out with her teeth. Red hot and screaming, she struggles against the binding hands of her attackers, then jerks forward and snaps her teeth in the space her frontward attacker quickly abandons.“Oooh! She’s feisty!” Laughter again. Her face burns—not just from the earth shattering pain of the punch he lands in her gut, doubling her over with a gag. Vomit splatters on shoes and brick.A visceral, sinking doom drops into her gut to replace the lost martinis and shrimp cocktail. It reminds her that there is nothing she can do.Ice knots in her core. There are more of them than her, they are bigger than her, they are stronger than her. They are going to end little Kemper Fontaine, always reaching, never attaining, before she can be anything but a pretty, sad stain on her daddy’s biography. But if she could—The dark silhouette of her attacker screams right in her face, and her entire body and gut trembles uncontrollably. She cannot die here. She will not die here.A sick crackling signals that they have broken her somehow, though she’s too numb to feel it. Warmth splashes over her and her front is released and she throws her weight backward onto her two captors to kick wildly. But her feet only flail in the air as her beautiful heels go flying and it feels like her heart leaves her chest with them. Assholes!They throw her down onto her face and into a world of splintering, head-shattering pain. The rough, cool concrete is here to catch and bite her cheeks in her time of need.Piercing shrieks sound like a siren behind her and she knows only that she has moments to try to escape. Dizzy, her body howling in its torment, she claws up onto her elbows and knees.Every single one of her survival instincts scream at her to run. She lurches and eats dirt again. Fucking crawl. Get out.Her arms are bloody. The violent thrashing of her heart pounds through her mind and she catches her balance, stumbling onto her bare, bleeding feet. So much for not shredding them. She begins to run, shoving all of her strength into her legs, and it is only when she comes to the end of the street that she realizes how quiet it is.She looks behind her and there is nothing but dark. She hears no one pursuing her. The streetlight’s flame closest to her flickers to life from nothing, revealing some vague shapes outlining the ground in crimson.Her attackers.What killed them?Did they draw something here with their greed? Did she draw something here with her fear?She turns and sprints. This path to her building is longer, but the road to the north is the main strip and blinding in the aftermath of its midnight energy.It takes the rest of the walk for her heart to stop blaring out all else. By the time she’s at her door tears are running unbidden down her cheeks. She tries to turn the handle and it won’t give.“Shit!” Her keys were in her clutch. She stands on her toes and stumbles and stands again, hands trembling and uncoordinated as she fumbles for the keys above the door’s threshold.She bungles them into the lock and turns, keys jingling in a mocking monotony completely out of place after what just happened. Her body wails at her. Maybe she should have gone to the hospital, but she wasn’t leaking.The cold tile of her entryway stings the soles of her feet. She leaves bloody footprints in her wake, but Nimeer will take care of it in the morning. She should find medical attention of some sort, but all she can do is drop onto her sheets.# # #“What the hell happened?”Enzo’s voice is run roughshod with alarm. To be fair, Kemper would likewise be aghast at the sight he had walked into. It takes everything in Kemper to shift and make the attempt to lift herself. She hisses as she registers the blinding morning light. Enzo dashes to her side, his large hands a comforting tenderness as he supports her rise, pulls her under his wing. Literally. “You’re injured. What happened? Kemper?”His big eyes pierce through her grogginess, but she doesn’t have any answers for him. Not because she lacks the memory, but because it will not rise to her tongue. She can’t. She coils her strength into her muscles and tries to swallow down the knot in her throat. It does little to dislodge the inconvenience.“I’m okay,” she lies.Enzo lets out one single mirthless bark of a laugh as he examines her. “You’re covered in blood.”Kemper looks down at herself. The sweet baby pink silk evening gown is violently stained deep crimson. She winces and her gaze returns to him tentatively. His eyes are round and jaw squared. “You need to go to the hospital.”“No! No.” She ignores the scream of her muscles and the stinging scrapes and scratches all over her as she puts her right hand down to push up. Earth- shattering agony spikes through her palm and up her arm like lightning and she falls back into Enzo’s arm with a strangled yelp.“Kem—”“We can’t afford that sort of publicity,” she snaps. That silences him.Instead, he looks to Nimeer, motioning for them to step inside. Wide eyed and rigid, they come forward as he begins instruction.“Fetch doctor Ataxirün and return without delay. Inform Mr. Fonta-”“No!” Kemper groans. The last thing she needs is for her father to hear about this before she herself knows what happened last night.Enzo sucks in a breath and doesn’t let it out as he meets her eye. “Then what?”Ease settles into her. Enzo had always put her first, his loyalty proven again and again to be unquestionable and absolute. Kemper reminds herself that he can be counted on to serve her interests first—no one else’s. Including the corporation and her father.Kemper breathes in deeply and sighs out the turmoil in her thoughts. Her muscles go limp in his arms. He motions for Nimeer to proceed with his single instruction and they are gone in an instant.Enzo’s attention focuses on Kemper as he cradles her, his professional mask crumbling into a lined brow and a frown. Everything will be fine. She can handle this.“I was robbed,” she states plainly. His mouth sets into a grim line. He nods and she stares directly ahead. She can see him in her periphery, but she can’t focus on him right now. She’s sure something in her might break if she does.She can’t even acknowledge the beautiful morning view of Anaïs, something she committed to every morning she woke in this bed. Not today.“I escaped. I’m not really sure how,” she admits. Gods, she regrets what happened to this dress. Nimeer had worked for so long and put so much of themself into it. Yet they seemed not at all concerned about the fabric.One painful moment hands held her down, the next she was crawling on her belly, writhing away like a worm in the dirt. And all the blood. Her face burns and her throat closes up. She squeezes her eyes shut, but she can’t shield herself from the flickering memories searing her mind. Her lungs and heart are starting to flutter and she tries to steady them again with another slow, deep breath.“I don’t think all of the blood is mine.”Enzo’s stone-gray gaze turns to her bloodied gown again and he nods with a grim acceptance. “Show me your hand,” he indicates where she had failed to hold herself upright. She already knew he would find a slash from the blade she had foolishly grabbed and thrown. But it was better that than whatever her attacker had intended it for.Kemper allows Enzo to examine her wounds. Countless bruises and dozens of scrapes and scratches cover her body, her hand bearing the worst of it. She’s right—some of the blood most certainly is not hers, and when Nimeer returns with the doctor, she hears Enzo turn his attention to the beginnings of his investigation.The doctor’s magic is not enough to close the deep wound on her hand, but he stitches it closed and heals the rest as best he can. He cleans the wound where she hit her head and advises her to get plenty of rest, which makes her laugh.Once she can reasonably walk again, Kemper locks herself in her bathroom. She’s caked in blood, dirt. Her cheeks are stained by kohl-black tears. Gross. She bathes, preens, and dresses, moving through the routine with mechanical precision.It’s hard for her to pull on her clothes by herself and as embarrassed as she feels, she is thankful for Nimeer’s aid. The curls of her hair are frizzled and mistreated by the way she passed out in her bed, and Nimeer treats them and brings them back to bouncing life.She emerges from her bedroom suite looking perfect—besides the bandage she hid under clasped hands. She sits and doesn’t touch the beautiful rainbow of fruit and pastries before her.She hears her maid: Hannuk, Nimeer, the doctor, and Enzo buzzing around her, but she isn’t taking any of it in. In fact, she’s not sure she’s taking anything at all in.For once in her life, her mind is empty. She still has dozens of projects in the works, and just yesterday, hundreds of concerns and worries. But none of it matters now.“Are you cold, my lady?”Nimeer’s question jerks her out of her silence. She’s got goose pimples and she is cold, but she had not realized it at all.“Oh. Uh. Yes.” She looks to Nimeer, and they place her house coat around her shoulders. “Thank you.”“Of course, my lady,” they smile reassuringly, and Kemper can barely hold herself together at the idea that even Nimeer pities her. But she forces a kind smile in return, and Nimeer bows before they step back and return to their duties, leaving Kemper to her emptiness.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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© 2026 Gabriel Greysin. All rights reserved.
Unrest
Solmyr
Here would be my map. If I HAD one...
And information on my world. Of course.
Gravemyr
Gravemyr is the mirror dimension/dream realm of Solmyr.
Nightfall
Nightfall takes place on another world.
Art
I haven't added any of my art here yet.
Come back another time.
About
Gabriel Greysin
writer and artist of fantasy, horror, romance, and other such speculations. i also love games.
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