Y/n stands at the edge of the property, just beyond the glow of the hanging lanterns. The invitation came as a surprise—The Blackthorne Summer Gathering, it had read, embossed on thick cream paper sealed with black wax. A crest of a serpent coiled around a thorned rose.

Up ahead, the manor looms. A sprawling Gothic revivalist mansion, its windows blazing with warm amber light. Figures move behind the glass—silhouettes dancing, drinking, laughing. A pair of elegantly dressed witches stumble past Y/n, giggling, their champagne sloshing over the rims of their glasses.