Part 2: The Morning of All Hallows’ Eve

The bathwater shimmered with crushed herbs and soft oils—rosemary, white sage, rose petals, and something else Isabella couldn’t name. The heat steamed the windows, fogging the mirror, casting the tiled room in a haze that blurred reality. Outside, the morning sun filtered through the slats of the blinds, making gold and grey stripes along the floor.

Isabella reclined in the deep porcelain tub, her legs stretched and gleaming beneath the surface, her skin tingling where the oils kissed her thighs and breasts. Her hands floated beside her, fingers half-curled in the warm water. The bath wasn’t about getting clean. It was preparation—ritual. Her skin needed to be softened. Her body awakened. Her senses opened.

Seraphina had said so. And Seraphina had appeared at dawn.

She had knocked once, softly, and when Isabella opened the door, the last Seraphina stood on the threshold dressed in a black velvet robe. Her hair, now unbound, fell past her shoulders in thick, grey-black waves. Her eyes were tired, but there was peace there too. Pride.

She had kissed Isabella’s cheek. No words at first.

Only a soft hum—an old lullaby that stirred something deep in Isabella’s belly.

Then, she’d handed her a small satchel of ingredients and whispered, “Bathe. Slowly. Let your skin remember.”

So she had.

Now, as the water cooled, Isabella stirred. Her nipples were taut from the air. Her thighs, smooth and sensitive, pressed together as she sat up, steam rising from her skin like breath.

She dried herself slowly, reverently, and returned to her bedroom still wrapped in the bath’s warmth.

Seraphina was there, waiting.

The curtains were drawn. The lights dimmed. Candles flickered on every surface. The room smelled faintly of myrrh and sandalwood. Across Isabella’s bed lay carefully chosen items—black fabric, gold accents, leather, silk.

Seraphina stood beside it all, her hands folded in front of her, her posture regal and still.

She glanced up and smiled, calm and knowing.

Isabella’s gaze swept the bed.

The dress was a whisper of a thing—diaphanous black panels of sheer silk that shimmered like oil, weighted at the hem with tiny gold beads. Depending on how the fabric was arranged, she could veil her breasts or let them show. She could allow glimpses of her belly, her thighs, or cover just enough to tease. It was erotic and elegant, more sensual than obscene.

Beside it: a gold circlet shaped like branching flames, meant to rest atop her brow like a crown.

A wide belt of black leather intricately engraved with thorned vines lay coiled beside a pair of sandals—minimal and strappy, meant to encase her feet like a goddess’s bindings.

And then ... the bag.

Soft black velvet, small enough to carry by hand, threaded with gold filigree. At Isabella’s raised eyebrow, Seraphina smiled faintly and loosened the drawstring.

She reached inside and withdrew the objects with silent gravity.

First, the dildo and leather harness. Ornate. Familiar. Carved of dark wood with inlaid gold and the faintest shimmer of lacquer. It was the same one Isabella had seen in her first shared dream—the woman who had worshipped her with it. The same curve. The same markings. Its presence was undeniable.

Then the plug—equally polished, the grain of the wood swirled with warmth and magic. Its base bore the mark of the Verde crest, etched in black.

Lastly, a loop of leather. Simple. No buckles. No metal. Just a short length of dark, softened hide, smelling faintly of jasmine and clove.

Seraphina’s voice was quiet but firm.

“You will use all of these tonight as you complete the ritual. The strongest must submit to the cock. The most submissive must wear the plug. And the most willful must be bound by the leather. Only when all are in place will the enchantment be sealed.”

Isabella exhaled slowly, feeling her pulse throb in her fingertips.

“Everyone will worship,” Seraphina added gently. “Those objects must be used.”

She said it not with dominance, but certainty. As if describing the sunrise.

Isabella sat down, eyes still on the bed, on the gown, the symbols, the tools of what was to come.

She thought of the party—Sophie’s place across the street. A gathering she’d looked forward to for weeks. The music, the food, the easy laughter. Sophie’s parties were indulgent and permissive. Everyone arrived dressed to tease. And while things never quite tipped into true debauchery, the edge had always been there.

Isabella had always attended, each year leaving with a different guest.

But this year was different.

This year she wouldn’t be a guest.

She would be the flame everyone gathered around.

“There will be ten guests,” Isabella said, almost to herself. “Four men. Six women. Sophie ... she’ll be there. And—”

Her voice faltered. She looked to Seraphina, her chest tightening with nerves.

“I believe,” Isabella whispered. “But it’s ... it’s a lot.”

Seraphina reached for her—arms open, welcoming, unhurried.

Isabella stepped into them without thinking.

The older woman wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. Not a lover’s embrace. A passing of flame. Skin to skin. Blood to blood.

Seraphina whispered words against her ear. Not English. Older. Heavier. They rolled through Isabella like warm smoke curling around her ribs. She didn’t know the meaning. But she understood them.

“Be calm, little flame. The enchantment will shape their thoughts. Their bodies will bend to your will. By morning, they will remember only pleasure—and perhaps too much wine.”

Seraphina drew back slightly, her hand gently cupping Isabella’s cheek.

“But you will remember everything. You will have risen. And I will rest.”

Isabella clung to her tighter then—not out of fear, but love. A deep, aching love for this woman who had held on for so long. Who had carried so much. Who had waited for her.

And for all the others who had come before.

When their embrace broke, Seraphina took her hand and led her to the bed.

They sat together as the book lay open between them.

For hours, they pored over spells. Enchantments. Brews for truth-speaking, for submission, for pleasure. Oils for heat, herbs to dull memory, incense to blur time.

And each time Isabella faltered, Seraphina reminded her:

“You won’t remember everything. That’s why the book exists. The spells will speak when they’re needed. The words will come when it’s time.”

Afternoon sun shifted across the room.

Time began to feel unimportant.

She wasn’t preparing for a party.

She was preparing for a rite.

And by the time she stood to dress, Isabella Green was no longer just a woman.

She was ready to become Seraphina Verde.

Seraphina helped Isabella prepare in near-silence, the ritual too sacred for idle chatter. The soft clink of glass bottles and the faint whisper of fabric were the only sounds as she opened the small chest of oils and potions. One by one, she anointed Isabella’s skin—wrists, behind the ears, between her breasts, along the inner thighs—with oils designed to awaken hunger, adoration, obedience. Rosewood for seduction, labdanum for dominance, clove and orange blossom for arousal. Each scent built upon the last until Isabella’s very presence would bend the room.

Her gown, diaphanous and light as shadow, was adjusted and pinned just so—meant to tease, not flaunt. When she walked, the folds would shift like smoke, revealing flashes of thigh, curve, and the gentle sway of her breasts without ever crossing into vulgarity. Seraphina demonstrated with a subtle roll of the hips, how one step forward could bare her inner thigh, how a turn could offer a glimpse of nipple beneath the sheer panels. Isabella practiced until it came naturally.

Then came the accessories. The wide black belt with its fine gold embroidery. The soft black sandals that laced up her calves. The bag. And last—the tiara.

Seraphina lifted it gently, reverently, then placed it upon Isabella’s brow as if crowning a queen. Her fingers lingered a moment. Their eyes met. Something passed between them—an understanding of the weight this night carried, the end of one life and the beginning of another.

“You are ready, my sister,” Seraphina said quietly. “Go and enjoy the evening. Take your rightful place in the Line of Verde.”

She leaned forward and kissed Isabella on the lips—not sexual, not familial, but ceremonial. It left Isabella trembling.

Seraphina stepped back and opened the door.

Isabella paused in the threshold. She looked at the woman who had prepared her, taught her, protected her. She knew she would never see her again in this form. The body would dissolve. The spirit would remain, but the earthly bond would pass.

She nodded once, gave a soft smile, and stepped outside.

The late October sky was darkening, sunset bleeding into the horizon. She slowly crossed the street, each step taking her closer to her destiny. At the sidewalk in front of Sophie’s house, she stopped. Eyes closed. Breath steady.

A subvocal chant slipped from her lips—words of the old tongue, passed only from Seraphina to Seraphina. As she murmured them, a shimmer rippled outward from the house like heat from pavement. It spread to the walls, the windows, the very threshold. Those who crossed it tonight would be bound. Their memories softened. Their desires unshackled. Their inhibitions erased.

It was done.

She stepped forward and rang the bell.

It took only a moment before the door opened.

Sophie stood in the entryway, wide-eyed, a half-glass of prosecco trembling slightly in her hand. Barely five-two, she was all delicate lines and quiet heat — smooth Cambodian skin kissed with a soft golden glow, the kind that caught the light and held it. Her long black hair was tied into two playful ponytails that framed her face and brushed against her shoulders with every small movement.