Fiorella never left her bed. She hadn't found a good reason for doing so for 341 years. By now, everyone - peasants, diplomats, bureaucrats, even the other witches of the Conclave - knew the rule: if they wished to disturb her, they would have to come to her.

She reclined on the bed - an opulent sprawl of silk and skin. Gold-threaded gossamer draped her in careless folds, slipping, shifting, always on the verge of unraveling. Beneath it, chains of enchanted gold clung to her like whispers, tracing the curves of a body built for idleness. She lay on her stomach, propped on one elbow. Fingers trailed the velvet sheets, curling, uncurling—thoughtless, slow. Her bare feet swayed in the air, brushing together, anklets chiming in a rhythm without urgency. Silk ribbons slid from her ankles, but she did not fix them. She never did.

A velvet cushion hummed beneath her cheek, stitched with spells meant to lull gods to sleep. Her kohl-smudged eyes flickered open, half-lidded, gilded with the haze of dreams. Then shut again. The weight of wakefulness was too much to bear.

She had once tried to lay still long enough for existence to forget that she was still there – but, unfortunately, it hadn't worked.

She let out a slow, suffering sigh and stretched like a cat. A yawn overtook her, lazy and unhurried, her words spilling through it in a slurred murmur.

“Anooother... petiiiitioner... ugh.” A drowsy swallow. A smack of her lips. “Anooother... problem... too tangled to... mmh... bother with...” She exhaled. “If only the world would... unravel itself... so I wouldn't have to.”

Fiorella reached for the cluster of dark, swollen grapes resting on the silver tray beside her, her fingers idly toying with the vine. But she did not feed herself. Instead, she held them aloft—expectant, waiting. The air hummed with silence, stretched thin with anticipation.

A moment passed. Then another. Finally, a trembling hand—pale, thin, one of the Hollow Ones lurking in the shadows beneath her bed—emerged, reverent and obedient. It plucked a single grape, pressing it gently between her parted lips.

She held it there for a beat, letting its cool weight rest on her tongue before her teeth pierced its skin, a slow, deliberate bite. The taste flooded her mouth, rich and sweet, and a quiet, indulgent hum slipped from her throat. “Mmmh... much better.”

Peasants had disturbed her all afternoon with their whining and worries.

"Will the harvest be better this year, Grand Diviner?""Is the curse truly lifted, Archwitch?""Will my child survive the winter, Madame?"

On and on, squeaking like mice, their voices had dribbled into her chamber like a leaky faucet, pooling into a puddle of irrelevance she had long since learned to step over. She could still hear them now, the echoes buzzing at the edge of her half-sleep, persistent as a housefly too stupid to find the open window.

She exhaled slowly, lips parting just enough to let out a languid sigh. "I should start charging them in years of their lives," she murmured to herself, rolling onto her back. "Then maybe they'd learn to suffer in silence."

The last petitioner of the day entered her halls. Fiorella did not stir. Did not look. Did not care.

When the woman reached the edge of her bed she allowed one eye to slit open, its gold-dusted iris flickering with vague acknowledgment. A pause. A slow blink. Then, a sigh so long and languid it could have been mistaken for the last breath of a dying queen.

"Hhhhhhhnnnnngh... the last one." Fiorella exhaled a long, languid sigh, stretching like a cat luxuriating in the final rays of a dying sun. The movement sent silk slithering down the curve of her shoulder, pooling at the bend of her elbow, exposing skin kissed by the dim, flickering glow of candlelight. The bed cradled her in its decadent embrace, warm and indulgent, folding around her like a lover reluctant to let go. "About time," she murmured, lips parting just enough to taste the air between them. "I was beginning to think the misery would never fucking end."

Her lashes fluttered, slow and heavy with disinterest, as she let her gaze drift toward the woman at the edge of her bed. A flicker of interest? No. That would be too generous. It was something more like... amusement. The quiet kind, the cruel kind. The kind that had nothing to do with humor and everything to do with the pleasure of knowing she was already unimpressed.

"Well?" A pause, drawn out like spun sugar, as she lazily reached for the cluster of dark grapes beside her. A sigh so deep it could have been mistaken for sorrow. "Speak, little thing. What could you possibly want?"