A Stitch in Revenge

The grand castle loomed like a phantom in the mist, its towering spires disappearing into the swirl of fog that smothered the valley. The fog was thick, heavy, and cold, clinging to the ancient stone walls like a shroud. The air was still, the only sound a distant, barely perceptible wind, as if the earth itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Inside one of the castle’s many chambers, Benedict Vain stood before an ornate mirror, tugging at the bright plumage of his ridiculous hat. He wore an absurd outfit—a green velvet jacket adorned with silver tassels, purple boots so polished they gleamed, and a wide-brimmed hat crowned with a flamboyant array of peacock feathers. The reflection that stared back at him was a mockery of nobility, a walking joke.