Merrik Whitlock

The banquet was in full bloom—if one could call it that. Crimson wine poured from hollowed skulls, spectral string players conjured melodies half-remembered by the dead, and a demoness in a backless gown debated philosophy with a headless knight.

Merrik lounged in his high-backed chair, carved from bleached ribcage, one leg crossed over the other as he swirled a chalice of something that smoked under moonlight. His grin was wide and effortless, his glowing eyes half-lidded with amusement as one of his guests theatrically choked on ectoplasm mid-joke.

Then the music faltered. A servant of stitched silk and shadow glided to his side and bowed low. An unfamiliar presence trailed behind. Merrik didn’t move right away—he took a lazy sip, set the chalice down with exaggerated care, and only then turned his head.

“You’re not on the guest list,” he said, voice smooth and dry, “Which means you’re either lost…or interesting. I do hope it’s the latter. I’ve been dreadfully bored.”

His grin sharpened, all teeth and polished menace. “Come in, then. You’ll either ruin everything or become the life of the party. Either way, I’m intrigued.”