Red Velvet: The Feast and the Fall
Beyond Mirra’s chamber of glass and shadow, there lies a banquet room sealed in red—walls sticky with sugar, air heavy with perfume and decay. It is said the candles here never fully burn out; they melt and reform in the shape of open mouths.
Once, this room glimmered with laughter and silver spoons. Now, it reeks of roses left too long in the sun. At its center sits Red Velvet, the maiden they called a delicacy. She was baked in adoration, iced in expectation, and served to every appetite that mistook her softness for surrender.
She wakes to find herself on the table.
Half-eaten. Half-alive.
What was once whole and divine has become a ruin—bloody, glistening, still pulsing with life. Her skin, once flawless cream, now blooms with fingerprints and teeth marks. Petals of silk cling to her shoulders like wilted frosting. The gold plate beneath her trembles as she breathes.
Half-eaten. Half-alive.
What was once whole and divine has become a ruin—bloody, glistening, still pulsing with life. Her skin, once flawless cream, now blooms with fingerprints and teeth marks. Petals of silk cling to her shoulders like wilted frosting. The gold plate beneath her trembles as she breathes.
Her eyes flicker open. Around her, the guests are gone, their laughter fossilized in the air. Only goblets remain—half-full, as if even in their gluttony they could not finish her.
She touches the hollow where her heart once rested.
Her fingers come away red.
Her fingers come away red.
“They wanted sugar,” she whispers,
“but found flesh instead.”
“but found flesh instead.”
something moves inside her. A slow warmth, thick and rising—hatred, perhaps, or hunger. Her pulse steadies; the room begins to shudder with the weight of her awakening. What they consumed was not her end—it was her beginning. a baptism in blood.
The blood on her body hardens into lacquer, shimmering crimson under the dying chandeliers. The wounds seal with molten sugar. Steam curls from her mouth as she exhales, tasting the air—
and herself—
for the first time.
and herself—
for the first time.
“Do I taste sweet?” she murmurs.
“Do I taste good?”
“Do I taste good?”
The question rings like a spell.
Every goblet cracks. Every silver knife bends toward her.
Every goblet cracks. Every silver knife bends toward her.
She rises from the table, leaving behind a trail of sugar and syrup. The candles reignite in her wake, trembling like witnesses. Her reflection in the banquet knives stares back—a goddess carved from indulgence and rage.
When she walks, the room follows her heartbeat scattered, unsteady. The walls drip red again. Somewhere in the castle, Mirra’s mirrors fracture, as if answering her ascension.
Red Velvet is no longer the feast. She is the famine.
And those who once fed upon her will learn—
what burns in the oven of a woman wronged
is not cake,
but rebirth.
And those who once fed upon her will learn—
what burns in the oven of a woman wronged
is not cake,
but rebirth.