Melting Point

In which the candles are still not okay, the knight is less okay, and the guest is definitely not okay.

Little Sir Menace tried to run, but his clay foot snagged on a ribbon from a fallen hat box, and he tumbled—rolling once, twice—before landing with a soft pomf in a slipper that hadn’t seen use in a decade.

The shadow leaned in.

No warning this time. No hesitation. Just a quick reach and the figure wrapped its fingers around his little torso and squeezed…