the Final Galla

A beautiful young woman had arrived
Her aura glowing with rascality
In her grey eyes a feral hunger thrived
Her presence was a mere formality

The dainty silver chain around her neck
Doused in the most potent curses convoked
Worn with pride the bindings she did bedeck
Ominous cautions of wrath when provoked

The lone rebellious daughter of the host
Locked in her personal piece of Bastille
Left to be rumored a murderous ghost
Cold eyes gander the guests, eager to kill

A cruel laughter rang through the ball room
The party turned somber, the chamber a tomb