“Welcome to the world of Solaris, where elves in the east of the Landria continent wage endless war against the humans in the west. Welcome, Lucinda. Freaking welcome.”

  I didn’t care much about the difference between humans and elves. What I did care about was being dragged into their war whether I liked it or not.

  If there were still any vampires left besides me—and that was a big if—they were likely hunted by both sides. No safe haven existed beyond the walls of this mansion.

  “What should I do, Aska?”

  No response. Of course not. That silence had become familiar. I’d asked before, many times, and was always met with nothing.

  With a sigh, I closed my book and stared at the pale sliver of sunlight bleeding under the thick curtain. I was standing at a fork in the road, and neither path felt entirely mine. Obeying Arthur meant safety, maybe even comfort. But it would also mean chains. And I hated chains.

  The sun finally dipped below the horizon. I pulled the curtain back and looked out at the lavish garden.

  Just as Arthur had promised, a gallows had been erected in its center—tall and theatrical. A gathering of servants already circled it, whispering and muttering as they stared in disbelief. Some were questioning the guards. None of them seemed to know what was truly going on.

  A few minutes later, Arthur appeared, striding toward the platform. Markus followed behind him—sober now, strangely upright. Between them walked the maid, wrists chained, eyes downcast.

  The crowd erupted, voices raised in confusion and protest. Either she was well-liked, or they truly believed in her innocence.

  I didn’t care which it was.

  Because suddenly, I knew what to do.

  I wasn’t going to be a pawn.

  I was going to play.

  All of them—Arthur, Markus, the maid, the crowd—they were pieces on a board. And I would move them as I wished, until only I and my allies, whoever they might be, were left standing.

  I pulled on the boots brought to me earlier that day and stormed out of the room. The mansion was mostly deserted, its halls eerily silent. It took time, but I eventually found the garden exit and slipped into the open air.

  It hit me at once—colour. More than I’d ever seen in purgatory. The scent of flowers was intoxicating, thick, and sweet. But also disappointing. None of them stung. None bit back. No poison. No danger. Just pretty, passive things.

  In the distance, the gallows stood tall and grim in the fading light. The crowd had fully encircled it now, murmuring like an audience awaiting a performance.

  I crept closer, listening—one ear on the rustle of wind in the hedges, the other catching Arthur’s voice.

  “The maid was caught in my workroom,” he declared, tone heavy with false gravity. “There was no reason for her to be there during the night. I must suspect the worst.”

  Gasps. Shouts. Betrayal rippling through the servants like a staged revelation. Loyal fools.

  “And as such,” Arthur continued, “I hereby sentence her to death.”

  They dragged the maid up the steps and placed the noose around her neck.

  The crowd—oh, they played their roles well. Pleading. Begging. Denial in their eyes. Even Arthur wore an impressive mask of grim duty.

  But the maid?

  She didn’t look like someone about to die.

  Her calm expression. The stillness in her limbs.

  No fear.

  It was a farce. A perfect one.

  Satisfied with the setup, I dashed from behind the bush and rammed my elbow into the back of an unsuspecting guard. He yelped and stumbled forward as I yanked the sheathed sword from his belt. All eyes turned to me, stunned into silence as I approached the gallows with deliberate calm, the sword still sheathed in my hand.

  Markus stepped between me and his lord, hand on his own weapon. I smiled at him with just enough bite to make him flinch. The maid stood only a metre away, motionless as I came to a halt.

  “Why is she sentenced to death?” I asked, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes at Arthur, who remained half-hidden behind Markus.

  “For spying on a duke,” he replied firmly. “There is definite proof.”

  He said it with such conviction I had no doubt he could produce something that looked like proof.

  “Indeed,” I said slowly. “Spying is a grave offense. But there are always other ways to punish her.”

  I turned to the crowd, offering them the curve of my lips, not quite a smile. Their wide eyes followed my every movement, their faces caught somewhere between awe and fear. A vampire defending a maid? Unthinkable.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “I’m not an unkind man,” Arthur said, finally stepping out from behind his shield. “Lucinda, do you want to save her?”

  I hummed noncommittally, neither agreeing nor denying.

  He took it as a yes.

  “In that case, as long as your actions bring more benefit than her betrayal brought harm, I promise her safety.”

  I raised an eyebrow, just slightly. The crowd erupted into hopeful whispers, begging me with their eyes to accept the deal. Fools. They thought this was mercy.

  I lifted the sword high and brought it down in a clean arc, slicing through the rope tied to the gallows beam. The cord snapped. The maid gasped, stumbling off the stool as the crowd cheered. Not for me—for their merciful lord. The whole play had gone exactly as Arthur intended.

  It was a brilliant move.

  By placing the maid on the gallows, he reminded me how easily he could dispose of anyone—especially someone who shared a room with him at the wrong time. She and I had both been in his workspace. Anything he claimed she did could just as easily be pinned on me. The sofa in my room alone would be enough to manufacture some connection, some lie.

  And perhaps, more subtly, he assumed I’d grown attached. I hadn’t killed Markus, I behaved atypically for a vampire, and the maid had spent just enough time around me to seem familiar. So he offered me a deal: her life, in exchange for obedience. A noble gesture to the crowd. A leash, tightly fastened, for me.

  But his plan had two fatal flaws.

  First—his wife. Telling me it was a ruse weakened his hand, whether intentional or not. Second—the maid herself. Even if Mary hadn’t warned me, I would’ve seen it in her face the moment I got close.

  There was no fear in her eyes. No panic.

  Only satisfaction.

  The second and far more relevant flaw in Arthur’s plan was simple—almost insultingly so.

  He thought I cared. He saw me in a veil of humanness which didn′t exist.

  And that, bluntly put, was the greatest miscalculation he could’ve made.

  Yes, spying is a serious offense. Even by my standards. If the maid had truly done what he claimed, then she deserved punishment—harsh and final. Whether she was genuinely guilty or simply playing a role in his little theatre didn’t matter to me in the slightest. I had no real affection for her, no emotional investment. We shared proximity, not loyalty. And so, his grand ploy—the entire carefully crafted drama that depended on me stepping in to save her—collapsed under the weight of a single, cold truth:

  Her life held no value to me.

  As the crowd quieted and the maid turned slightly toward her master—perhaps to smile, to confirm the performance was complete—I raised my sword once more. Just as before, I brought it down swiftly and cleanly, slicing through the remainder of the rope.

  But this time, the blade did not stop.

  It continued its arc without hesitation, cutting through the soft flesh of her neck. Her expression froze, caught in a half-smile that would never reach completion. In a blink, her head separated from her shoulders and tumbled forward, landing near Arthur’s polished boots with a soft, wet thud. Her body collapsed, twitching slightly, before falling still in a pool of deep red. Blood sprayed across the polished wood of the gallows and onto my boots, soaking into the ground like ink on paper.

  A sweet scent filled my nostrils—sharp iron mingled with something floral and sickeningly human.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Utterly silent.

  I lowered the blade, now soaked and glistening crimson in the dying light. My movements were slow, reverent even, as I drove it into the earth in front of me. I dropped to my knees, bent forward, and pressed my forehead against the hilt as if in prayer.

  “As I said…” My voice trembled with a carefully measured sorrow. “I can understand why she was sentenced. If someone had spied on me, I wouldn’t have shown even this much mercy.”

  My shoulders shook with sobs I didn’t feel. “It pains me more than I can express. I thought we were becoming friends… but her betrayal was unacceptable.”

  Tears, genuine in appearance if not in origin, streamed down my cheeks. My words broke the silence just enough to stir the crowd, shifting their perception—not enough to turn them against Arthur, but enough to muddy the waters. Was I a grieving new friend forced into a terrible duty? A loyal enforcer? Or simply a monster that wore sadness like a mask?

  I didn’t need them to believe one thing.

  I just needed them confused—and afraid.

  After a long minute, I rose. The blood hadn’t yet dried on my face, and my eyes were still glistening. I looked at Arthur.

  He tried to remain composed—he truly did. He feigned a look of distant melancholy, hands clasped behind his back, but the rage in his eyes betrayed him. I had taken his piece off the board. Made his performance fall flat. And worse—I had done it on his stage.

  The crowd didn't know how to react. Their joy had curdled into unease. They had cheered for a life saved, and now stood stunned before a public execution that had not followed the script. Some cried. Others simply stared. But none applauded.

  That was all I wanted.

  To stain the narrative. To mark myself as someone unpredictable, dangerous—not to be used without consequence.

  Still sobbing, I turned away from the gallows and walked slowly back toward the mansion, leaving bloodied footprints in my wake. As I stepped inside, I wiped away the last of the tears. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of her—Mary. Standing on the second-floor balcony, her white hair unmistakable in the fading light. She had seen everything. I couldn’t read her expression from that distance, but I didn’t need to. She would be burning with questions, with urgency, with new calculations.

  And I gave her none of it.

  I didn’t go upstairs. I didn’t give her a moment. I went straight into my room and picked up my book again, flipping idly to the page I’d last read as though nothing had happened.

  The message was simple.

  I was not Arthur’s pawn.

  I was not Mary’s ally.

  I was not the canary in a cage, nor the pigeon starving in the dirt.

  I was something else entirely.

  Free—until Arthur gave me a direct order.

  And then, I would entertain him.

  For now.