Once the dust settled and the blood on the gallows began to dry, the aftermath rippled through the mansion in three distinct, undeniable ways.

  The first reaction was immediate—quiet, suffocating, and almost reverent. As I walked through the dimly lit halls of the mansion, the servants’ eyes followed me with unnerving silence. They didn’t whisper, didn’t scurry away in fear, nor approach with curiosity. They just stared.

  They weren’t sure what I was. A vampire who had wept for her victim—and beheaded her without hesitation. Was it guilt? Madness? A ploy? None of them knew. And that ambiguity suited me perfectly.

  They left me alone unless I summoned them, and even then, their service was robotic. A bottle of disgustingly tasting animal blood? Delivered with trembling hands and lowered eyes. Writing materials? Brought promptly, with no conversation. They were unsure if I was a butcher, a martyr, or something else entirely, and that uncertainty kept them exactly where I wanted them—at arm’s length, respectfully silent, and just slightly afraid.

  The second reaction belonged to Mary. And it was not silence.

  It was excitement.

  Contained, controlled, but unmistakably there in the way her eyes lingered on me with a glimmer of something like satisfaction. Maybe even admiration. For the first time since I’d arrived, someone had disrupted Arthur’s game—and it wasn’t her. Whether she couldn’t or hadn’t dared to make her move before, I didn’t know. But she watched me now as if a new piece had just entered the board and flipped the rules upside down.

  She didn’t speak to me immediately. Instead, the following day, she entered my room without knocking and—without so much as a greeting—walked straight to the bookshelf. She selected a book without hesitation and settled onto a chaise lounge across from me, cracking the spine open and beginning to read. This time, it wasn’t just for show. Her gaze scanned the pages with real attention.

  We didn’t speak for a long while. I focused on my own book, feigning disinterest in her, but I was acutely aware of her presence.

  Roughly an hour passed before she finally broke the silence.

  “The Three Heroes’ Journey… it’s a great book,” she said, her voice casual, her eyes still on the page.

  I didn’t respond right away. I had only made it through the first few chapters and already felt something was off. The world-building was vague, and worse, what little lore it contained didn’t quite align with the things I’d begun to piece together in this world. Perhaps it was outdated information… though even that might make the book useful in a twisted way.

  “Hmm,” I muttered noncommittally.

  Mary didn’t seem deterred. In fact, her tone brightened slightly, almost teasing.

  “I never took you for someone who likes romance, though.”

  My brow furrowed. Romance?

  That certainly hadn’t been in the chapters I read. At least, not yet. And the idea of such fluff being found in Arthur’s study—a place curated by a man who reeked of calculation and order—was absurd.

  “Romance?” I echoed, voice sharp with suspicion.

  She nodded, far too pleased with herself. “Yes, romance. It’s a fantasy novel about—”

  “—Fiction?” I cut her off mid-sentence, my voice a whisper laced with disbelief. The realization hit me like a slap. My eyes drifted to the cover of the book in my lap as a deep scowl formed on my face.

  Ten minutes.

  I had wasted ten entire minutes reading a fictional story—fantasy, no less—as if it would contain some hidden truths about the world of Solaris. My jaw tightened. Who in their right mind wrote made-up stories when the real world was already drowning in blood, war, and magic?

  “Yes,” Mary confirmed, biting back a grin. “You’re reading a fictional book.”

  I slammed the book shut with a snap and stared at the cover with disgust. Then, without hesitation, I hurled it across the room. It struck the stone wall with a dull thud before crumpling to the floor in a useless heap. I glared at Mary, irrationally angry, as if this entire ordeal was her fault.

  “Shit…” I hissed through clenched teeth, standing up from the sofa. “Help me sort these books out.”

  Mary remained seated, flipping another page with an exaggerated slowness. She looked up at me with a curious tilt of her head, the edge of her mouth twitching into something sly.

  “And what exactly do I get in return?”

  I didn’t have much to offer, and I doubted she expected anything material. But I wasn’t going to let her walk away without a reminder of what I’d already given.

  “I gifted you the opening chapter of the greatest performance this mansion has seen in years,” I said coolly, gesturing out toward the garden where the gallows still stood, painted in the drying blood of our little tragedy.

  “Fair enough.”

  With a certain practiced elegance, Mary rose to her feet, the motion smooth as a dancer’s bow. She walked toward the disorderly pile of books without another word, her silk gown whispering softly against the stone floor. The dim light filtered in from the high windows, casting long shadows that made her figure seem ghostlike as she knelt beside the stack. Without hesitation, she began sorting the volumes, brushing dust from the covers with delicate fingers. Her movements were methodical, revealing the habit of someone used to creating order from chaos—someone who had once clung to structure in a life that now offered her none.

  I watched in silence, observing as she began to group the books by subject. Fiction. History. Alchemy. Strategy. Theology. Fiction again.

  The fictional books were a minority among the shelves—yet their numbers still troubled me. Too many escapist dreams in a place that was meant to serve reality and power. I opened my mouth to voice a complaint, something sharp and dismissive about whoever had deemed such indulgences worth preserving. But I stopped.

  Mary’s hand had lingered over one particular book. A romance novel, its spine cracked and worn with use. She touched it gently, patting the cover with a reverence that made her look strangely vulnerable—like a child finding a relic of a lost parent. The softness of the gesture did not match the setting or the weight of what had happened just yesterday.

  “Are you envious of the women in these books?” I asked, more curious than accusatory. “The ones who find true love while you are…”

  My voice trailed off.

  Her eyes—when she looked up—were filled with a depth of sadness that seemed bottomless, like a well that had never known light. It silenced me more effectively than any retort.

  “No, not at all,” she said softly. “Arthur is a wonderful man who makes me the luckiest woman on this planet.”

  There was irony under every word, thinly veiled. Someone was listening. I was almost certain of it.

  Still, she returned to sorting without another word, rifling through the fiction stack until she pulled free a small book. Her lips curved into a faint smile—not joyous, but resolute—as she handed it to me. I hadn’t read it yet, but I knew the title. That book had answers buried in metaphor. Subtle warnings. Clever truths dressed in fantasy’s garb.

  “What about you?” she asked suddenly, tilting her head in interest. “Is there someone you love?”

  I glanced at the book, then at her. Then I lied with perfect precision.

  “In a far, far away place, out of reach for the living.”

  Let her believe my lover was dead. Let whoever was listening believe it too. It would shield the truth far more effectively than silence.

  “I’m sorry to hear that…”

  A solemn hush fell over the room, thick with unspoken things. I returned to the sofa and dropped into it with a slow exhale, opening the next book in the pile. The silence persisted—cloying and unnatural. Then Mary shattered it like glass under a heel.

  “Can you help me?”

  She didn’t whisper. Didn’t hedge her words. She asked plainly, brazenly, as though privacy were a given in this place.

  I stared at her. For a heartbeat, I wondered if she was testing me. Then I realized she simply didn’t care. If there was a spy outside that door, they heard every syllable.

  “No.”

  Even if I had wanted to help her, I wouldn’t have admitted it then. Not while Arthur’s trap was still in motion. Not without leverage.

  “I haven’t even told you what I want,” she replied, louder than before. My brows knit together. Her recklessness was disturbing. Either she had a plan I couldn’t see, or she was actively inviting her own downfall.

  “It’s obvious what you want. And my answer is still no. You have nothing to offer.”

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  My voice was like frost on glass.

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in quiet defiance. “I’m a duchess.”

  I almost laughed. Almost.

  “Only in name,” I replied coldly. “You’re a canary in a gilded cage. Lovely to look at, easy to ignore.”

  Her lip trembled for a moment. Whether it was frustration, shame, or the sting of truth, I couldn’t tell. But she pushed on, undeterred.

  “But what about after? After you help me?”

  “Then you’ll hold Arthur’s power. And nothing would change for me. I’d simply trade one master for another.”

  I closed the book with a snap. “Your freedom means nothing if it just ends up shackling me differently. And besides, I have already sworn my loyalty.”

  She looked stricken for a moment, her expression wavering as she searched for anything—anything—she could offer in return. But she found nothing.

  “I…”

  “I believe in two types of relationships,” I said, standing slowly, meeting her gaze with the weight of everything I had endured. “The first is where both parties hold equal power.”

  I stepped closer, voice dropping just slightly. “You won’t benefit from keeping me around once your chains are broken. And I won’t benefit from breaking them without a guarantee you won’t replace them with new ones. Betrayal, Mary, would be the only logical outcome.”

  The silence that followed was heavier than before. She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She only stood there, clutching the romance novel against her chest as if it held answers she had forgotten how to find.

  And I returned to my reading, waiting for her to leave, knowing the game between us had only just begun.

  “And the other type of relationship?” she asked, her voice light—almost playful—but beneath that levity was a sharp edge of curiosity, maybe even desperation.

  I allowed myself a grin at her boldness, amused by how quickly she was trying to unravel me. But I shook my head nonetheless. She wouldn't get that answer. Not yet. The second type of relationship—the one that truly mattered—was a card I wasn’t ready to play.

  “…someday, I may answer that question,” I said slowly, deliberately, choosing each word as if they might be etched into stone. “But not now.”

  My gaze sharpened as I looked at her, and I let the levity drain from my voice, replacing it with a grounded, cold truth.

  “You see, it’s not just about the likelihood of betrayal. There’s also the matter of trust… and I’m not convinced yet that you would be a better ruler than Arthur. And so”—I leaned forward, making sure to pronounce my next words vividly — “I’m taking the safer bet.”

  A flicker of tension moved across her face, but she held my gaze steadily.

  “If you survive for several months after this conversation,” I continued, my voice a now way quieter, “…then perhaps things may change.”

  I didn’t need to explain what I meant. She understood. Her survival was no longer just in Arthur’s hands—it was also a test, a barometer for her worth in my eyes.

  In truth, I had already begun leaning slightly in her favor. It wasn’t that she had impressed me with her courage, or even her boldness. No—it was simply that she wasn’t Arthur.

  That alone carried weight.

  Arthur had everything—authority, fear, control—but Mary? Mary was a flaw in his design, an element he couldn’t quite suppress or eliminate without consequence. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder why she still lived. He had no use for her politically; his power was absolute. Her body was the only asset of value to him now, and still, he hadn’t moved to create a successor. That suggested something disturbing—either he didn’t need an heir, or he didn’t intend for this story to have a future.

  So yes, Mary’s life was in danger now. Her rebellion—however quiet and fragile—was a spark. And Arthur would sooner drown the world in blood than let a spark become fire.

  I, on the other hand, still held value. I’d shown I could fight Markus to a draw—perhaps even defeat him. I was an asset in the darkness of night, a strategic tool in a game of shadows. I was useful. And the useful survive.

  Mary, perhaps realizing the full weight of her position, gave me a bitter smile. It was the kind of smile one makes in front of a drawn sword—graceful, resigned, but still stubbornly proud. She understood the terms I had set. She could either fade quietly beneath Arthur’s thumb, a slow death by poison or political asphyxiation—or she could endure what hell was coming for her and find a way to rise through it.

  There was no glory in either option. Only suffering. But one of them had potential.

  “Is there anything I can do to improve my chances?”

  This time, she whispered. Her lips brushed close to my ear, her breath barely a whisper on my skin. She had learned quickly; the question was for me alone.

  I turned my head, locking eyes with her from an uncomfortably close distance. There was intelligence there. Caution. And now—resolve.

  “I wonder…” I mused, drawing the moment out as I reached behind a pillow at my side. My fingers found the slip of paper I had hidden earlier, the one I had prepared for this exact contingency.

  I studied it one last time, then held it between two fingers and presented it to her.

  One sentence. Nothing more.

  “Failure is not an option.”

  Mary raised a single eyebrow. She didn’t speak, didn’t scoff or question me. She only read it once more, then looked at me as though trying to read the spaces between the letters. She couldn’t know what I was planning—no one could. That was the point. All she had to do was survive. Survive and prove her value.

  The rest would follow.

  Then, without warning, she shifted.

  Her posture stiffened, and a theatrical scowl crossed her face. She stepped back from me and narrowed her eyes with convincing disdain.

  “You foolishly rejected my offer,” she said with venom that rang beautifully hollow. “I could have given you gold, power—anything you desired. I’m utterly disappointed.”

  It was a performance, and a clever one. A signal for any watching eyes or listening ears. But I wasn’t prepared for her next move.

  She stormed toward the door with such speed and fury that I had to leap to my feet, one hand outstretched.

  “Wait—!”

  She reached the door and placed her hand on the handle.

  I froze. My ears strained.

  Silence.

  Not even a breath beyond the threshold. No footsteps. No rustle of cloth. Either the spy was incredibly well-trained… or there was no one there at all.

  I stepped closer to her and spoke barely above a breath.

  “Make sure to play your role perfectly, will you?”

  She paused. And for a moment, her hand lingered on the handle as if considering the weight of the game we had both just stepped into.

  Then, without another word, she opened the door and walked out—graceful, poised, and utterly composed. A duchess in chains who had just agreed, in silence, to begin rattling them.She burst out of the room like a storm barely contained by human skin—head held high, steps sharp with indignation. To any passing servant or watching spy, she must have looked furious, slighted, humiliated even. But I had seen something else in her eyes, something that flickered just beneath the surface of that carefully crafted fury.

  Excitement.

  A spark had been lit. And now it was beginning to burn.

  The desire in her gaze was unmistakable—raw, reckless, and painful in its clarity. It was the yearning for freedom, the kind that claws at your ribs in the dead of night, whispering lies and truths in equal measure. I knew it too well. I had lived with it for decades, perhaps longer. But the question remained: would she be willing to pay the cost of the particular freedom I was offering her?

  Because freedom, despite all its poetic allure, was never free. And the price I had in mind was steep—steep enough to break bones and crack illusions.

  Satisfied with the moment’s outcome, I let the silence settle once more in the room. I turned my attention back to the book I had been holding, its pages still slightly warm from my grip.

  It was a peculiar tale.

  A prince—blinded not by love or loyalty, but by greed—had murdered his own parents in cold blood, desperate to snatch the throne just a few years ahead of schedule. He believed himself a visionary, a genius of ambition. His reward was a kingdom and a queen—a princess from a foreign empire whom he married not out of affection, but to extend his reach, to tether her land and bloodline to his own power.

  And yet, in the end, it was she who stood victorious.

  The prince died not in war or on the gallows, but in the luxury of his own bed, his heart pierced by the cold steel of a dagger driven into his chest again and again. His killer was none other than the foreign princess—the loyal wife who had smiled beside him at every banquet, nodded dutifully through his decrees, and vowed herself to him in the eyes of gods and men. She had waited until the moment was right, until his paranoia had dulled and his cruelty had become routine. Then she ended him—not for revenge, but for mercy.

  Not for herself, but for her people.

  The first two chapters had played out as a tragedy, sharp and bleak, soaked in betrayal and misplaced trust. But then the third chapter arrived with an entirely different tone—a handsome male lead swooping in to ‘save’ the widowed princess, to rebuild her reputation and gently guide her into a new life. The story morphed into something sentimental, and sickeningly so. Romance bloomed where blood had once run thick.

  I stared at the pages for a moment longer, letting the absurdity of it all sink in. Then I closed the book with deliberate care.

  “Romantic redemption,” I muttered to myself, disgust curling in my voice. “How quaint.”

  I tossed the book into the growing pile of fiction with a flick of my wrist, and it landed with a dull thud—right on top of the others I had already discarded. I'd read enough. The tragedy was useful; the sentimentality, less so.

  I had no interest in a story that tried to rewrite violence as a stepping stone to love. I didn’t need fantasies. I already lived among monsters, dressed in silks and titles. I had no use for fiction that tried to turn knives into wedding rings.

  I leaned back against the sofa and let the silence embrace me again. Somewhere in the mansion, Mary would now be navigating her own chapter—hers just beginning. Whether she would write it in blood or ink was entirely up to her.

  But one way or another, she would learn: Freedom, when offered by someone like me, always comes with sharp edges and shackles.