The third type of reaction to the beheading incident was far more complex—less immediate outrage or quiet horror, and more a volatile cocktail of restrained fury and unexpected fear. And it manifested in only one man.

  Arthur.

  He didn’t storm into my room alone, which already told me more than his words ever could. Flanking him like a shadow was Markus—his usual swagger replaced with a watchful stillness, his fingers hovering just shy of the hilt at his side. Silent. Sober. That last detail unsettled me more than Arthur’s presence.

  I didn’t bother getting up.

  Lying on my stomach, I lazily flipped through the pages of a thick, dusty tome—its subject was taxonomy, the cataloging of the countless sentient and semi-sentient species that populated this world. I let the quiet stretch just a beat too long, then lifted my chin with a mild smile, as if their presence was nothing more than a breeze interrupting my leisure.

  "How can I help the two esteemed gentlemen this fine afternoon?" I asked, voice coated in silk and innocence.

  Arthur’s nostrils flared, and I saw the tension ripple through his jaw like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.

  “I suppose you understand that all actions have consequences?” he asked sharply.

  "Of course," I replied airily, flipping another page with a delicate flick. "If one steps on a butterfly… well, then there’s one less butterfly in the world."

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t remember you finding that amusing when you kicked Markus in the face.”

  "Odd," I mused, "but I recall no dire consequence from that either. He’s still breathing, isn’t he?" I smiled over the edge of the book. "Sometimes the death of the butterfly just is—nothing more, nothing less."

  Arthur's face twitched. His mask of authority was cracking, revealing something messier beneath. He was rattled. Not just angry. And not of me, I realized, but of what my unexpected behaviour meant. That someone in his castle had acted with unrestrained will. That someone chose to act without his permission and would do so again. As long as it did not contradict his direct orders, that is.

  “She was sentenced to death,” I continued calmly, “and I carried out the sentence. A simple act of justice.”

  “Justice?” he snapped, his voice rising with raw emotion. “Justice?! She could have lived if—”

  “—If you had spared her,” I interrupted softly, tilting my head. “You, the man who claims dominion over life and death, who sits just beneath the king. A lowly vampire like me cannot override such decisions. I merely served you as a beast should serve its master. You condemned her. I carried it out.”

  The venom behind my smile made his expression twist. There it was. Pain. Guilt. And beneath it, something even more telling—attachment.

  Ah. So that’s what this is about.

  The maid had meant something to him, however fleeting or carnal or foolish. Perhaps she made him feel human. Perhaps she reminded him he still had a heart.

  He clenched his fists and turned abruptly, retreating toward the door in a storm of suppressed rage.

  “This will have consequences,” he growled without looking back.

  I set my book aside, letting it fall shut with a soft thump, and rose to my knees atop the bed.

  “No, it won’t,” I said coolly. “You know it, and so do I. I’m not just another creature skulking through your hallways. I’m useful. Dangerous. Efficient. I can slit a man’s throat in the dark or charm my way into the enemy’s bed. You don’t have many pieces like me on your board, Arthur. So let’s not pretend we’re playing a different game.”

  He paused in the doorway but didn’t turn.

  “I will follow your orders,” I continued, my voice low and deliberate, “because it benefits me to do so. But don’t mistake obedience for fear. I protect myself first and foremost. And I strongly suggest you don’t threaten me again—if you’re hoping to build something even resembling a functional relationship. But if you leave it be, I promise I will be your best toy available.”

  There was a silence—thick, brittle.

  Then came the question, quiet, but razor-sharp:

  “I heard you’re conspiring with my wife. Is that true?”

  Ah. So the ears pressed to walls had not lied. I leaned back slightly, letting my body relax again. The fact that Mary had been detected only slightly surprised me. She wasn’t as subtle as she thought—but she was learning.

  “She tried,” I admitted. “But you heard what the prophet said. I owe my allegiance to the one who saved me. That would be you.”

  Arthur remained frozen in the doorway, his fingers flexing slightly at his sides. He didn’t fully trust my answer, not yet.

  “Then why kill the maid?” he asked, voice harder now. “If not to impress my wife?”

  “To show you,” I said, standing now, letting the truth lace through my words with precision, “that I can choose. That I’m not some mindless brute, swinging a sword wherever you point. I’m capable of thought, of intention, of unrestrained brutality—qualities sorely lacking in most who claim to be warriors.”

  I turned my eyes to Markus, who stood still as a statue.

  “Right, Markus?”

  The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close to it. Perhaps the smallest concession to the truth in my words.

  Without replying, he stepped forward and crossed the threshold, Markus following just a step behind.

  And just before the heavy door shut, Arthur's voice cut through the narrowing gap:

  “We march to war in two weeks. You’ll be with us.“ And with that, he left me alone in the room.

  I ran a hand through my hair, eyes drifting over the tower of unread books stacked precariously on the table beside me. The sheer volume was daunting—spines cracked but pages untouched, tomes filled with knowledge about a world I barely understood. Two weeks. That was all I had. Barely enough time to scratch the surface, and yet... perhaps just enough to dig deeper than most.

  At least, I could count on some solitude. Arthur wouldn’t bother me; he had made his declaration and left in a flurry of arrogance and fury. He wouldn’t risk another confrontation too soon. As for Mary—well, she had far more pressing matters to worry about. Survival being chief among them. And if she were clever enough to make use of the instructions I’d given her, the absence of watchful eyes once we departed would only make her mission easier. That, at least, I could hope for.

  Which left me with what I craved: uninterrupted hours to devour knowledge, to understand this world's tangled politics, species, cultures—and perhaps, most importantly, its flaws.

  I was just reaching for a particularly dense volume on mythic bloodlines and ancient elven wars when the door creaked open. Without even looking up, a sigh slipped from my lips, the beginnings of a frown tugging at my mouth.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I did look up, however, when a glove landed with a soft thud on the floor between us.

  Markus stood in the doorway, eyes locked onto mine, jaw tight, shoulders squared with the kind of tension that screamed challenge. I blinked slowly, my annoyance sharpening into something more calculating.

  He had thrown down a gauntlet. Literally.

  I stared at the glove, then at him. He wasn’t joking. He didn’t speak, didn’t posture. Just turned on his heel and strode out of the room like this was some noble tale from a romanticised past and not the absurd power-play it clearly was.

  “What are you thinking?” I called after him, irritation blooming into incredulity. “Are you even thinking?”

  He didn’t respond. The door shut with a soft click, leaving me alone with the glove, which now felt more like a curse than a simple object.

  I sat back slowly, letting the weight of the situation settle. This challenge served no one—not Arthur, not Markus, and certainly not me. It was irrational, emotional, and dangerously public, which made it all the more difficult. Because while I could handle Markus in theory, the real problem wasn’t the fight itself.

  It was the implications.

  If I lost, I’d lose more than just credibility—I’d lose my standing with Arthur. I was supposed to be an asset, something rare and valuable. Losing to Markus would make me replaceable.

  But winning was just as problematic.

  If I showed too much, revealed too many of the cards I still had hidden, I’d become a threat in everyone’s eyes. And Markus, wounded in pride and boiling in jealousy, would become even more unstable. He might survive the fight, but he’d never forgive me for humiliating him—and that kind of resentment was poison in the battlefield’s chaos.

  I exhaled slowly. Markus was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. A brute force type. But brute force, when cornered, was unpredictable.

  Tactics wouldn’t help me here. I didn’t know his fighting style well enough to plan. So my only option was to improvise. React, adjust, and keep just enough hidden.

  Resigned, I returned to my reading.

  The book was an outdated, meandering exploration of elven customs—dense and heavily biased, especially toward humans, who the author clearly adored with a fervour bordering on fanatical. The section on elven aesthetics was conspicuously missing, as if the writer had either forgotten, or more likely, lacked the vocabulary to describe beauty beyond human comprehension. The beaver-like creatures, organized in tribal units and obsessed with moonlit rituals and dams, were admittedly more entertaining.

  I had just reached a chapter titled "The True Purpose of Humankind"—undoubtedly a masterpiece of pompous rhetoric—when a knock echoed from the door.

  At least someone in this place remembered basic civility.

  Expecting no one, I straightened slightly as the door creaked open to reveal not an enemy or familiar figure, but a nervous-looking maid. She clutched a small chest in her arms, her knuckles pale, and her bottom lip already raw from chewing on it.

  "Can I help you with something?" I asked, keeping my tone light but my smile guarded.

  The maid dipped a shaky curtsy. “I—I’m here to deliver your new clothing.”

  My smile twitched. I hadn’t asked for new clothes. The white dress I currently wore was already a compromise—stark, sterile, and a far cry from my preferred shades of deep crimson and black. White was vulnerability. White was silence and surrender. White was disgusting. I wore it only because I had to. More of it was not welcome.

  “I don’t recall requesting anything,” I said, eyes narrowing slightly. “What about the dress I arrived in?”

  She swallowed hard. “It has been… burnt.”

  My smile vanished, just for a second. My patience teetered.

  Burnt. Not discarded. Not cleaned. Burnt.

  A message.

  Still, I forced my smile back into place. “I see,” I said, tone now laced with steel beneath the sugar. “And I suppose I’m meant to be grateful?”

  “I—I was ordered to make sure you wear this,” she stammered.

  She stepped forward and placed the chest gently in front of the sofa like it was an offering to a deity she didn’t want to anger. Then she stood there awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, not quite meeting my eyes.

  I blinked at her, once, twice. Was she expecting praise? An invitation? Tears of joy?

  “Well,” I said finally, brushing non-existent dust from my lap. “You’ve delivered it. Your task is complete.”

  I eyed the chest warily. Whatever was inside, it wasn’t meant for comfort. It was meant to transform—to reshape me into something that fit Arthur’s narrative. The white dress had been symbolic. This one would likely be worse.

  But for now, I turned back to my book, letting the chest sit unopened on the floor.

  There were still a few hours of quiet left. And too many pages to waste them.

  “You may leave if you want,” I said, my voice light but edged with confusion.

  She didn’t move. Not a step, not a twitch—just stood there, hands awkwardly clasped in front of her, eyes nervously flicking between me and the chest she had placed on the floor, as though half-expecting it to come alive and swallow us both. Was she really waiting for me to change right there in front of her?

  The silence dragged on a beat too long, and I arched a brow, trying not to let my irritation show. Admire her courage all I wanted—her refusal to take the obvious out confused me more than anything. Did she really think I needed someone to button my dress like a porcelain doll?

  Checking on me in half an hour would have sufficed.

  “No, no!” she blurted suddenly, eyes widening as she seemed to register my discomfort. “I—I’m terribly sorry! I just thought… perhaps you might need help to bathe.”

  Her words struck me like a sudden gust of icy wind. My right hand, almost instinctively, pressed against my chest where the invisible claw of old fear took hold. The thought of water—real water, touching my skin, rushing over my limbs—uncoiled something deep and unpleasant in my mind.

  I smiled anyway. Because fear made people weak. And weakness invited questions.

  But as I suppressed the cold shiver crawling up my spine, I noticed how the maid’s nervousness only deepened in response. My forced smile, it seemed, was making things worse.

  “Please stop thinking,” I said before I could stop myself. The words came out flat, far too sharp.

  She blinked, startled.

  I froze. That wasn’t what I meant to say.

  Swallowing the frustration, I quickly adjusted my tone, softening it with a breathy chuckle. “That came out terribly wrong, didn’t it?” I offered, tilting my head slightly in mock embarrassment. “What I meant was—thank you. I appreciate your consideration. But truly, there’s no need to overthink this. I’m not a noble. I don’t expect servants to attend to my every move.”

  She seemed caught off guard, uncertain if I was mocking her or being sincere.

  “I mean it,” I added more gently. “You and I have more in common than I’ll ever have with someone like the lord.”

  That seemed to land. She relaxed, just a little. Her grip on her own fingers loosened, and she gave a hesitant nod.

  “Uhm… I’ll wait just outside while you change, then,” she offered, gesturing toward the hallway. “Feel free to call if you… need help with anything.”

  I nodded, silently thankful that she’d taken the cue. As soon as the door closed behind her, I let my smile drop and exhaled slowly.

  “Stupid Arthur,” I muttered under my breath. “Just give me my dress back.”

  The current garment I wore—thin, pale, and obviously meant for sleeping—was hardly appropriate for much else. As much as I hated the idea, I had no choice but to put on whatever he had deemed suitable this time.

  With a resigned sigh, I opened the chest.

  The moment I laid eyes on its contents, the frustration boiled over. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the overly intricate, ceremonial-looking attire inside—something far too elaborate to be practical, and far too white to be anything other than another symbol of ownership. Soft embroidery, stiff bodice, unnecessarily delicate fabrics. It was a declaration, not an outfit.

  I was done.

  Mouth twitching with barely restrained contempt, I walked back to the door and flung it open with theatrical calm. The maid turned quickly, startled by the sudden motion, but before she could say anything, I greeted her with a radiant, utterly disingenuous smile.

  “Would you be so kind as to come in?” I asked sweetly, every word dipped in syrup. “It seems I may, after all, require some assistance.”