Chapter 1

The curtains parted, and morning light slipped through her heavy eyelids. She grimaced, trying to burrow deeper under the blankets, but a familiar hand settled firmly on her shoulder.

“Miss Ariana. It’s morning.”

It was Sovie’s voice. Even, calm, as always. No pleading. Just a plain fact.

Ariana didn’t answer. Five more minutes. Or ten. Or until the light died.

The second knock was firmer. Not on the door, but on the wooden bedframe, inches from her ear.

“The Master arrives this afternoon. You must prepare.”

Ariana cracked one eye open. Sovie stood beside the bed, her white apron pristine even at this hour. Behind her, a quiet stream of servants moved about the room in practiced rhythm, throwing open windows, straightening the vanity, setting out warm water. Sunlight swelled across the room, catching specks of dust suspended in the air.

She raised a limp hand toward the door. Go. I’m getting up.

Sovie didn’t move right away. Her gaze lingered longer than usual. Normally, it took a fight—protests, complaints, or Ariana burying herself back under the covers. Today, there was only that weary wave.

“Very well, Miss,” Sovie said at last. Her tone shifted slightly not relieved, but watchful.

As she turned toward the closet, the maids quickened their pace, pulling the curtains wide to let the still-chilly morning air flood the room.

Ariana sat up slowly. The blanket was still wrapped around her waist. Her head felt heavy. She watched Sovie’s back as she picked out clothes, then looked toward the window, now standing wide open.

The garden below was too green, too bright.

She sighed. Today felt different—or maybe she just hadn’t had the energy to pretend to be asleep a little longer.

Sovie glanced over and nodded once. Two maids stepped forward at once, bathrobes in hand. Ariana rose in silence, her legs heavy as her bare feet touched the wooden floor. Taking short, measured steps, she made her way toward the bathroom beside the closet.

The moment the bathroom door closed, the bedroom shifted into motion.

The servants moved swiftly and silently. Curtains were adjusted to keep the morning light from becoming too harsh. The sheets were smoothed and tucked into place.

When Ariana stepped back out, a wisp of steam trailed behind her, damp hair clinging to her neck. Sovie stood at the center of the room, speaking in a low, firm voice. Every instruction was answered with a quick nod. No one asked questions.

One maid draped a towel over Ariana’s shoulders while another guided her to sit on the edge of the freshly made bed. Clothes were layered onto her one by one. She lifted her arms or turned when told. She did not resist, yet she offered no more help than required.

Sovie watched from the side, occasionally stepping forward to adjust a fold of fabric at Ariana’s waist with her own fingers.

When everything was in place, Ariana was led to the dressing table.

The ends of her hair were still cool from the bath. A young maid stood behind her and began carefully combing through the damp strands.

“Your hair’s grown longer, Miss,” the maid said softly, adjusting the fabric collar. “Would you like to try the Lune d’Argent style?”

Ariana didn’t answer. She simply stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was still pale. Her eyes were slightly puffy.

Sovie, who had been standing by the window, stepped closer.

“That’s enough,” she said.

The maid stopped immediately. Sovie took the comb from her hand without a word.

“You can all leave. Everyone.”

The servants glanced at one another briefly, then bowed and left the room one by one. The door closed softly.

Now it was just the two of them.

Standing behind Ariana, Sovie ran the comb through her hair in slow, measured strokes.

“How did you sleep last night, Miss?”

“As usual.”

“Dream again?”

Ariana paused. “No.”

Sovie gave a slight nod, accepting the answer without further inquiry. The rhythmic pull of the comb never faltered.

“What would you like for breakfast, Miss?”

“Just something simple. Eggs. Coffee. Bread.”

“A book?”

“Bring the one from yesterday. The history of the Empire.”

Sovie caught Ariana’s reflection in the mirror. “You usually ask for more.”

Ariana gave a slight shrug. “Not today.”

Sovie paused. Her hand came to rest at the ends of Ariana’s hair.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Miss?”

Ariana looked into Sovie’s eyes through the mirror.

“I want to be alone today. No classes. No meetings. No one.”

She hesitated.

“If possible… don’t let me see Father either.”

Sovie didn’t answer right away. She simply resumed combing, this time more gently.

“I hear you,” she said finally. Her voice remained even. “But the Master came especially.”

Ariana looked away from the mirror. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the vanity table.

“I know.”

Sovie gazed at Ariana’s face for a long moment. Setting the comb aside, she pulled a colored ribbon from the drawer, her eyes never leaving Ariana’s reflection.

Her fingers smoothed the ends of Ariana’s dark hair before gathering it. With careful movements, she tied it into a low ponytail and fastened the ribbon, adjusting the fall of it once more.

“You could ask to postpone your debut,” Sovie said softly. “Until you turn eighteen. Many do. It is often seen as a sign of maturity.”

Ariana remained silent, staring at their shared reflection.

Then Sovie leaned in.

No respectful bow. She came closer—far too close—until her breath brushed against Ariana’s ear. A faint shudder ran through her.

It was a distance no maid should have crossed.

Ariana stiffened. She wanted to turn her head, but her body refused to move. In the mirror, their faces aligned in stark clarity, framed by a room that suddenly seemed darker, as though the morning light had passed them by.

“Happy birthday, Miss,” Sovie whispered.

Her voice was barely a whisper, scarcely her own.

Sovie stepped back.

Her movements were easy, as if nothing had happened. She straightened, her expression composed, her hands folded neatly in front of her apron.

Ariana turned her head sharply, but Sovie was already several steps away, standing by the door.

“The waitstaff will bring breakfast and the book right here,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Excuse me, Miss.”

With a formal bow, she slipped out. The door shut with a soft click.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Ariana remained seated in front of the mirror. Slowly, she raised a hand and touched the earlobe Sovie’s breath had brushed.

Cold.

She stared at her reflection. One hand absently rubbed the fingers of the other.

Sovie’s words replayed in her mind.

Sovie left Ariana’s private quarters at an unhurried pace. In the main hallway, the mansion was already awake.

She could hear the sounds from the floor below before she reached the stairs: the clink of utensils, short commands, the steady rhythm of footsteps moving through the house.

As she passed, heads dipped briefly. Sovie returned each gesture with a small nod and did not slow.

The main kitchen held a thin haze of smoke and the scent of spices still blooming. Chefs moved between long tables stacked with ingredients brought in fresh from the estate.

Alongside the tables, trays for the rest of the family were being prepared. A voice called out names and pointed.

“For Miss Eliane—something light. She said she has little appetite this morning.”

“Mr. Viktor wants a thin steak and sunny-side eggs. Don’t overcook them.”

“Miss Celine... the usual. Fruit and yogurt.”

The names were spoken without weight. Just items on a list. Sovie gave no reply. She had heard enough.

She stopped in the doorway. The head chef turned at once and signaled to his staff.

“Ah, Sovie.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “Her breakfast is nearly ready.”

Sovie walked to the small table in the corner. On a polished silver tray sat a simple arrangement: scrambled eggs still faintly steaming, two slices of toast the exact shade of gold, a small dish of jam, and a tightly lidded coffee pot.

Nothing more.

Yet every piece was placed with the same care given to formal service.

She looked at the tray for a moment, then at the head chef.

He was a broad man whose arms still carried the muscle of years at the stove.

“The eggs aren’t dry. The coffee isn’t too sweet. The bread is from this morning’s dough.”

Sovie nodded.

“Good.”

A young waiter stood near the door, hands folded.

Sovie turned to him.

“Take this to Miss Ariana’s room. At once. Don’t let it cool.”

The waiter bowed, received the tray with care, and left without a word.

She had barely stepped out when the head chef intercepted her.

“Sovie, a moment.”

Sovie stopped. The chef lowered his voice.

“We may need to adjust the lunch menu. Inform the butler, will you? The primary shipments haven’t arrived.”

Sovie’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

Wiping the sheen of sweat from his neck, the chef cleared his throat.

“I haven’t read the morning paper yet, but one of the boys mentioned a reroute from the Karsel Region to Norwyn Valley. The freight train was delayed.”

Sovie gave a single nod.

“Alternatives?”

“Prepared. Fresh stock from the Grisel Coast. The texture differs slightly, but the quality meets the specification.”

“Very well. I’ll inform him.”

She left the kitchen, stepping into a hallway busier than before. She had taken only a few strides when a young server approached, hesitation in his eyes.

“Sovie... the library key is missing.”

Sovie stopped. Her gaze sharpened.

“Who had it last?”

The server faltered, searching his memory.

“Ah... he was supposed to arrive by now, but he’s late.”

“Fetch the spare key from the butler. Now.”

The boy bowed quickly and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Sovie’s eyes held him in place.

“Tell him the train is delayed.”

The server nodded hurriedly and quickened his pace down the hall.

Sovie stood still for a beat, her composure tightening. She pulled a brass pocket watch from her apron, flipped the lid open, then snapped it shut with a crisp click.

Ariana should have received her breakfast by now.

And her book.

Her eyes caught a familiar figure near the end of the corridor—a young waitress known to carry novels in her spare time. Sovie approached, her cold focus settling into its usual pleasant composure.

“Do you have a moment?”

The girl turned, immediately straightening her posture.

“Of course, Sovie.”

“Do you have your novel with you today?”

The girl blinked, taking a second to process the request.

“...Yes.”

“Bring it to me,” Sovie said gently.

Ariana was cutting into her eggs when the door slipped open.

Sovie entered with her usual quiet grace, carrying a volume bound in blue fabric. She set it on the edge of the table, just beside the breakfast tray.

Ariana glanced at the book, then up at Sovie, her brow knitting slightly.

“This is not what I asked for.”

Sovie stood beside the table, her hands neatly clasped in front of her.

“A minor complication,” she replied smoothly. “The library remains inaccessible this morning. I brought an alternative for the time being.”

Ariana offered no reply. Without a single follow-up question, she returned to her meal, finishing it with quiet, methodical focus.

She set her cutlery down with deliberate care, dabbed the corner of her lips with a linen napkin, and pushed the tray slightly aside. Only then did she pick up the book.

A single glance at the cover told her everything.

This was no dusty chronicle or imperial history.

It was a novel.

Ariana settled into her usual reading posture—back straight, book resting in one hand, elbow anchored lightly against the table.

Yet something in her demeanor shifted.

She was accustomed to dense chronicles and austere histories, where facts kept their distance and demanded nothing of her. These words offered no such mercy. Her eyes moved across the lines with an unusual intensity, as though each sentence were pulling her into unfamiliar territory—a place where thought blurred into raw, uninvited sensation.

The text no longer felt like information.

It felt like a mirror.

Her left fingers, usually still, began tapping against the wood in a quick, uneven rhythm.

Near the window, Sovie watched her without moving.

“Is it to your liking, Miss?” Sovie asked softly.

Ariana did not look up. Her gaze remained pinned to the page.

“Yes,” she murmured.

Then, after a long pause, her voice dropped into a hesitant, almost fragile tone.

“Must affection always feel so suffocating?”

Sovie went still.

Slowly, her hand rose to smooth the crisp collar of her apron. Her fingers lingered a moment too long as she adjusted the fabric at her waist. The gesture was ordinary, yet carried an uncharacteristic delay.

“Perhaps,” Sovie replied softly.

Silence settled between them. It was not comfortable—only a pause that had lasted too long.

Ariana kept her eyes on the page. Her tapping fingers had gone still, and her rigid shoulders had eased just enough to soften her usual posture. Beside her, Sovie stood perfectly upright again, her face smooth and unreadable, as though the question had never been asked.

A knock broke the quiet.

“Miss Ariana,” a servant called from the corridor. “The library is open. I have brought the volume you requested earlier.”

Sovie glanced at the door, then back at Ariana. Her voice came a fraction quicker than usual—enough to make Ariana look up.

“Do you still want the book you asked for,” Sovie said, “or something else?”

Ariana hesitated. She looked down at the open novel, reading a few lines as though searching for an answer. Her face gave nothing away.

“Another one,” she said at last. “Something similar.”

Sovie nodded once. She turned toward the doorway and spoke to the waiting servant.

“Find Miss Ariana another volume like this. Immediately.”

Then, more quietly, she added, “Ask Senja Slovatzky for a recommendation.”

The servant blinked, a brief flicker of confusion crossing her face, then bowed and hurried away.

Sovie drew her pocket watch from her apron, opened the lid for only a second, and snapped it shut.

She gave Ariana one final, measured look.