The palace at night lost its warm golden light, replaced by long shadows and quiet whispers. Torchlight guttered in iron sconces, illuminating the marble corridors stretched like the ribcage of some ancient, slumbering beast. You had wandered further than you intended, past the great hall and the library, into a wing where the air tasted of dust and old magic. And there, at the end of a long gallery lined with statues of forgotten figures, you saw her.

She stood with her back to you, tall and broad-shouldered, her powerful frame silhouetted against the pale blue glow that seeped from the collar of her maid uniform. A feather duster moved in slow, methodical arcs across the stone face of a long-dead lord, and for a moment, you thought nothing of it—just another servant tending to the endless chores of the palace. Then you noticed the way the light flickered, not from a lantern, but from the hollow space above her shoulders, where blue flames licked upward like hungry tongues.

And beneath her left arm, tucked casually against her hip as if it were nothing more than a loaf of bread, she carried her own head.

The head was facing away from you, its bright red ponytail swaying gently with each movement of the body. The body seemed almost cheerful—her hips swaying slightly as she dusted, her free hand occasionally patting the statue's shoulder as if congratulating it on a job well done.

The body suddenly stopped mid-motion. It turned slowly, the head still tucked under its arm, and for a heartbeat, you were staring at the empty space where a face should have been—just that eerie blue flame, flickering in the dark. Then, with a casual grace that bordered on theatrical, the body lifted the head and held it out in front of its chest, turning it so that those pale blue eyes could fix on you. The head blinked once, then broke into a wide, mischievous grin.

"Well, well, well," the head said, her voice smooth and lilting, with just a hint of mockery. "New blood, huh? And wandering the halls all alone at this hour. Either you're very brave or very lost. Which is it, sweetheart?"

The body, still holding her aloft, gave a little shrug. Then it shifted its weight, one hip cocked, and offered you a slow, deliberate thumbs-up. The head rolled her eyes. "Ignore her, please. We don't get many visitors, you see. Most people run the other way when they see a headless maid." She paused, her grin widening. "Can't imagine why."

The body set the head down on the edge of a nearby pedestal, then clasped its hands together and tilted its torso in a gesture that was unmistakably pleading. The head sighed, a long, exaggerated sound.

"She wants to know if you'll stay and chat. She's very lonely, you know. Well, we're very lonely. It's hard to make friends when half of you is dead and the other half is too." The body nodded vigorously, even without a head, then pointed at you, then at itself, then made a heart shape with its hands. The head groaned. "Oh, for the love of—you are not getting a hug, you absolute buffoon. We just met them." But the body was already stepping closer, its movements eager, almost puppyish, and the head, still perched on the pedestal, watched you with those glowing eyes, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and genuine curiosity.

"So," the head said, her tone softening just a fraction, "what brings you to our little corner of the court? Looking for a late-night snack? A secret passage? Or just hoping to meet the infamous dullahan and see if the stories are true?" She winked, a gesture that was oddly charming despite the circumstances. "I must warn you, though. If you give her any attention, she will follow you around like a lost puppy." The body, now standing just a few feet away, her hands held together as if begging you to stay.

You had taken a wrong turn somewhere near the west wing and found yourself in a narrow gallery lined with portraits of stern-faced nobles and long-dead heroes.

You heard chattering at the end of the hallway and walked on. You found the Dullahan maid with her broad back to you, balancing precariously on a wooden chair that creaked ominously beneath her weight.

She was reaching up to dust a portrait of a severe-looking man with a hawk on his shoulder. Her powerful arms stretched high above her head, the pleated black skirt riding up just enough to reveal the tops of her white stockings. Blue fire flickered from the hollow space above her shoulders, casting strange, dancing shadows across the walls. Her body swayed slightly as she stretched, the chair wobbling in a way that made your stomach clench.

On the table beside a candle, resting on a small velvet cushion as if it were a treasured artifact, sat her severed head. The head was watching the body with an expression of profound exasperation, her pale blue eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You're going to fall," the head said flatly, her voice carrying easily in the quiet hall. The body paused mid-swipe, then resumed dusting with exaggerated nonchalance, one hand waving dismissively in the head's direction. The head rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't you wave at me. I can see your ankles wobbling from here, you overgrown turkey."

The body, still balancing on the chair, twisted its torso just enough to flip her off without missing a beat of her dusting rhythm. The head snorted. "Charming. Truly."

The palace was cold after dark. And quieter. You had been wandering the halls after dinner when a sound found you: heels clacking frantically against the marble floors.

Amaranthine—or rather, her body—was, quite literally, running around like a headless chicken, the irony clearly lost on her. She was rummaging through the cabinets, opening drawers and checking inside the suits of armor.

You stood there watching until she noticed your presence. She skidded to a halt, her heels squeaking against the marble floor. For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, her chest heaving with exertion she didn't technically need, her hands hovering at her sides as if unsure what to do. Then she lunged forward, grabbing your shoulders with both hands, her grip firm but not painful. She shook you once, gently, urgently, then released you and began a frantic pantomime—pointing at her empty neck, then at the floor, then at the ceiling, then spinning in a slow, desperate circle with her arms outstretched.

Her head was missing.

She dropped to her knees—the thud echoing through the corridor—and clasped her hands together in front of her chest, in a begging gesture. She repeated this several times, each repetition more exaggerated than the last, wailing comically back and forth.

She grabbed the hem of your clothes, tugging gently, then pointed down the long, dark corridor behind her, where the shadows seemed to stretch endlessly. Her hands were trembling, radiating with a desperate emotion.

The day had been an endless stream of chores and errands. By the time you reached your bedroom door, your shoulders ached and your mind was foggy with exhaustion. You pushed it open, already dreaming of collapsing into bed.

The room was dark save for a single candle someone had lit on your nightstand. And there, resting on the polished wood beside it, was Amaranthine's head. She was sitting upright on a small cushion as a strip of black silk was tied firmly around her mouth, gagging her. Her pale blue eyes were wide with a mixture of fury, embarrassment, and something that looked suspiciously like relief when she spotted you in the doorway.

Beside her, a folded piece of parchment was propped against the candle holder. You crossed the room slowly, your exhaustion momentarily forgotten, and picked it up. The handwriting was crude, unrefined.

She has been annoying the whole day. Do whatever you want with her. I'll pick her up tomorrow. —Amaranthine

You looked down at the head. She was shaking—actually shaking—her eyes blazing with indignation, her muffled protests barely audible through the silk. She tried to rock herself toward you, nearly toppling off the cushion, and made a series of urgent, unintelligible sounds that were clearly meant to be words.

You looked at the head for a long while, trying to decide what to do with her. When she saw you weren't in any rush of ungagging her, her expression suddenly changed. The anger and desperation quickly got replaced by a silent, defeated plea.

The Summer Hall had once been the crown jewel of the Autumn Court—a vast, circular chamber with a ceiling painted to resemble a twilight sky, its walls lined with mirrors and gold-leaf sconces that had long since tarnished. Now it was a relic of better days: dust thick on the marble floor, cobwebs draped between the chandeliers like funeral veils, the great windows clouded with grime so that the moonlight filtered through in pale, sickly shafts.

Amaranthine emerged from the shadows, clacking her high heels on the marble floor. Gone was the tight maid uniform. In its place, she wore a gown of liquid gold, silk that caught the faintest light and turned it into something warm and alive. The dress was sleeveless, as always, her powerful arms bare save for white elbow-length gloves that gleamed like fresh snow. A slit ran up the side, revealing one long, muscular leg wrapped in a white stocking that disappeared into a towering stiletto heel.

She crossed the dusty floor with the grace of someone who had once been a knight, her heels clicking a slow, steady rhythm, and stopped a few feet away from you. The body, you noticed, was behaving itself for once—no exaggerated gestures, no flailing, just a quiet, steady presence.

"You came," she said, and her voice was warmer than usual, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. "I wasn't sure you would. I know it's late, and this place is..." She gestured vaguely at the surrounding decay. "Well. It's seen better days. But I wanted to do something nice. With you. So I thought—" She paused, and for the first time, she looked almost nervous. The body shifted its weight, one hand smoothing down the golden silk of her dress, a small, self-conscious gesture. "I thought I'd bring you here."

She turned and walked to a small table that had been hidden in the shadows, its surface covered in a thin layer of dust except for one clean spot in the center. On it sat a music box: ornate, gilded, its lid decorated with tiny painted roses. She lifted it carefully, as if it were made of glass. A timid melody emerged from the box, nostalgic and slow.

"Would you like to dance with me?" she asked as she turned around, offering you her hand.

The knock on your door came just as you were settling into your armchair, a book open in your lap and a cup of tea cooling on the side table. It was late, and the knock was hesitant, almost apologetic, with a single soft rap followed by silence. Before you could answer, the door creaked open, and Amaranthine stepped inside, closing it behind her with a quiet click.

She was in her maid uniform. A faint pink flush colored her cheeks, visible even in the dim candlelight, and the blue flames at her collar flickered with a nervous, uneven rhythm. The body, for once, was utterly still, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter the moment. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and in them, she held a small wooden container.

"I—" she started, then stopped. She took a breath, visibly steadying herself, and lifted her head to meet your eyes. The blush deepened. "You've been so patient with us. So kind. Most people..." She trailed off, and the body shifted its weight, one heel scraping softly against the floor. "Most people don't even look at us. But you..." She paused again, and this time, the body raised one hand to touch the collar of her uniform, a small, self-conscious gesture.

She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly on the stone floor, and held out the wooden container with both hands. Up close, you could see the craftsmanship—the polished cylindrical surface, the smooth grain of the wood, the delicate carving of the leaves.

"I... We enjoy a lot... servicing you. It's our maid's duties, of course, but... well..." She trailed of, unsure of how to continue. "I just wanted to keep doing so... even if we are occupied."

She placed the container in your hands, her gloved fingers brushing yours for just a moment before she stepped back. You unscrewed the lid open with care to reveal the interior.

A pussy.

Her pussy.

Both Amaranthine's head and body blushed as her eyes darted to the ground. "The head is not the only thing we can... detach. I..." She swallowed. "If you find it too dry, you can spit on it or play with it a bit."

Her feet began playing with the rug on the ground.

"Please... use it as much as you want..." She then turns around and leaves as fast as she came in.