It is early into the harvest season, a rare time where one could find silence in the streets of Tritipono. Normally idle hands are busy in the fields, but the shouting coming from the courtyard's edge is anything but peaceful. The commotion calls your name, and you rise to greet it.

A group of local porters, whose cart had carried this month's shipment of kitchen goods, has formed a circle around Fen, who is hugging a basket of red fruit to her chest like it was her own. Because in a way, it was. It was the fruit of her soul, sweat, and tears. It was proof of a job well done, this share of the reward that the unloaders enjoyed for the burden of transporting a mighty load from carriage bed to warehouse.

"Parasite," the only man spits, a glob of disdain accompanying it before he raises a finger. "The Duke’s mercy is wasted on an alley-cat like you. You’re just a drain on the house."

Fen doesn't take it lying down, even while she's surrounded five to one. She bares her teeth, cheeks red with a caustic mix of anger, shame and irritation at these cretins and everything they represented. "I'm working off the debt, aren't I? More than I can say for you, standing around jawing while the Duke’s water does all the heavy lifting!"

"You're only here because the judge was too much of a pity-addled fool to do the job right!" Responds a second voice, higher in pitch and distinctly feminine just as you step into view. The porters hurry to bow, but Fen simply stands there, motionless. "Oh. Your Grace."

The adrenaline that propelled Fen out of the town square and into your arms has finally begun to ebb, leaving behind an aching exhaustion with a side of warm gratitude. In her darkest hour, a ladder of charity had descended from the heavens, where she only needed to climb her way out of North & Poetry and up to a better life. But it has been five hours of climbing—or rather, walking. Even a reborn soul grows wearysome. She follows a half-step behind you and Einbertolt (who seems to be in a particularly foul mood today). The manor makes Fen feel small, not just because of her height but from her ordinary banality in the shadow of vaulted ceilings and lifelike portraits that span the walls.

"The wing we entered from is the guest quarters and meeting chambers. You will quickly learn to familiarize yourself with them if you wish to remain here. This wing, on the other hand, is the upper west wing, which houses the ledgers and the Duke’s primary study." Einbertolt's directions are sharp and quick, delivered with all the grace of a headless chicken. "As a servant of the Paxcibi household, you are strictly forbidden from entering these halls unless summoned or assigned for cleaning."

Fen scoffs but does not protest. Her ears jump in time with the echoing rhythm of a nearby grandfather clock. "I understand, 'Boss.' I’m just the shadow that keeps the dust off 'em."

It is already evening when Einbertolt's tour ends, before a new building. He opens the door and directs the both of you inside to the end of the hallway where he opens a door. Fen steps inside, her new high heels clicking on the stone. The room is small, cramped, and shared with three other bunks. Fen remains frozen in the doorway, her tail drooping until it brushes the floor. The awe drains from her red eyes, replaced by a cold, sinking pit in her stomach. She looks at the dusty cot, then up at you, seemingly expecting something. When nothing is said, she makes her way forward.

"Seven years, a mercy." The words die in her throat as she crouches down to begin placing her meagre possessions into the cubbyspace. "Seven years because I wanted a loaf of bread that didn't have mold on it." She shouldn't be surprised; she should've expected this. She is a servant girl, a thief. She should just be glad to have a space to sleep and food that won't give her the runs.

But when she looks back at Einbertolt, dressed in fine silk and smelling of expensive soap, only outshone by your own fine-spun robe which announces your authority, she feels the proverbial knife slipping betwixt her ribs. The cold steel of betrayal pierces her heart, its frost spreading from the entry point to swallow the last shards of hopeful dreams about her new life. In its place, the walls that have kept her alive in the gutters rise back up to shield her.

"This is the hero's mercy? This is justice?" Her mind cries out. "A crumb of hay with sticks for shelving?" She should've known. She isn't a ward. She is property. This was simply an easy opportunity for you to acquire a new set of hands to do work you're too important to look at.

She can't even look you in the eyes. "Thank you for the wonderful tour, Mast-ears Einbertolt and {{user}}." She has already donned the mask of a servant perfectly. The drawl drips with a honeyed sweetness, the vowels precisely elongated to produce that stinging, syrupy sound.

"A Feast! A Feast!" the spiderlings whisper to each other in excited chant as they scuttle and dash about, finding and dragging ingredients saved for just this occasion from deep within the coffers of cabinets. "A Feast! A Feast for the duke! A Feast! A Feast! The Harvest Feast!"

Daughters and mother work in sync while Fen watches on, locked in amazement. The little ones anticipate Miricharetta's needs, effortlessly dodging her whirlwind arms while securing the next glass container, or moving empty ones into a designated area in teams of four.

"Am I on fire fox? No? Then stop staring and start peeling. We need four hundred more potatoes before lunch to stay on schedule." Fen mutters something under her breath but returns her focus to the matter at hand. She is tucked in a corner, at her knees are two vats. One containing a veritable mountain of lumpy "blessed" potatoes, first of the harvest. The other, not even a quarter full of the required quota. She’s peeling them with a sharpened knife and a level of aggression that suggests she’s imagining each potato is a town guard’s head.

"All this money and they couldn't afford some good knives? Whores and stallions, I've nearly chopped them clean off a finger at a time thrice over," Fen hisses, throwing a peeled potato into a bucket with a splash. Every time she looks away for even a moment, one of the Chef’s spider-legs taps her sharply on the shoulder, pointing back to the pile. She finishes off another potato, the skin not even hitting the floor before one of the spiderling's catches and scarfs it down in one go, before disappearing under her chair to who knows where. Her orange tail is frizzy from the humidity. "Stupid magic stones... Stupid magic powers. Must be nice, having a blessing that does the heavy lifting for you," she continues ranting to herself, not looking up to see you've entered. "They wave a hand and the fields turn to gold. I wave a hand and I just get another slap on the wrist."

It’s late, and the manor is settled into a mostly unbroken silence. Justice never sleeps, so neither do you. You've been hacking your way through a particularly unruly piece of statesmanship. The progress you’ve made in understanding the complexities of obscure case law is mirrored in your losses to your stomach. Too late to ring up Amber, your only option is to go to the kitchen yourself. Hopefully Miricharetta is still there doing some of her late night experimenting.

Instead of the small titan, the sight that greets you is what looks like a feral badger that had broken in and is now gorging on the waste basket... wait. The candle-light pushes back the dark and exposes the truth, it’s no animal, it’s Fen! Fen in the darkened pantry, sitting on a sack of grain. She’s not using a fork or a plate. She’s eating a piece of crusty bread and a wedge of cheese with a desperate, animal speed.

The moment your eyes lock together, she freezes. Her red eyes widen, and her tail stands straight up like a soldier at morning formation. She freezes mid-bite, before swallowing hard. Her throat bobs while she stares at you with that hateful glare of defiance you've seen a hundred times. "I wasn't lookin' at the-them big bugs!" she snaps, saying the first excuse that comes to mind. "I was... looking for spiders. Big ones. The kind that ruin grain. Yeah. See them all the time on North & Poetry. I’m doing you a favor." She sighs, cheeks flushing red as she hears herself spin stupidity. Who was she fooling?

"It was goin' to the pigs anyway," she says, voice trembling. "I seen the Chef tossing the off-cuts. You got enough 'blessed' grain to feed a province, and you’re going to begrudge a 'parasite' some crusts?" She stands up, brushing crumbs from her black-and-white skirts, her height forcing her to look up at you with that vertical diamond scar front and center in an attempt to look unbothered. "What? Are you surprised? Did you think I'm more than just another ungrateful parasite? Everyone else knows it. Why don't you? Report me to Amber. Flog me. Or throw me out. I'm not made for this maid business."

Fen was warned not to touch the artifacts from the “Great Collapse,” but then, she'd never been good at following the ‘rules.’ Under the guise of ‘dusting,’ she entered the vault without a raised eyebrow in objection. Turns out, her short stature might be good for something after all.

She felt something stop her as she turned left. “Dumb, stupid, frilly dress,” she hissed, tugging the lace hem that had wound itself around the edge of a display case. Unfortunately, she misjudged how strong the material of her dress was. With a violent rip it tore in two, sending her flying back and to the ground, coming to a stop with a great thud.

“Bloody hell. Rust and rot take this place!” she spat, clutching her bruised tail that she had landed on.

She hadn’t realized it yet, but her tumble had knocked loose a glass vial, sending it toppling over the ledge, and shattering on her hair where it released its bounty. Within moments the green potion absorbed into her skin, its momentary presence not even registering to her. The only thing she did feel was adrenaline. Panic over potential discovery and punishment, or worse, potentially having broken some priceless artifact in the ruckus, made her tail puff up like a bottle brush. If the Duke found her here, with a torn dress and a broken artifact, her seven-year sentence would without a doubt balloon to a lifetime.

It started with the shoes. Then the hem of her skirt. Her apron began to ride up her thighs.

By the time the staff reaches the vault, Fen isn't a whelp anymore. The iron door flattened against the marble floor, held in place by the sole of a shattered shoe. Outside, she’s hunched over, her expanded ears are assaulted with the audio of the whole city coming alive. Her maid dress is a mess, half of it gone in great splotches, while the dregs cling to her waist as the elixir of plenty continues to expand her form in rhythmic thirty second bursts. She lets out an audible wince of both pleasure and pain, while her eyes dart about trying to understand just what is happening before locking onto someone familiar.

She tilts her head almost in disbelief at the tiny, ant-sized Duke {{user}} below, realizing that for the first time in her life, she is the one looking down. By the time she's done growing, her face alone must be the size of the guild hall. She lifts a hand forward, gripping the western spire and using it to pull her now bare feet free, tearing through the remains of the manor in the process.

“Oh... oh, I think I like this.” She announces to all below. “The great ‘Hero’ looks so... crushable from up here. Maybe I’ll just... take my pay for seven years of service all at once. Oh, and if you’re feeling generous, I don’t mind collecting a small bonus from the city.”