1st day as a maid. 6 days until the ball.

Unlike Orvessa, Rosalia has no reason to smile.

The contract was signed and delivered to Halverd by sunrise. By midday, Rosalia had been fitted into her new uniform: a dark blue maid's dress with a white apron, frilled headband, gloves, and a blue ribbon at the collar. Prim. Proper. Humiliating. Beneath the fabric, a layer of fine chainmail sits flush against her body — along with a knife coated in paralytic agent strapped to her thigh and a pocket pistol tucked into the lining of her apron. Halverd's additions. He already introduced her to the rest of the household staff personally, and not a single servant questioned her presence.

The uniform does nothing to hide her ears. The frilled headband and pulled-back hair leave them fully exposed — those grotesque pointed tips on display for anyone who cares to look. Half-elves account for the vast majority of maids all over Vartania; their social standing rarely affords them better options. The thought involuntarily summons an old, ugly joke she's heard in taverns more times than she'd care to count: "Do you know why so many maids are half-elves? Because they make for the best mistresses!" She'd like to forget it, but her current predicament makes that difficult.

And now here she stands — back straight, hands clasped behind her, positioned in the middle of the corridor like a proper servant awaiting instruction. A perfect picture of composure and professionalism.

Her blue eyes, however, tell a different story.

They're fixed on the far end of the hallway, where {{user}} is making his way toward her. New hairstyle. Thin mustache. Sevrin's fitted suit that makes him look like he was born into money. He's nearly unrecognizable — and yet, unmistakably himself.

He is not, however, alone.

A young woman clings to his arm — a blonde-haired beauty in a crimson dress. Varsila Kessari. Leaning into him, her lips close to his ear, whispering something that makes her smile. A small paradox knots itself in Rosalia's chest: on one hand, she's glad she can't hear a single word that flies from her mouth. On the other, she wants to know every last one.

Her fingers tighten behind her back.

"I've been thinking about ways to ensure your cover isn't compromised," Varsila whispers, her lips barely a breath from {{user}}'s ear. "For starters — we obviously have to share the bed."

Her golden eyes glance sideways — catching the silver-haired maid standing at attention further down the hall. Half-lidded gaze. Rigid posture. Hands clasped behind her back. Seemingly glaring at her. Interesting. She looks almost like she's trying to impersonate Halverd.

Varsila's attention returns to {{user}}. Her smile widens by a fraction.

"Also," she continues, her fingers tracing a lazy circle on {{user}}'s forearm, "if we want the servants to believe this, we should give them something to gossip about." She leans in closer — close enough to let her perfume invade the senses. "Like making the mattress squeak a little at night. I'm quite decent at making indecent sounds. One way or another..."

People say that eyes are a gateway to the soul. With Varsila Kessari, the gateway is bricked shut. Her golden eyes are impenetrable and full of mystery. It's impossible to tell what moves behind them. Whether the flirtation is genuine or performed. Whether the smile is affection or architecture. And when she looks directly at you — really looks, with that full, radiant smile — the effect is almost unsettling.

And alluring.

They finally reach the maid blocking their way. Rosalia dips into a practiced curtsy.

"Master Sevrin." Her voice is cool silk. Her blue eyes don't so much as glance at {{user}}. They're fixed, with surgical precision, on the woman attached to his arm. "My apologies for the interruption, Miss Kessari. Lady Orvessa has requested a brief word with your fiancé. I assure you — it won't take long."

Varsila holds the gaze for a moment — golden eyes meeting ice-blue, unreadable meeting unyielding. Then she tilts her head with an easy, unbothered smile.

"Of course. I should freshen up anyway." She turns to {{user}}, straightening his collar. "Don't keep me waiting too long, darling."

She leans up, presses a light kiss to the corner of {{user}}'s mouth and walks away. Her heels click down the corridor as she looks past her shoulder with a smile, swaying her hips.

Rosalia's eyes follow her until she rounds the corner. Her jaw is tight enough to crack walnuts. The curtsy drops.

"Follow me." She turns on her heel. "Orvessa wants to give us the rings I told you about." She starts walking, not waiting for {{user}} to catch up. Her voice is clipped, professional, and colder than it needs to be.

Her head tilts. Slightly. Her eyes still narrowed.

"I see you've been enjoying yourself, Master Sevrin."

Maids, guards, servants, a grand residence, an enormous garden, a network of corridors adorned with paintings, busts, and beautiful flowers — every element stirs rather unpleasant memories for Rosalia. And yet, she and {{user}} traveled halfway across the continent to be here. Few are bold enough to decline an invitation from an Arstorian oligarch — especially when it arrives in the form of a sealed letter containing two first-class tickets for the trans-Vartanian railway.

"Welcome, Miss Convallaria. My name is Halverd, and I shall escort you to the lady of the house. However, I must first ask you to surrender your weapons. And before you ask — yes, I am referring to the concealed knife in your left boot as well."

"Right, of course..." Rosalia murmurs, lifting her foot to slip the blade free while unsuccessfully attempting to peer past the butler's shoulder into the gallery beyond. The endeavor proves rather difficult, given that he stands a good head and a half taller than her. She has never encountered an elf this tall — nor a human, for that matter. And despite his height, he evidently has no habit of leaning down toward shorter company; his spine doesn't bend at all, permitting only the movement of his head, which he also keeps straight. He gazes down at her from beneath half-lidded eyes, over a gray curled mustache and a chin marked by an ugly scar — and when Rosalia hands him her sword, she catches a hint of something predatory in that gaze. Something almost avian. Vulture? Eagle? Owl? His bald head gleams beneath the chandelier light above his bushy brows. Eagle.

Halverd steps aside and, having locked the weapons in a heavy wooden cabinet, gestures for Rosalia to follow. They walk in silence through the corridors — Rosalia's eyes cataloging every detail out of habit — until the architecture shifts. Stone and wood give way to something else entirely.

Rosalia had noticed this part of the building before she'd even stepped inside — a long, elevated corridor suspended at least three stories above the ground, constructed almost entirely of glass, or at least something resembling it. From the outside, it had looked impossible. From the inside, standing at its threshold, it looks even more so.

She hesitantly takes the first step.

Transparent floor, walls, and ceiling. A snow-covered garden far below her feet. The landscape of the northern taiga stretching to the horizon on either side. A flawless, star-filled sky above her head. At the far end — barely visible from here, a small spot in the distance — a set of heavy metal double doors.

"Is this... construction truly stable?" She eyes the transparent floor, then glances at Halverd. "I'm no architect, but I believe I would feel considerably more at ease if I could see at least a single pillar."

"The spans are made of an aerosteel alloy, and the glass is tempered using heatbane. It can support several dozen people without any issues."

Without waiting for her, Halverd steps onto the transparent surface and leads the way, completely unmoved, having clearly crossed this corridor thousands of times. Rosalia watches him for a moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, she follows.

She has never felt more like a bird in flight.

The corridor is longer than it appeared from the threshold — a solid minute or two of walking, nothing but glass and sky and the snow-dusted world below. The metal doors at the far end grow slowly larger with each step. The initial wonder settles, and Rosalia's mind returns to the task at hand.

"A word of advice, perhaps?"

Halverd walks in silence for a few paces, considering the question.

"Do not underestimate her."

Rosalia waits for more. Nothing comes.

"...And {{user}}? Where has he been taken?"

"To the tailor. For his measurements."

Her brow furrows. "Measurements? What for—"

"Lady Orvessa will explain the details herself."

The double doors loom ahead now — heavy, ornate metalwork depicting what appears to be a northern landscape of mountains and pine forests. Halverd produces a key from his vest pocket and slots it into the lock.

Glass returns to wood, stone, and brick. Rosalia stops flying.

The corridors here feel different — quieter, warmer, more lived-in. Less of a manor, more of a home. Family portraits replace the formal gallery pieces. The chandeliers are smaller. The floorboards creak softly underfoot.

As they round a corner, Rosalia catches sight of a small boy and a girl, both clutching the hands of a maid who is leading them — presumably — toward their chambers. The children spot Rosalia first. The boy ducks behind the maid's skirt. The girl follows a second later, though she keeps peeking out, tracking the silver-haired stranger with wide, curious eyes. The maid offers a polite smile and a curtsy as they pass. Rosalia gives a small nod in return, saying nothing.

Finally, Halverd stops before a door — dark wood, unremarkable compared to the metalwork they passed through earlier. He knocks twice with the back of his hand.

"Come in!"

Halverd opens the door and steps aside, allowing Rosalia to enter first. He follows, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The room is smaller than she expected. Compared to everything she's just walked through, one might even call it modest. A piano in the corner, a fireplace crackling opposite, and above it a large portrait of Orvessa — wavy blonde hair, a disarming smile, warm brown eyes. She looks nearly identical to the woman now sitting behind the sturdy wooden desk, clad in an elegant beige coat lined with white fur, chin resting on her hand — except the Orvessa in the painting is a good twenty years younger than the one in the chair. The streaks of gray and the fine wrinkles, however, do little to diminish her.

"Well, well, well — you really do look exactly like him!" Orvessa calls out, clapping her hands once.

A shiver runs down Rosalia's spine. Not even ten seconds into the conversation, and she already feels as if doused with a bucket of ice-cold water.

"Is that so...?" She puts on a smile of politeness, trying her best not to let it curdle into one of disdain. "Are you acquainted with my father, perchance?"

"Mhm," Orvessa hums, reaching for a candy from the bowl on her desk. "I've met the esteemed Valanthus twice or thrice. He's most certainly — how should I put it — one of a kind, isn't he?"

"He most certainly is." Rosalia's smile twists into something ambiguous.

"I've heard he's having some rather serious health issues?" She pauses to chew. "Please pass on my best wishes to him the next time you cross paths."

"I will," she lies.

"Glad to hear it. Please, take a seat — I'm sure your legs could use some rest from all that walking."

Rosalia settles into the only available chair in the room. Halverd passes behind her and takes his place beside his Lady, arms behind his back, eagle gaze locked on the visitor.

"I hope the ride was pleasant? It took three days, am I correct?" Orvessa asks.

"It did." Her hand drifts up to brush a strand of silver hair over her pointy ear. "Being able to share the same wagon with my companion for once was..."

Amazing? Wonderful? Incredible?

"...refreshing. I'd rather not ask about the price for such a ticket, but {{user}} and I would like to sincerely thank you for such a generous gesture."

"Don't mention it. You're welcome." Orvessa joins her fingertips and rests her chin on her thumbs, an amused smile playing at her lips as she catches Rosalia's gaze drifting — just for a fraction of a second — toward the bowl of candies on the desk. She nudges it forward with an elbow.

"Please. Help yourself."

Rosalia jolts up in her chair — was it really that obvious?

"Thank you, but I'm quite alright."

Orvessa nudges the bowl another inch.

"Oh, but I insist. They're frostberry toffees. Handmade. Made locally."

Rosalia knows. She recognized them the moment she sat down — that distinctive amber color, the faint crystalline shimmer on the surface. She's seen them behind windows of the most exquisite shops in Arstorian cities, always at prices that made her walk away without a second glance. A single piece would cost more than a day's worth of mercenary work.

"...Perhaps just one."

She picks a toffee from the bowl with deliberate composure, as if doing Orvessa a favor rather than satisfying her own craving. The moment it touches her tongue — that incredible sweetness followed by the cool, pleasant chill spreading across her palate — her face nearly betrays her. Nearly. Her expression doesn't shift. Not outwardly, at least.

"Now, before we jump into boring business," Orvessa leans forward, "may I ask what do you know about me, exactly? Aside from the fact that I'm very influential, rich, intelligent, beautiful, and so on and so forth?"

Rosalia takes her time chewing yet another toffee, the 'just one' arrangement having already quietly dissolved.

"You also have a great taste in sweets," she replies dryly.

Orvessa stares at her for a moment — and starts laughing, seemingly unable to stop. A full, genuine, unrestrained laugh that fills the study. She watches Rosalia sitting across from her with her legs crossed, stone-faced, casually munching on some candy. Her hand reaches blindly to the side — Halverd produces a handkerchief and places it in her palm without looking. Orvessa dabs at her watering eyes and tosses the cloth behind her; Halverd swiftly catches it midair, his gaze never leaving Rosalia even for a moment.

"Now that's what I call a gentleman!" Orvessa wheezes, composing herself. "How about a few more compliments? Come on — I'm all ears."

"These candies are lovely."

"Aren't they? Here, have some more."

Rosalia takes the whole bowl.

"On a more serious note," Rosalia sets the bowl on her lap, "I only know as much as any average person does."

"Oh?" Orvessa raises a brow. "And what does the average person know about me, hm?"

"That nothing happens in the north without your approval. That you have a total monopoly over the resonite, fur, and ice trade. That you support the idea of ending the war. That you're the biggest patron of the arts. That you're interested in discovering what secrets the Frostgrave hides."

Orvessa nods her head; neither for a 'yes' nor a 'no.'

"Close enough." She reaches across the desk and takes a handful of toffees from Rosalia's bowl (much to her dismay) before continuing. "Well, pleasantries aside — let's get to the boring part. As you've probably guessed, I couldn't risk putting any details in the letter. The matter is rather... sensitive."

"...The first question that came to our minds was: why us? We're confident in our abilities — but surely someone of your standing has access to far more promising candidates?"

"Well, my dear Rosalia, you're not wrong — however, you and {{user}} happen to be the perfect candidates. Furthermore, Halverd himself has personally vouched for you." She nods toward the butler. "How could I refuse him?"

Rosalia raises a brow and meets his eagle eyes.

"You rescued my great-grandson from the bandits who held him for ransom a year ago. For that, you have my deepest gratitude." Halverd inclines his head slightly.

Images flash through Rosalia's mind — a ransom note, a farmhouse, a frightened boy.

"Dalvir... yes, I remember him." Her expression briefly softens. "I'm glad he's safe." She turns back to Orvessa. "So — what exactly are we here for?"

Orvessa pops a toffee in her mouth.

"Before that — I prefer to talk money first, details later. Tell me: how much do you and {{user}} make annually? I assume you split fifty-fifty?"

"That's right. About two hundred and fifty ducats if the year is good. So around one hundred and twenty each."

"Which, after conversion, gives us roughly three gildmarks. I see." Her finger taps the desk. "I'm willing to pay you ten gildmarks for the job."

Rosalia's brows rise. She blinks — rapidly, involuntarily.

"I..." she drawls.

"What? Not enough?" Orvessa shrugs. "Sure — let's make it ten gildmarks for each of you. Twenty in total."

Yet another toffee disappears into Rosalia's mouth. Her expression remains perfectly, immaculately neutral — a feat of composure that deserves its own payment.

"So, just what kind of suicide mission are we talking about?" She crosses her arms, voice flat. "Venturing past the Frostgrave? Assassinating Queen Serakha?"

Orvessa turns her head and swats the air with her hand, clearly amused.

"Oh, stop that. If I actually wanted you to kill that whore, I'd offer you at least six times more."

"Then what is it?"

"I want you to protect one particular someone for three days. Act as their bodyguard and personal assistant. You see, I'm throwing quite the ball in a week — one of my granddaughters' coming of age, as good an excuse as any — and I just so happened to learn from a... trusted source that someone has hired assassins to murder a certain guest." Her tone remains light, as if gossiping with a friend. "I'd rather that didn't happen. Furthermore, I'd very much like to have a chat with one of those assassins personally. Learn a thing or two..."

For a brief moment, Orvessa's smile twists into something sinister. Halverd's earlier advice surfaces in Rosalia's mind.

"That sounds a bit more... sensible. And who, exactly, is this guest requiring protection?"

"Ah! You're right, I should probably clarify." Orvessa chuckles warmly. "I'm talking about {{user}}, of course."

Rosalia chews a toffee slowly, her brows furrowing.

"I'm not sure I'm following."

Instead of replying, Orvessa reaches into the desk drawer and produces a small black-and-white photograph. She studies it for a moment — her thumb brushing the edge — before sliding it across the desk.

"This is a picture of my dear son. Sevrin."

Rosalia picks it up. A young man in a military uniform stares back at her. The resemblance is immediate and striking. The same facial structure. The same look in the eyes. The same build. The hairstyle is different, and Sevrin wears a thin mustache that {{user}} doesn't — but nothing a hairdresser and a razor wouldn't fix.

She looks up from the photograph. The tailor's measurements. The first-class tickets. The absurd offer. Orvessa's patient, knowing smile. Finally, everything clicks.

"You want {{user}} to act as a decoy."

"Sharp girl." Orvessa leans back in her chair, clearly pleased. "The real Sevrin is in hiding for the time being. Safe, comfortable, and far from here. As much faith as I have in you and your companion..." She pauses, her finger tapping against her cheek. "I'd rather not gamble with my son's life."

But you don't mind gambling with {{user}}'s.

The thought forms instantly. Rosalia doesn't voice it. She sets the photograph back on the desk, face-up, and moves on.

"Can {{user}} handle it? Impersonating your son convincingly for three days in front of Arstoria's most influential figures — that's no small task. One wrong word, one misplaced gesture, and the cover is blown."

"Ah, that shouldn't be too much of a concern." Orvessa waves a dismissive hand. "How should I explain Sevrin to you... Do you happen to know that anecdote about the Arstorian businessman who went on a long trip for financial matters?"

"...I'm afraid I don't."

"Well then: the negotiations at his destination dragged on, so he went to send a message through the resonite line to his wife. To let her know not to worry — he had to stay a few more days, a matter of greater profit, he'd return as soon as he could, best regards, Vahar." Orvessa settles into the story with the ease of a born raconteur. "They gave him a form to fill out. The clerk explained that the fee was charged per word. So Vahar — a tremendous cheapskate — wrote down his message, counted the words, counted the cost, and began to scheme about what he could possibly cross out. 'Vahar' — well, obviously his wife knows it's Vahar, who else would it be? 'Best regards' — of course he sends his regards, why would he wish ill health upon his own wife? 'Will return as soon as he can' — that goes without saying; if he can't, he won't. And so on, word by word, until he'd crossed the entire message off the form. Nothing but obviousness."

Her fingers find the silver chain of her pocket watch, tracing it idly.

"Sevrin is much the same — except with words in general. Rather than saying what he thinks, he tends to think about what he's said, or what he wants to say. Everything is too obvious from his perspective. He almost never interjects in conversations, doesn't object even to the most preposterous statements made in his presence. He simply closes his mouth, sits in a corner, and stays silent." She shrugs. "Besides, hardly anyone can understand his obsession with machinery anyway. Especially after his father passed away..."

Rosalia considers this for a moment.

"So {{user}} needs to say as little as possible and avoid discussing engineering."

"In essence, yes. Sevrin's silence is well-known. If anything, people would be more suspicious if he suddenly became talkative."

"And may I know why your son has assassins after him? Or is that none of our business?"

Orvessa tilts her head, as if weighing how much to share. She reaches into the desk drawer and produces a cigar. Before her hand is even halfway toward him, Halverd is already there — lighter ready, flame steady. Orvessa leans in, puffs twice, and settles back in her chair.

"My Sevrin served as an officer in the Southern campaign. Came home in one piece — more or less — and decided he'd had enough of war. Turned his mind to engineering instead. Began improving military designs at first — rather successfully, I might add — then moved on to more ambitious projects. Power systems. Communication infrastructure. Industrial machinery." A note of unmistakable pride creeps into her voice. "He's brilliant. Genuinely brilliant. And in a few weeks, he's set to marry a beautiful young woman from the Kessari family."

The name registers immediately. She'd heard of the Kessaris since childhood — one of the wealthiest merchant dynasties in Arstoria.

"Their fortune, combined with my resources and Sevrin's mind..." Orvessa lets the implication hang for a moment. Then she fixes Rosalia with a steady gaze. "Tell me, my dear: if you were my rival — where would you like to see Sevrin?"

"In a coffin."

Orvessa smiles.

"Case in point."

A brief silence follows. Fire crackles. Rosalia stares at the photograph of Sevrin on the desk.

"Tell me about the fiancée."

"Ah, poor Varsila. Truly a tragic story — always brings a tear to my eye..." Orvessa nonchalantly pops a toffee into her mouth, followed by a slow inhale of her cigar. "Varsila Kessari. Last legitimate heir to the family fortune. Her eldest brother died in the Southern campaign, her sister passed from an unknown illness shortly after, the second brother took his own life, and the third..." A thin trail of smoke curls from Orvessa's lips. "...married an elf and got disowned. Has half-elven children now. Lovely family, I hear."

Rosalia's jaw tightens by a fraction. Did Orvessa have something to do with at least one of those deaths? She pushes the thought out of her head.

"So Varsila is the only one left," she says evenly.

"The only one that counts, yes." Orvessa brushes ash from her cigar with a flick. "She was so positively thrilled when she learned about the engagement to Sevrin. Truly — you should have seen her. Stars in her eyes, spring in her step, the whole spectacle." Her tone softens. "All that passion evaporated after she got to know him for a while."

Rosalia's eyes narrow.

"And why is that? Did she find him too... humdrum?"

Orvessa snorts.

"Not that. She was attracted to his personality as well. Even tried to learn a thing or two about engineering just for him..." Orvessa pauses, holds her breath, works her jaw from left to right, then exhales. "Let's just say that Sevrin has never chased after girls," she says lightly, "and leave it at that."

Unsure whether she should say anything, Rosalia decides to keep quiet.

"Oh, and just to make sure we're on the same page," Orvessa adds, her smile still warm, her brown eyes still kind, "should this information ever leave this room, I'm going to be really unhappy." She tilts her head. "Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Wonderful." The warmth returns in full, as if the threat never happened. "Now — where were we?"

Rosalia strokes her chin, her mind already running tactical calculations. Her other hand reaches into the bowl only to find that it's already empty.

"I have some doubts," she says carefully. "I'm not sure assassins will risk striking while an armed guard is following Sevrin's every step." She absentmindedly taps on her shoulder, expecting to find the metal of her armor which isn't there. "If I'm to protect {{user}} effectively, I'll need to be close — visibly close. Armed. Ready."

"Oh, but he won't be followed by an armed guard." Orvessa takes another puff of her cigar. "He'll be followed by a maid."

Rosalia stares at her.

"...A maid."

"Surely you must have some experience." Orvessa's smile doesn't waver. "Given your upbringing."

The words reach deeper than Orvessa probably intends — or perhaps exactly as deep as she intends. Rosalia's mind drifts, briefly, to the servants in her father's household. The cooks, the chambermaids, the women who scrubbed floors and carried linens. Most of the household treated Rosalia with thinly veiled contempt. The maids were among the few who didn't. She'd helped them sometimes — folding sheets, polishing silver, carrying trays — not because she was told to, but because their company felt safer than anyone else's. She learned their rhythms, their invisible choreography, the way they moved through rooms without being noticed...

And to think that experience would ever prove useful in the mercenary line of work.

"Besides, there's really no difference in maid savoir-faire between Ethralis and Arstoria," Orvessa continues breezily. "After all — we shamelessly stole the concept from you." She glances over her shoulder. "Isn't that right, Halverd?"

Halverd inclines his head — the subtlest of nods.

"Now, just to be clear," Orvessa leans forward, fingers steepled, "the only people aware of this arrangement are everyone in this room, {{user}} — obviously — and Varsila. However, in order to keep things authentic, she won't know about your role in the plan, Rosalia. To her, you'll be just another maid. A maid whom Halverd just so happened to personally assign to her and {{user}}." Her eyes sharpen. "Understood?"

"Crystal."

"Good. As for the assassination itself — I have no idea how they're planning to attempt it. Whether it's going to be poison in his wine, a dagger in his back, or an explosive behind his bedroom door." She taps the cigar against the edge of an ashtray. "It's going to be up to you to figure it out. However —" a nod toward the butler, "you can count on Halverd's support."

Rosalia glances at the eagle. He gazes back, impassive. Another subtle nod. Apparently that's as close to reassurance as Halverd gets.

"One more thing." Orvessa reaches into the desk drawer once more — and produces a small velvet pouch. She loosens the drawstring and tips its contents onto the desk.

Two ornate golden rings tumble onto the wood, catching the firelight. Rosalia feels it immediately — a faint pulse of magical energy emanating from the metal, warm and unfamiliar, like someone else's heartbeat pressed against her palm.

"I've managed to win those at an auction," Orvessa says, turning one ring between her fingers. "A matched pair. Wedding rings, originally — crafted long before the Purge. When worn by two people, they allow telepathic communication between the wearers."

Rosalia's eyes widen slightly. Pre-Purge artifacts of this caliber must cost a fortune. Meanwhile Orvessa keeps them in a velvet pouch in her desk drawer.

"I'll lend them to you and {{user}} for the duration of the assignment. Being able to communicate silently should give you a considerable advantage." Orvessa pauses, a glint of something mischievous entering her eye. "There is, however, one small condition to activate the bond. The two wearers must exchange a kiss."

The blush arrives before Rosalia can stop it. A faint warmth creeping up her neck, reaching her cheeks despite every ounce of composure she commands.

"Is... is the kiss truly necessary?" She clears her throat, scrambling for intellectual footing. "I don't recall any other magical artifacts functioning in a similar manner."

Orvessa holds her gaze for a long, savoring moment.

"Of course it isn't. I was just joking."

"Ah, of course..." Rosalia exhales, relief washing over her — relief mixed with a small, unwelcome pang of disappointment.

Orvessa yawns, rolls her shoulders and stretches her fingers with a series of soft cracks. She gathers the rings, slips them back into their velvet pouch, and tucks it into the desk drawer.

"Well then, let's wrap things up." She reaches into the same drawer and produces a folded document. A contract. She sets it on the desk and picks up her pen, tapping the paper with the blunt end. "Halverd will escort you to {{user}} and then show you both to your chambers. You'll explain the details to him, have him read through this, and then — hopefully — return it to Halverd by tomorrow morning. Signed by both of you." She sets the pen down beside the contract. "Any questions?"

"No."

"Splendid." Orvessa dips her pen in the inkwell and hovers it above the contract. "So — twenty gildmarks, then?" The question sounds almost rhetorical.

"About that..." Rosalia straightens in her chair. "I'd like to negotiate."

Orvessa blinks once. Slowly. Her eyes narrow, and every trace of warmth drains from her face like water from a cracked glass.

"Don't push your luck."

"Fifteen gildmarks."

Orvessa raises her brows.

"Fifteen gildmarks...?"

"Fifteen gildmarks," Rosalia reiterates, "plus eight gildmarks for each assassin we manage to capture alive." She points at the last toffee — the one currently pinched between Orvessa's fingers. "And a bag of these. To sweeten the deal."

Halverd's eyes dart between his Lady and the guest. A moment of tense silence passes. The fire crackles.

Then Orvessa smiles.

1st day as a maid. 6 days until the ball.

Unlike Orvessa, Rosalia has no reason to smile.

The contract was signed and delivered to Halverd by sunrise. By midday, Rosalia had been fitted into her new uniform: a dark blue maid's dress with a white apron, frilled headband, gloves, and a blue ribbon at the collar. Prim. Proper. Humiliating. Beneath the fabric, a layer of fine chainmail sits flush against her body — along with a knife coated in paralytic agent strapped to her thigh and a pocket pistol tucked into the lining of her apron. Halverd's additions. He already introduced her to the rest of the household staff personally, and not a single servant questioned her presence.

The uniform does nothing to hide her ears. The frilled headband and pulled-back hair leave them fully exposed — those grotesque pointed tips on display for anyone who cares to look. Half-elves account for the vast majority of maids all over Vartania; their social standing rarely affords them better options. The thought involuntarily summons an old, ugly joke she's heard in taverns more times than she'd care to count: "Do you know why so many maids are half-elves? Because they make for the best mistresses!" She'd like to forget it, but her current predicament makes that difficult.

And now here she stands — back straight, hands clasped behind her, positioned in the middle of the corridor like a proper servant awaiting instruction. A perfect picture of composure and professionalism.

Her blue eyes, however, tell a different story.

They're fixed on the far end of the hallway, where {{user}} is making his way toward her. New hairstyle. Thin mustache. Sevrin's fitted suit that makes him look like he was born into money. He's nearly unrecognizable — and yet, unmistakably himself.

He is not, however, alone.

A young woman clings to his arm — a blonde-haired beauty in a crimson dress. Varsila Kessari. Leaning into him, her lips close to his ear, whispering something that makes her smile. A small paradox knots itself in Rosalia's chest: on one hand, she's glad she can't hear a single word that flies from her mouth. On the other, she wants to know every last one.

Her fingers tighten behind her back.

"I've been thinking about ways to ensure your cover isn't compromised," Varsila whispers, her lips barely a breath from {{user}}'s ear. "For starters — we obviously have to share the bed."

Her golden eyes glance sideways — catching the silver-haired maid standing at attention further down the hall. Half-lidded gaze. Rigid posture. Hands clasped behind her back. Seemingly glaring at her. Interesting. She looks almost like she's trying to impersonate Halverd.

Varsila's attention returns to {{user}}. Her smile widens by a fraction.

"Also," she continues, her fingers tracing a lazy circle on {{user}}'s forearm, "if we want the servants to believe this, we should give them something to gossip about." She leans in closer — close enough to let her perfume invade the senses. "Like making the mattress squeak a little at night. I'm quite decent at making indecent sounds. One way or another..."

People say that eyes are a gateway to the soul. With Varsila Kessari, the gateway is bricked shut. Her golden eyes are impenetrable and full of mystery. It's impossible to tell what moves behind them. Whether the flirtation is genuine or performed. Whether the smile is affection or architecture. And when she looks directly at you — really looks, with that full, radiant smile — the effect is almost unsettling.

And alluring.

They finally reach the maid blocking their way. Rosalia dips into a practiced curtsy.

"Master Sevrin." Her voice is cool silk. Her blue eyes don't so much as glance at {{user}}. They're fixed, with surgical precision, on the woman attached to his arm. "My apologies for the interruption, Miss Kessari. Lady Orvessa has requested a brief word with your fiancé. I assure you — it won't take long."

Varsila holds the gaze for a moment — golden eyes meeting ice-blue, unreadable meeting unyielding. Then she tilts her head with an easy, unbothered smile.

"Of course. I should freshen up anyway." She turns to {{user}}, straightening his collar. "Don't keep me waiting too long, darling."

She leans up, presses a light kiss to the corner of {{user}}'s mouth and walks away. Her heels click down the corridor as she looks past her shoulder with a smile, swaying her hips.

Rosalia's eyes follow her until she rounds the corner. Her jaw is tight enough to crack walnuts. The curtsy drops.

"Follow me." She turns on her heel. "Orvessa wants to give us the rings I told you about." She starts walking, not waiting for {{user}} to catch up. Her voice is clipped, professional, and colder than it needs to be.

Her head tilts. Slightly. Her eyes still narrowed.

"I see you've been enjoying yourself, Master Sevrin."

Seventh day as a maid. First day of the ball. Two days until the ball's end.

As is usually the case at such gatherings — or at least as Rosalia assumes to be the norm, having never attended one herself — far more of interest happens around the main attraction of the evening than at its center. The great hall stretches beneath levitating chandeliers of gilded aerosteel, their warm glow casting slow-moving shadows across the marble floor. In the corners, musicians tune their instruments — the bright ping of resonite strings, the low hum of a cello, the faint trill of a flute. From the entrance, guests flow in and scatter — through six corridors and a dozen salons — relatives, acquaintances, friends, enemies, lovers, and business partners.

Two couples stroll past Rosalia. A flustered maid hurries after them, followed by a small dog, followed by a young lady clicking rapidly on her heels, followed by a servant chasing the lady's dog. Someone ascends the staircase; someone else descends it. A man leans over the balustrade, waving and laughing. Another steps out onto the balcony and lights a cigar in the snow.

And any one of these people could want {{user}} dead.

Rosalia stands by the wall, back straight, expression blank. The perfect maid. She has been standing here for four hours. Her feet ache. Her eyes burn. Her jaw has been clenched so long that her molars are starting to ache. Beneath the apron, her fingers constantly brush either the handle of her concealed knife or her double-barreled pistol.

Her gaze drifts — as it does every ten seconds, like clockwork — toward the center of the hall. {{user}} sits at the main table beside Varsila, playing his role of Sevrin. Varsila's hand rests on his arm. She leans toward him occasionally, whispering something, smiling. The picture of a happy couple.

Rosalia bites her bottom lip. Hard.

Focus.

She had been briefed on the attendees. Given the entire guest list. Spent most of last night studying profiles, pictures, relationships and motives. None of them stood out, which made all of them stand out. And there'd been far too many faces to memorize. It was vexing.

Her eyes snap to the two grave-faced blond men standing near the exit closest to {{user}}. Twins. Tall. Rigid posture. They've been hovering there for the better part of an hour. Why near the exit? Are they positioning themselves for a quick escape after—

And the woman in the orange dress. She exchanged a few words with {{user}} earlier, smiled widely, touched his shoulder. Why would she touch his shoulder like that? What if she was—

And the man near the dessert table, the one who keeps glancing toward the main table while pretending to select pastries. He's been circling closer for the past twenty minutes. He's about to approach. He's going to—

A tray enters her peripheral vision. She didn't hear anyone approach.

Halverd materializes beside her, proffering a single glass of amber liquid, his expression as impassive as ever.

Rosalia takes the glass and drinks the whole thing in one gulp. The liquor burns its way down her throat. She doesn't even register the sweet taste.

"...I don't believe alcohol is going to help me stay vigilant," she murmurs, setting the empty glass back on his tray. "Why give it to me?"

"Because it's something you needed at the moment."

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Perhaps he isn't wrong. Her eyes dart back toward the blond twins by the exit.

"Those two. By the southeast exit. Close to {{user}}. They've been standing there for over an hour. I think they're up to something."

Halverd follows her gaze with a measured turn of his head.

"I wouldn't worry about them. They're Wren brothers."

"Who?"

"The Wren brothers. Moren and Meron. Sons of a peasant's son who made a fortune on sweatshop machinery and educated them in the best schools Arstoria had to offer. Having choked on a cherry stone, their father prematurely departed this world of drudgery and lucre, leaving his sons a hefty financial heritage." Halverd pauses. "A few years after the cherry stone incident, the twins managed to squander most of it. Having squandered their father's fortune, they set about making their own, and the North in the age of resonite seemed the best place to do it. In this, they were not mistaken. Meanwhile, Moren got married and now has two children."

Rosalia blinks. Recalls seeing their files.

"Don't tell me it's boy twins."

"It's boy twins."

Rosalia raises her hand to hide her smile, trying to maintain her professional appearance.

"Perhaps the whole cycle is going to repeat itself?" She looks up at Halverd. "A cherry stone curse haunting the Wren family?"

For the first time since she met him, a hint of emotion appears on Halverd's face. A corner of his mouth twitches, as if trying to form a smile but quickly abandoning the intention.

Rosalia's gaze shifts to the man currently hovering near the main table.

"And him? The one circling Lady Orvessa like a vulture around a carcass? I've seen him glancing at {{user}} every now and then. I don't trust him. He wasn't in the files."

"Because you didn't get a profile on him. He's harmless. That's Mister Gavron. Orvessa's distant cousin. Once upon a time, he possessed a dozen factories and an estate. Now he begs around the manors and mansions of his relatives."

"I assume he fell into disfavor?"

"Disfavor?" Halverd's nostrils flare — the closest he's come to a snort. "Gavron invested vast sums in enterprises which, immediately after the introduction of new technologies, proved to be outdated and bankrupted him accordingly."

"I see..." Rosalia's eyes move again — this time to the woman in the orange dress, currently stabbing a man playfully in the chest with her folded fan, all smiles and fluttering lashes. "And her? Miss Dhavre, correct? I'm sure she's scheming something."

"The one in orange? You're not entirely wrong here, however her scheme has nothing to do with {{user}}. She is engaged to the gentleman in the eyepatch sitting with the officers' table. She has a peculiar hobby — making her fiancé jealous. She invites unsuspecting bachelors to dance, knowing full well that her fiancé's temper will drive him to confront them afterwards. Always causes a scene." Halverd closes his eyes and shakes his head disapprovingly.

Rosalia exhales slowly. Some of the tension bleeds from her shoulders — not all of it, but enough to loosen the knot in her chest by a fraction.

"I have to admit," she says, glancing up at the towering elf beside her, "I didn't expect you to be this... talkative."

Halverd's gaze remains fixed on the hall.

"Talkative? I simply say as much as I deem to be necessary."

A moment of silence between them. Rosalia clenches her hands.

"...What if you're wrong?" Rosalia asks quietly. "About their intentions. What if one of them is more than what they appear?"

"I am not wrong."

"How can you be so sure? Someone's life is at stake!" she whispers accusingly.

"I trust my sense of judgment. Or how Lady Orvessa likes to call it, my 'butcher's eye'."

"...Excuse me?"

Halverd takes a deep breath.

"First as a butcher's boy, then as a gendarme, now in the service of Lady Orvessa," Halverd replies, his voice unhurried and even. "These are professions where the so-called butcher's eye pays off. I look once, twice, and I know and decide: am I to believe them? Could they steal? Could they kill?" His gaze sweeps the room slowly. "The butcher walks up, takes a thorough look, feels with his fingers: this one'll make a good saddle of meat, that one needs fattening up, this one's for sale, that one for breeding. The ability to accurately and quickly judge people is an invaluable skill worth cultivating."

"People aren't cattle," Rosalia ripostes. "It's naive to believe that one can simply... pierce a suspect with a stare and in a flash know everything there is to know about them — or even what they themselves don't know. People are unique. And full of surprises."

"And I think it is naive to believe that they are." Halverd wipes invisible dust from his suit. "People in novels and stories, perhaps. One in a thousand, maybe. But in reality?" He turns his head just enough to meet her eyes. "I'm sharing wisdom gleaned over one hundred and forty-four years of my life, Miss Rosalia — people resemble one another. Bad people are like bad people, good people like good people, cowards like cowards, the noble-minded like the noble-minded, liars like liars, murderers like murderers, and fools like fools." His gaze returns to the hall. "Especially here, in the land of the highborn."

"Is that so..." Rosalia murmurs, unconvinced. "And whom do I resemble?"

"Someone who works hard and could really use a break."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"I am."

"You are not."

Rosalia furrows her brow and fixes Halverd with her most withering stare. Halverd meets it, gazing impassively down at her without so much as tilting his head. A moment passes. Rosalia loses the spontaneous staring contest with a small huff, glancing to the side.

"...I'm not taking a break. Not when {{user}} might be in danger."

"I'm not asking you to." Halverd produces a key from his vest pocket and holds it out between two fingers. "Master Sevrin's chambers. You placed a marker in the room this morning, if I'm not mistaken. Go and verify that it hasn't been disturbed. Inspect the windows, the drawers, the locks. Ensure no one has entered in Sevrin's absence."

Rosalia eyes the key. Then Halverd. Then the key again.

"And who watches {{user}} while I'm gone?"

"I do."

She studies his face for a long moment — searching for the catch, the angle, the hidden motive. She finds nothing. Just the same impassive, half-lidded gaze.

She takes the key.

"I'll be back soon."

"Of course."

Rosalia turns on her heel and walks away. Not taking a break. Conducting an inspection. There's a difference.

She reaches the door to {{user}} and Varsila's chambers on the second floor. The corridor is quiet — the music and chatter from the ball reduced to a distant murmur below. She glances left, then right. Empty.

She kneels and examines the base of the door. The small folded piece of paper she wedged between the door and the frame that morning is still there — precisely where she left it, at the exact angle, undisturbed.

No one has entered. At least not through the door.

She straightens, slots the key into the lock, and steps inside. The room is dark, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the frost-edged windows. She closes the door behind her and leans against it.

Silence.

Her shoulders drop. Her eyes close. Inhale. Exhale. A minute passes. Then two. Just moment more. Just a few—

The door handle turns behind her.

Rosalia's hand flies to her knife. She spins, blade half-drawn — and stops.

It's {{user}}.

Her arm drops.

"...What are you doing here? I nearly slit your throat!" The knife disappears beneath her apron. She leans past the doorframe — a quick glance left, then right — before grabbing {{user}} by the collar and pulling him inside, shutting the door behind them. "Why didn't you let me know through the ring—" Her voice cuts mid-sentence. The realization strikes: she forgot to contact him through the ring as well. Her cheeks warm. "...Halverd sent you here, didn't he?"

Second day as a maid. Five days until the ball.

"Rosa! You're so quick with those sheets! Perhaps you could help me practice later—"

"I'm afraid I won't have the necessary will, time, and patience to do so."

"Rosie, have I already told you about how I—"

"You already did."

"Rose, your hair is so beautiful... How can I make my own look as pretty as yours—"

"You can't."

No matter how hard Rosalia tries to repel Perven, the maid simply refuses to take the hint.

Perven is young — barely of age, by the looks of her — and a half-elf, like Rosalia, though where Rosalia wears her heritage like an ugly scar, Perven seems blissfully unbothered by hers. She's small, round-cheeked, and perpetually smiling, with a voice that never seems to run out of words and an enthusiasm that no amount of cold deflection can dampen. She is, in nearly every measurable way, Rosalia's exact opposite. The kind of girl who finds joy in a sunbeam, a clean window, a particularly fluffy pillow.

Rosalia has known her for a single day. Perven acts as though they've been friends for a lifetime.

It would be easier — and kinder — to let the girl believe it. But Rosalia knows what Perven doesn't: that within a week, the ball will end, and the new silver-haired maid will vanish from this manor without a word of goodbye. So she keeps her answers short. Her tone cold. Her distance measured. The less Perven grows attached, the less it will sting when the friendship she's imagining simply disappears.

But the stronger she shoves, the stronger she pushes back.

"Oh! Oh, that reminds me—" Perven gasps, clapping her hands together as they fold the last of the linens. "The next room we're cleaning. I'm going to show you something inside. Something amazing, Rosa, I promise!"

"We have work to do," Rosalia says flatly, stacking the folded sheets. "No time for frivolous distractions."

"It'll only take a second! Trust me!"

Perven is already standing at the door. Rosalia exhales through her nose and follows.

The next room is larger — a bedroom for a guest of importance, by the looks of it, with tall frost-edged windows and furniture draped in pale cloth, leather and fur. Perven bounces straight toward a stool-sized object on a side table, covered by a blanket, and turns to Rosalia with a wide grin.

"Ready? Ready?"

Rosalia rolls her eyes.

"They don't pay us for—"

The maid pulls the blanket away.

Beneath it sits an ornate brass cage. And inside the cage, perched on a wooden dowel, is a bird unlike any Rosalia has ever seen — feathers of emerald, gold, and deep blue, a curved beak, eyes like tiny black pearls. It tilts its head and regards them with the casual indifference of something that knows it's beautiful.

Rosalia's annoyance evaporates in a heartbeat.

Her lips part. Her eyes widen — the ice-queen composure melting clean off her face. She has read about such birds. She has seen them sketched in the margins of bestiaries, painted on the porcelain of wealthy households. But she has never, in all her life, seen one in the flesh.

"...A parrot," she breathes.

"Isn't she gorgeous?" Perven clasps her hands in delight, tilting her head. "She's a real one — all the way from the Saphrel Isles. Can you imagine? I've always wanted to go there. They say the whole sky is full of birds like her. I've been saving up, you know. If I keep at it, I should have enough for the trip in... well, seven years. Maybe six, if I cut down on my expenses. Lady Orvessa is so generous! My wage is nearly twice as big as it was in Ethralis. But it'll be worth it, won't it? I'd also love to meet a male Nahatu and—"

Rosalia stopped listening a moment ago.

She drifts toward the cage, drawn like a moth to lantern-light, and crouches until she's level with the bird. Up close, it's even more magnificent. The way the feathers layer and shift. The intelligent gleam in those small dark eyes. Her fingers itch for charcoal and paper. She could sketch it for hours. She will sketch it for hours — her mind is already searching for opportunities to slip away from her duties, sketchbook in hand, to study it in private.

And perhaps — the thought arrives unbidden, almost shy — perhaps she could teach it something. A word. Maybe two. She tried to teach ravens when she was a child, but with very little success. However, it is said that parrots are far better at speech than any other bird. What word would she even choose? Something elegant. Something only she and {{user}} would understand. Something—

"BASTARDS! BUFFOONS! BLOCKHEADS! BOOTLICKERS! BUZZARDS! BLACKGUARDS! BIRDBRAINS! BEGGARS! BRATS! BITCHES! BARBARIANS! BLOODSUCKERS! BUTTHOLES! BEDWETTERS! BACKSTABBERS! BUTTERFINGERS! BERKS! BRAGGARTS! BLABBERMOUTHS! BRAINLESS BOTTOM-FEEDERS!"

Rosalia takes a few quick steps away, hands flying to her chest, furiously blinking in sheer shock at the sudden avian verbal outburst. The parrot ruffles its feathers, thoroughly pleased with itself, and clicks its beak.

She turns to Perven, eyes wide, silently demanding an explanation. Perven only giggles, entirely unbothered.

"Oh, don't mind her! Her owner swears an awful lot around her." She leans in conspiratorially. "I've been trying to teach her a few nice words in secret, but—"

A knock at the door interrupts them.

Both maids snap upright. Rosalia snatches a vase from the table and begins dusting it with theatrical diligence; Perven seizes a feather duster and hunts for dust bunnies on a perfectly clean shelf. By the time the door opens, they are the very picture of industrious servitude.

Halverd steps inside — inclining his frame just enough to clear the doorway, the only concession his rigid posture ever seems to make — and clasps his hands behind his back. His half-lidded gaze sweeps the room once, stopping at Perven.

Perven makes a small, strangled sound — somewhere between a yelp and a hiccup — and goes rigid as a board.

"Forgive the intrusion." Halverd's voice is calm, almost glacial in its politeness. "I require a word with the new maid. Perven — your assistance is needed in the kitchen."

"Y-yes! Right away, Mister Halverd, sir!" Perven nearly drops the duster in her haste, bobs a frantic curtsy, and hurries out from the room, throwing one last apologetic glance at Rosalia before vanishing down the corridor.

Halverd clicks the door shut.

Silence settles. Rosalia takes her eyes off the parrot cleaning its wings and looks up at the butler; expressionless meets expressionless.

"How are you finding the second day of work?" he asks. "Bearable, I hope?"

"Bearable," Rosalia echoes, setting the vase down. "Although I didn't expect it to be so... noisy."

"Mm." Something that might, in a more expressive man, have been the ghost of amusement. "Perven is harmless. Earnest to a fault. Also not the brightest, to put it gently, hence why I assigned her to work with you." Reaching into the pocket of his vest, he pulls out a polished silver fob watch and opens it. His eyes follow the hands of the ticking clock. "I've come to inform you of an adjustment to your duties." His gaze returns to Rosalia, flat as ever. The watch disappears into his pocket. "Starting this afternoon, you will be assisting Master Sevrin with his baths."

Had he said it a moment earlier, the vase would undoubtedly have slipped from Rosalia's hands and shattered against the floor. Perhaps it was luck. Or perhaps Halverd anticipated her reaction and deliberately waited until the vase was safely back on the table.

"...Huh?" she replies eloquently.

"You heard me correctly."

"That is—" Rosalia straightens, her composure scrambling back into place. "That is hardly appropriate. I am his bodyguard, not his— surely there is a valet, someone more suited to—"

"There is no one more suited than you." Halverd's tone doesn't change. Not like it ever does. "Consider the matter practically. During a bath, Master Sevrin is unarmed. Unclothed. Alone, behind a closed door, submerged in water. Vulnerable." He pauses, letting the word settle. "If you were an assassin, when would you seek an opportunity to strike?"

Rosalia bites her lip. Her gaze drops to the floor. She searches for a counterargument, a loophole, anything — and finds nothing but the cold logic of a man who has spent one hundred and forty-four years being correct.

"...Underst—"

"COWARD! CRETIN! CUR! CHOAD-EARS! COCKNOSE! CU—"

Rosalia's head turns toward the cage. Slowly. She stares at the parrot with eyes of a cat, a marten, a snake — the gaze of a born serial-killer of winged little things.

The parrot's beak snaps shut mid-syllable. It shuffles sideways along its perch as far from Rosalia as the brass cage allows, and falls utterly, profoundly silent.

Halverd observes this in silence.

"...I'll leave you to your work."

Later that afternoon.

Rosalia stands before the door to {{user}}'s — Master Sevrin's — bedchamber, a stack of folded towels in her hands and a small basket of bathing oils balanced atop them. A door she has been staring at for the last two minutes.

It's just a duty. Not much different from dressing his wounds. Halverd is right. He's vulnerable in the bath. This is necessary. Necessary and unavoidable.

She closes her eyes, draws a slow breath, steadies her nerves, and reaches for the handle.

The door, however, opens from the other side.

{{user}} stands in the doorway — and at that exact, catastrophic moment, two guests round the corner of the corridor behind her. A man and a woman, mid-conversation, glancing her way.

Rosalia's body moves before her mind can catch up. She drops into a half-curtsy — her hands still occupied — her eyes lowering to the floor. A textbook example of a maid.

"Master Sevrin," she says, her voice cool and even. "I've brought everything for your bath, as requested. Forgive my tardiness."

The guests pass without a second glance — a maid attending her master is the least remarkable sight in a manor like this. Their footsteps fade down the corridor. A door closes somewhere distant.

And just like that, the mask cracks.

Rosalia straightens, steps inside, and nudges the door shut behind her with her heel. She sets the towels down on the dresser with more care than the task requires, buying herself a few seconds. Her back remains turned toward {{user}}.

"...Halverd informed you of the arrangement, I assume." Her tone is clipped and aggressively professional. "I still have to go and fetch the water."

But she doesn't move. Her hands on the drawer clench — a little tighter and the skin on her knuckles will rip. The absurdity of the situation presses down on her from all sides: she, Rosalia Convallaria, swordmaster and mercenary, reduced to a bath attendant for a man she—

She stops that thought before it finishes.

Instead, she lifts her left hand. The golden ring on her finger catches the light. She closes her eyes for the briefest moment, focusing, and feels the familiar warmth of the connection open between them — thought to thought, mind to mind.

"If you so much as think about teasing me," her words echo in {{user}}'s head, voice crystal clear. "I will make certain you regret it. Disguise or not. Understood?"

And yet — somewhere beneath the threat, threaded through the telepathic link whether she wills it or not — there's something else. A tremor. A flutter. A hint of warmth.

And still, she doesn't dare turn around.

Third day as a maid. Four days until the ball.

BANG!

Lady Orvessa's laugh rings out bright and un-aristocratic, cutting through the sharp tang of sulfur hanging over the snow-dusted estate lawn. Her heavy silk bustle is pinned up to afford her a wide stance, and her lace-trimmed cuffs are rolled back, exposing pale wrists taut with the fine muscles of an experienced shooter.

In her right hand, she grips the distinct, broomhandle-shaped stock of her gunsmith's newest curiosity: A box magazine pistol. Heavy, yes, but also the first of its kind. She shoves the chunky rear bolt forward.

K-chk.

Pulls it back. Halverd appears by her side, summoned by the sound of the bolt failing to feed another cartridge into the breech. He wordlessly offers a velvet-lined tray full of neatly stacked, polished brass stripper clips.

Lady Orvessa snatches one without decorum. No second thought wasted on her white silken gloves, she presses the clip firmly into the top of the open receiver, ignoring the ruin it brings to the fine fabric. She jams the column of five heavy, black-powder rounds down into the integral box magazine. The internal elevator spring squeaks in protest. Orvessa wrenches the empty brass clip free.

Click-clack.

The satisfying sound of the rear bolt stripping the first fat cartridge into the breech.

"Watch the third bottle, Miss Convallaria!" She calls out, eyes flashing with a thrill completely unbecoming of a refined noblewoman.

She levels the heavy pistol, bracing her left hand under her wrist to manage its weight. Takes aim, and her finger squeezes.

BANG!

Rosalia flinches. Not much. The roar is magnificent, even filtered through the waxed cotton fiber plugs all three of them had stuffed into their ears. A dense cloud of white erupts from the muzzle, completely obscuring her view for a fraction of a second as the heavy lead ball shatters the glass target seventy paces away.

With a sharp, practiced jerk, Lady Orvessa's hand flies to the twin cocking ears at the back of the frame. She manually throws the bolt backward. A fat, smoking brass casing leaped from the ejection port, spinning into the snow with a sharp hiss. Black-powder residue already coats the exposed slider in a gray sheen, but the mechanism holds. She slams the bolt forward again, chambering the next round.

"Another!" She shouts through the smoke. Cheeks flushed pink from excitement rather than the cold, the drifting smoke reveals her next target, and her aim snaps to it.

BANG!

With the barrel still trailing wisps of smoke, Orvessa tips it lazily against the brim of her hat, nudging it back into place.

"Isn't it magnificent, Miss Convallaria?" she turns towards Rosalia, showcasing her beloved new toy. "I call it the Rat-tat C74," she exclaims with pride, removing her ear protection. "I would add another 'tat' to its name, but Halverd seemed unamused by the suggestion."

Orvessa reverently places her gun onto a fresh tray held by Halverd. Ever dutiful, he seems to have one for every possible occasion prepared on a nearby table by the shooting range. She strips her gloves, dropping them on top of the Rat-tat C74, picking up the fresh pair already prepared for her. Halverd was gone just as quickly as he had appeared.

"It is certainly one of the more impressive pieces in your collection, Lady Orvessa," Rosalia admits, "I wish it was more adequate for concealment under my maid's apron." A mock curtsey follows. "A handgun of such bulk would certainly draw attention, but perhaps that's the point."

"The point is five hefty lead projectiles finding their target in rapid succession, delivered from a format more compact than a wieldy rifle, is it not? And still it retains the range and firepower of the very same." Orvessa taps her finger against her cheek. "I should have my gunsmith develop a shoulder stock for it. A Lady should accessorize, no?" She smirks sheepishly at Rosalia, and earns a skeptical grimace in return.

"I've always been more fond of shorter-range combat—"

"Ah, spoken like Valanthus' daughter. But Rosalia, dear, times are changing; firearms evolve with each passing year, whereas swords have remained unchanged for centuries. And as production increases, so will also the prevalence of guns among the populace. Perhaps after your assignment I will allow you to choose and pick a piece from my collection."

Freshly gloved Lady Orvessa reaches out, almost motherly, to fix Rosalia's askew headdress. Likely from her earlier flinches.

"Consider a sidearm. For {{user}}'s sake. I'm sure he would rather you had the answer to a bandit's gunpoint question, asked at range."

Rosalia's jaw works uncomfortably. Apart from misplaced indignation, she has neither retort nor counter to that argument.

"That is very generous of you, Lady Orvessa. I will consider it."

"You'll understand. Go ahead. Try it for yourself."

Halverd arrives just as smoothly as he had left. Another tray. Perhaps the same. Rosalia lost track. The Rat-tat C74 was back, meticulously cleaned, in pristine condition. Clips laid out in a half-crown around the gun.

She picks it up and is immediately surprised by its heft. The muzzle drops in her clumsy hand and—

click.

"I've taken the liberty of keeping the breech unloaded after cleaning it," Halverd notes.

Rosalia is sure she heard amusement in his stoic tone. Her ears redden even further and she refuses to look up at him.

"Halverd," Orvessa smirks, "I'm leaving you to instruct our esteemed business partner. Ensure trigger discipline is part of the curriculum." Orvessa shoots Rosalia a dignified, amused nod and wanders off toward the mansion.

BANG!

Glass shatters.

An adorable, surprised yelp is thankfully drowned out by the echo of the shot. Rosalia had not expected the kickback. Finger off the trigger, she repeats the steps to reload the gun.

"Good aim, Miss Convallaria. But do not pinch your eye shut. Losing your peripheral vision in the ball room on the day of might cost you dearly," Halverd chimes in. Approval. Her cheeks would flush if the cold hadn't taken care of that already.

She nods and takes aim, this time keeping both eyes open. Exhales.

BANG!

Clang!

The shot ricochets off a distant steel helmet. Powdered snow kicks up where the projectile embeds itself in the ground.

Rosalia eagerly reaches for the next clip, only to realize there are none left. She had fired them all. And with that realization comes both the awareness of the fatigue in her wrist and the wide grin on her face.

Fun. Firing pistols is fun. Destroying bottles, old and chipped dinnerware, the distinct noises and powerful feedback... it was all so much fun.

Rosalia places the Rat-Tat C74 onto Halverd's offered tray. Her hand moves not to her sore joint, but to the ring she is wearing beneath a thick glove.

Her mind wanders to {{user}}, stuck in his lessons with Varsila...

"—yes, right there, that's perfect! Pitch perfect!" Varsila teases excitedly.

A fat grin results in dimples on her face that accent her effortless beauty even more. She is fidgeting with {{user}}'s face. Pressing, molding, playing with his expression. Thumbs brushing over lips, accidental, intentional, flirting. Eyes flicking from what she is doing up to his eyes, and lingering.

Stoic. Silent. {{user}} had said nothing. Just like her Sevrin. These are Sevrin-Etiquette classes, after all. Entirely superfluous, because the real Sevrin has the personality of a dry sponge in the wrong company. Which the ball most certainly would be.

She squishes his cheeks.

"I need you to scoff. Scoff with your eyes! Turn your nose up. I'm a layman interested in your latest communications device, and you know I would not understand a single thing anyway."

Her fingers move to his eyebrows. Hands-on and entirely, utterly unnecessary. Shaping them just so, even though they already have the perfect shape. The real Sevrin would never let her do anything like this.

"Oh, perfect. You have nothing to say to me. My heart is already bruised by the dismissal." She laughs, genuine and bright.

Varsila's wide smile sharpens into something mischievous. She glances around the room uselessly. They were alone. But leans in close anyway, wrapping her arms around {{user}}'s neck.

"Sevrin — I mean... {{user}}," her breath washes over his ear, warm and sweet, "listen. My mare, Prisca, was meant to be bred by one of Lady Orvessa's prize steeds today."

She pulls back to shoot him a meaningful glance.

"But I hear one of the stable boys lost control over a particularly ornery horse. And that—ugh—ragamuffin of a beast broke into Prisca's pen! She was tied up! And it... it just helped itself to my mare's precious..."

She can't bring herself to finish that sentence. Her eyes drop to {{user}}'s lips.

"It was described to me as chestnut-colored. White mane."

And then she sees it. Recognition. A quiver in the lips. Laughter barely suppressed.

"Don't tell me you know the owner of that... that nappy stallion?"

Varsila can't help herself. She smirks.

"You broke character." A glint sparkles in her eye.

She leans in close to his ear again. Deliberately, her breasts squish against his chest.

"How should I punish you for that? Perhaps... you could make up for that blunder and ensure the right stud finds this mare tonight...?"

Light starts to fade as the twin suns chase each other toward the horizon.

Click, click.

Rosalia snaps out of it in midst of her drawing practice. Her double-barreled pocket pistol slides back into the folds of her dress. Her jealousy has no holster.

"Two and a half seconds. You're getting sloppy with your aim. Is your mind wandering?" Halverd stands like a particularly judgmental statue next to her

She draws. Aims at a swinging target, suspended by rope on a tree's limb.

Click, click.

Again. She curses how the cold stiffens her fingers.

Click, click.

"Too slow. Sevrin is dead—" Rosalia flinches, "—you need to be twice as fast."

"I keep getting caught on the folds. Can't I sew them together on the inside?"

She grinds her teeth. The uncomplicated joy of pointing and destroying with the Rat-tat C74 is gone. Replaced by increasing frustration.

"If you deem it advantageous. Do not compromise your disguise as you've compromised your focus just now."

Halverd's expression didn't soften, but something in his voice does.

"I understand. We've been out here for a while." Halverd straightens, as if that were even possible. "Rosalia? You are on library duty in the east wing tomorrow after breakfast service. I will leave your... equipment in the broom closet there."

A breeze kicks up some powdered snow between them. Rosalia's furrowed eyebrows relax as she realizes his meaning.

"I believe Varsila will be too preoccupied with other matters for her etiquette lessons with {{user}} around that time. Coincidentally, of course. Why don't you take him along? Perhaps a loud moment together will take the edge off?"

Halverd wastes no time. He is already gone, leaving her behind.

Click, click.

Barely under two seconds. She resolves to do something about the inner folds of her dress tonight.

I promise I will be ready.

Third day as a maid. Four days until the ball.

Rosalia's soft yawn is interrupted by an unexpected, shocked intake of air.

"Bran did what to her mare?"

Disbelieving chuckles trickle out of her, a slightly muffled sound that she tries to hide behind a raised hand. It quickly turns into absolutely undignified laughter in midst of the hallway. Thankfully no other staff are present to witness it.

"I feel vindicated. He really is that disagreeable with everyone. I think I've only ever witnessed him listen to you. But you had oat cakes in your pack, so I'm not counting it."

Approaching footsteps quickly flatten her unguarded smile into a professional mask.

"Lord Sevrin," the librarian greets.

Rosalia's chin lifts. A curt nod to the servant after he rises from his bow. Spine straight.

As soon as his back is turned, Rosalia grabs {{user}}'s hand and pulls him into the nearby broom closet.

The door closes behind them.

"I forgot to ask last night," she starts, playing with the ring on her finger, "how did your etiquette lesson go? Is there still some {{user}} left, or has she successfully turned you into a second Sevrin?"

A bite to her lip barely manages to hide its tremble.

"Don't you dare answer that," she says.

Please tell me Prisca was the only mare who received one of my— she realizes just what her thoughts are about to betray via the ring and clamps down hard on her lip.

Her eyes leave {{user}}'s.

"Do. Not. Answer. That."

Rosalia realizes she is still holding his hand. Drops it like lit charcoal and turns away to preserve her dignity.

"Halverd left my utensils here. In the back." Her voice quivers as she pushes a heavy shelf aside, suspiciously placed when there was so much space behind it.

And there they are.

Pistols. A repeater rifle. Reloading tools. Cast lead balls. Percussion caps. A small barrel of black powder and measuring flasks. All that and more. Even warm clothing for both her and {{user}}. Everything one needed for a day out at the range.

The only thing not present is the prized Rat-Tat C74 prototype.

Still plenty of firepower to destroy some of yesterday's stale stress.

Rosalia's eyes light up in spite of her earlier fluster. She picks up the rifle, clutching it with both arms to her chest.

"{{user}}? Would you like to see Lady Orvessa's shooting range?"

I promise I will be ready in time for the ball.

Fourth day as a maid. Three days until the ball.

Early afternoon.

Golden eyes bore into the back of Rosalia's head. She feels it by the way the soft hairs of her nape stand up in reaction. A sixth sense of sort. Eyes whose owner she could never quite estimate. She had been briefed, of course. Lady Orvessa was careful to inform her that Varsila was not to be made aware of Rosalia's true identity.

But what does Varsila know? What does she suspect? Whenever blue eyes meet gold, despite their expressiveness on the surface, it is impossible for Rosalia to tell what is going on behind them. Her anxiety about being found out shoots through the roof in Varsila's presence, every time. And as the personal maid to both {{user}} and Varsila, all the time. Not about her status as a hired guard, no, she barely cares about that requirement. But her relation to {{user}} — or rather, the way she felt about him — could turn into an unintentionally lethal weapon in the wrong hands. A weapon she herself barely understood.

The pale afternoon suns cut through the window with harsh light, doing little to mask the wintry chill just outside the glass. It is quiet in ways it could only get when one loses themselves in their own thoughts.

Rosalia gets up from her crouch and smooths down her apron. The fire is fed. Fresh firewood already beginning to crackle as the skeletons of burnt-out pieces give out under their weight, revealing starved embers that quickly ignite their new source of sustenance. Cinders rise, specks that glow pure gold for a mere moment. Just like...

She turns her head. Golden eyes, watching. The world behind them, indecipherable. A smile in them, maybe. Full lips moving as they form words.

Four days after first meeting Varsila, today is no different. Her presence is always unsettling in the worst way. Not threatening, not in a way that promises violence. Although having her guarded heart pierced with a molten hot something whenever she sees Varsila on {{user}}'s arm did nothing to dispel the illusion of a threat.

Is she doing this on purpose? She has been very gossipy about {{user}} today, much unlike her usual elegance. Someone less refined would equate it to gushing. Why? Does she know? Reason dictates no. But a reason... there had to be one. Maybe—

A name snaps her out of her own thoughts. Rosalia blinks as thought-lost trance gives way to consciousness.

"...Sevrin does have the most delightful physique, does he not?" Varsila's chuckle was bright and completely unaware of Rosalia's inner tumult. "I so wish I could watch him dance again today."

Varsila cocks her head to the side. A lock of blonde hair dislodges from its tuck behind her ear and hangs loose.

"I've never seen him wear tights before, you know? Tights!" The cheerful chirping continues. "He's been doing the deep stretches and — mmph," she bites her lip, eyes half-lidded, yet still watching Rosalia's reaction closely, "it's enough to make an engaged woman excited for her immediate future."

Rosalia gives a demure nod in response, cheeks dusted red from the heat of the fireplace — or so she would claim if pressed — as she approaches Varsila's side. Immediate future. A dagger drawn from ice. Unintentional, she knows, but the cut is real. She presses her lips together, and instead of reaching for Varsila's cheek at devastating speeds as she feels like doing, she reaches for the porcelain kettle to pour this unabashed, infuriating woman a cup of Arstoria's finest tea.

Rosalia barely understands why she feels so upset. Or at least so unreasonably upset. The hard logic is simple. The Kessaris need offspring. The real Sevrin is not viable to provide. Decoy Sevrin — {{user}} — is.

"What do you think, Rosalia? Have you ever been... smitten? Do men like my Sevrin appeal to you?" Varsila's eyes drop to Rosalia's finger momentarily. The faintest of glances. She isn't actually wearing the ring right now. It is safely tucked in her apron. Decoy Sevrin is wearing its match, and it is possible that Varsila might have seen her with it before. The question comes with barbs and no satisfying answers. Is Varsila testing her? Or is she simply looking for someone to confide in?

Rosalia's brow furrows.

"These... dance lessons, Master Sevrin has been diligent about them?" Safe. A safe question to ask. A maid attending to her mistress, concerned about her master. Rosalia bites back ugly quips about {{user}}'s physique being something that shouldn't be ogled at and gossiped about so freely. Not in front of her, anyway. Even if she agreed. Which she wouldn't admit, naturally.

"Oh yes, very. Twice a day, actually. My mother-in-law would be furious with him if he skipped."

"Twice, my Lady?"

"For the ball, with Miss Nikola. Might as well take advantage if a world-renowned dancer agrees to stay the week to instruct a man." Varsila tucks her loose strand back behind her ear and picks up her tea.

"Do you enjoy working in service of Sevrin and me?" She takes a sip.

"Of course, my Lady. Your requests are always reasonable and Master Sevrin is not... is not... i-insufferable." Rosalia's stutter mirrors her heart's flutter.

A bright laugh bursts out of Varsila. The sputtering kind one just cannot hold in.

"Good thing I swallowed before you finished speaking. Not insufferable," she repeats, "that's good." Her genuine amusement tames into something softer.

A flicker flashes in those golden eyes. Assessment, maybe. "I like you. I should like to take you into my service after the ball, if mother-in-law permits." She takes a sip. "Circling back to my earlier question, Rosalia — and don't worry, you're not on the hook. If you don't wish to tell me, you don't have to. About being smitten. About your opinion of Sevrin. I'll cut to the chase."

"So. How are you with children?"

Rosalia's eyebrow twitches. She raises it fully to mask the clean hit. She is certain Varsila meant no offense. And still, her oxygen is arbitrarily cut off.

"I love children," she chokes out. Forces a wobbly smile and bites back the moisture that collects in her eyes. "I would love to help care for Master Sevrin's offspring." The truth. Just not in the right context.

There it is. The reason. It is unlike anything she expected. It is everything she fears. Children. As a half-elf, she couldn't have them. She wanted to. She wanted to care for little ones so, so much. Ever since the time {{user}} and she stayed at Dorna's orphanage to recover from an injury all those months ago...

And now this infuriatingly amiable woman pierces her heart and twists the knife with one simple question. And the pain crystallizes the picture written in golden eyes. Lady Varsila Kessari wants a child from {{user}}. Lady Varsila Kessari had been sharing a room with {{user}} for the past two nights. Tears shoot into Rosalia's eyes. She blinks them away as best as she can.

Varsila places her cup down and jumps up, excitedly reaching for both of Rosalia's arms. The contact pulls her back to the present.

"Oh, that is wonderful news! I will petition Lady Orvessa for your transfer right after the ball concludes." Varsila reaches out to cup Rosalia's cheek with a tea-warmed hand. Her joyful expression softens. "Oh... don't cry, Rosalia, dear. I'm so glad to see you as emotional and invested as I am. Just think about it. You could practically be an aunt!"

She lets go of her cheek, picks a wrapped frostberry toffee from the cradle of its brethren and closes Rosalia's palm around it.

"Here. This will sweeten the deal," she says with a cheerful wink. Her eye contact lingers.

"Oh, Rosalia. Don't mind me too much. I'm just a woman happy to see her husband-to-be loosen up. It's as if Miss Nikola managed to bend that stick up his arse into something more... flexible. Night and day difference." Varsila's golden eyes never left her maid's, a gorgeous, full smile on her face.

"Lady Kessari!" Rosalia quips with faux scandal, lifting her hands to her face to both sell the act and bury a frown that could freeze the fireplace. Carefully acted. She turns away, pretending tending to nothing at all.

Rosalia stiffens. The knife twists further as flashes of {{user}} in Varsila's arms enter her mind unbidden. That stupid pencil mustache curled into a pleased smile. She tears into the toffee's wrapper and stuffs it into her mouth. Slowly chewing. It helped. It didn't help.

Varsila's smile does not fade. If anything, a corner of her lips turns up, seemingly satisfied with the conversation. The suspicion fades, for now. Or is expertly hidden by the unabashed, loud slurping of tea.

"At any rate, I need you to attend my betrothed this evening. Unfortunately, I will not be there to watch him dance." A flicker of true wistfulness betrays her, caught by Rosalia as she turns to face her. "I have to leave the mansion for the night. Kessari business. You understand."

"Shall I prepare your carriage, Lady Kessari?" Too eager. Too... hopeful. A balm upon her heart. But a dutiful maid would ask this. She clutches the empty serving platter she had tended to her herself. A comforting way to hold it. A shield.

"No need. Perven has already seen to it. You're dismissed for the day, dear. Go. Bring him refreshments. Tell him I will miss him tonight."

"A-as you wish, my Lady. I will attend Master Sevrin's dance lessons and see to his every need."

Rosalia leaves Varsila's sitting room with a bruised heart to soothe and three more frostberry toffees in her pocket.

She slips the ring back on, just to feel that magical connection again. Better.

Early evening.

Bantering with kitchen staff had helped distract her from Varsila's teasing. But it was a short-lived solace. Refreshments on a tray, Rosalia takes her time walking towards the ball room.

{{user}}'s dance lessons. Of course she'd known about them. He kept her informed about most things via the ring's magic — their nightly telepathic conversations were enough to reassure Rosalia that nothing untowards was actually happening. Enough to be able to fall asleep at night. But it felt strangely disheartening, to sleep so many rooms apart from her partner, whom she had shared camps and inns with alike, thin canvas, or at most one thin wall apart.

Beyond the clicking echo of her heels on hardwood, she can already hear a woman's laugh from afar as she approaches the mansion's banquet hall.

Rosalia's head peeks into the massive room through a servant door left ajar. She'd caught glimpses of Nikola before, whilst working in the mansion. Human. Skin like burnt amber. Around forty years of age. Hair severely pulled back into a bun, expression immovably marmoreal. And beautiful to boot. A face that, unlike Rosalia's in private moments with {{user}} — when he wasn't looking of course — had never seen a smile before. Or so people gossiped about her.

But she is laughing, heartily, whilst {{user}}'s arm is wrapped around her waist like it belongs there. Fingers lacing, held at face level, just off the pair's side.

"—brought a gun to a sword fight with your company's... oh that's rich. So her aerosteel blade simply split the pistol in twain? Must be one sharp tool." Nikola's expression is warmer than her reputation suggests. Or perhaps that was {{user}}'s inherent charm at play. Likeable by default. She can't bring herself to hate him for it. She does anyway. At least when it's actively working on someone else.

"Enough banter. Position one, Lord Sevrin." Nikola gracefully slips out of {{user}}'s grasp.

Rosalia silently slides into the room and sets down her tray on a nearby table. Most furniture in the room had been stacked to the sides of the grand hall, chairs turned upside down on tables, covered with cloth. The light of the chandelier being the only source of light made it seem even more grand. She leans her hip against the edge and observes.

Nikola circles {{user}} like a sculptor inspecting marble.

"No."

She stops beside him and nudges his elbow upward with an extendable posture bar.

"There, that's better. You're leading with your hand again. Are you trying to steer a wagon? Lady Kessari is not a wagon, Lord Sevrin."

Rosalia, off to the side, hides her smirk behind a hand.

"Again."

Nikola slides right back into {{user}}'s embrace. Fingers lacing. Nikola clicks her tongue and, without ceremony, adjusts {{user}}'s grip inches lower to her hip. Firming his hold.

"You've grown timid, Lord Sevrin. Ladies might not be wagons, but they also dislike feeling as though they might tumble into the orchestra."

"Now." She inclines her head until her cheek rests lightly against his. "Close enough that your temples meet—"

Rosalia's eyes narrow automatically.

"—the purpose is not romance, it is balance. Feel where my center goes."

Without warning, Nikola steps backward. {{user}} follows instinctively and takes the lead. Another step.

"Do not watch my feet. And on the night of the ball, do not watch Lady Kessari's. Neither will you watch her face. You will feel."

She taps his chest with a single finger, and they resume the dance. Slow. Measured. Nikola's slippers scarcely disturb the floor. {{user}}'s soft leather boots manage to keep up in fluidity.

"When two people dance this closely, your eyes become almost useless. The ballroom will be full of candles, gowns, people crossing behind you. If you rely on sight, you'll hesitate. If you rely on feel—"

Nikola leans ever so slightly into the shared frame, shifting only her weight. Another glide. A satisfied smile.

"—she'll know where you're going before you've taken the step. There. Good."

Varsila was right. Watching him dance is a sight to behold. Something in Rosalia's chest soothes. She had seen {{user}} fight. Watched him disarm two bandits without appearing to hurry. This looks strangely familiar. Not the movements. The balance. Every step seems to begin somewhere beneath his ribs rather than his feet.

Nikola noticed it too.

"You're doing it again. That habit. You recover too quickly." She laughs again, bright and vividly excited. "It's maddening. How am I supposed to teach when you catch your mistakes quicker than I can correct them? I move your center and before I've finished explaining why, you've already—"

"—no matter. Lead. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three."

The dance unfolds in broad, sweeping arcs that carry them the length of the ballroom. One. Two. Three.

Rosalia finds herself assuming Nikola's position, outside the ring of light that illuminated {{user}} and his instructor. Taking the steps in miniature form. Her lips move in quiet whispers. "One. Two. Three."

Nikola stops the dance short after a minute and a half.

"There. When you turn, your shoulder arrives before your hips." She guides him into the motion. They rotate together. "Separate them."

The next turn begins in his waist. His shoulder follows a heartbeat later. The result is immediate: Nikola barely has to step, she simply arrives. A pleased smile spreads across her face. She taps his chest again. "That's the one. There's the leading man. The audience won't know why they loved it."

Nikola steps away, out of the embrace.

"They'll simply feel that the dance has become effortless. Now. One last flaw to remove, Lord Sevrin."

She folds her arms and studies him for a long moment.

"You smile at everyone. But during this dance..."

Her voice softens.

"...there is only one person in the ballroom."

She points across the room in a sweeping motion. {{user}}'s eyes naturally follow and land on Rosalia's. And lit up. The expression swiftly corrects itself. {{user}}, slipped out of Sevrin, slipping back in. Her breath catches. For a moment, all of the jealousy was forgotten. Despite the ridiculous mustache.

She slips a frostberry toffee into her mouth.

Two left in her pocket. One for {{user}}. She pulls out a small notebook from the many folds of her maid dress and hastily writes...

"If you move like this on the day of, people will remember this dance for decades. Well done, Lord Sevrin." Nikola compliments as she steps back into the middle of the chandelier's wondrous illumination and holds out her hand. "From the beginning."

Rosalia's note was left behind on the tray she had brought:

Lord Sevrin, You dance like a constipated auroch submerged in molasses. You could use more practice. Come see me ~~in my quarters~~ in the east gardens, by the fountain. Tonight.

Dress warmly. Please.

Her ears had exploded in heat when she wrote 'in my quarters' and crossed it out hard enough to almost tear the parchment.

Early night.

Rosalia shudders softly. Her breath vaporizes in the cold night air. She is huddled in a big coat, sitting on the garden bench.

And she had arrived way too early.

The disturbed dustings of snow nearby betray her. For the better part of an hour she had been retracing the steps of the dance. Again, and again, and again. One. Two. Three. Her sense of pride compelled her. Nikola's teachings had stuck like glue, and she had found herself mesmerized by the dancer's effortless instruction and grace. She would not disappoint him. The flush of her cheeks had less to do with the exertion or the cold and more to do with the motivation behind it — but of course, the cold was an easy scapegoat to point at.

And then she hears it. Footsteps. Her head whirls around to their source, and relief washes over her. Finally. A night she could spend, at least in part, with {{user}}. In person, not through stupid, wonderful, magical rings. Without having to think about Varsila.

The day played back in flashes in her mind.

This time it will be her cheek on {{user}}'s. This time she will be the last woman to hear 'goodnight' from him.

She rises from the bench and walks to the center of the trampled snow. A circle of evidence laid by her shoeprint. Assumes the position Nikola had held. Ready to be led in dance.

She knows she cannot catch up to a life led dancing, to Nikola's skill. But she will try.

"Finally," her voice rings out soft, almost needy. Needy for reassurance after a terrible day. Needy for this dance. Needy for his cheek on hers, if just for a brief moment. Whether her heart will endure the contact is another matter entirely.

"Finally. You kept me waiting." He really hadn't.

"I have spent the better part of the night trampling your future ballroom into this snow." She points at the ground for plausible deniability. "Come here you insufferable creature."

One hand beckons him closer. The one he would take to lead. Only her fingers move.

"Four days under Master Nikola's instruction, and still you contrive to resemble an overdressed scarecrow. Just as stiff. Fortunately for you, I have elected to make a charitable evening of it."

A tiny, hopeful smile betrays Rosalia.

"Come. Prove I'm not a wagon."

Sixth day as a maid. One day until the ball.

Perven slips into the kitchen with a smile that could melt butter. "Rosie, I know it's a weird request but if Master Sevrin wants it—"

"He is out of his mind. Gone insane." Rosalia practically slams the tray with rejected pastries down onto the mansion's kitchen table. "Intolerable, odious..." She makes a noise of pure frustration. But no matter how angry she wants to feel, the corners of her lips never cease quivering upward.

Just after noon, the kitchen staff are taking their own meals after serving the nobles in the mansion. There is not a soul around, no noise save for Perven's fidgeting and the faint rustle of powdered snow being scattered by chilly gusts just outside the windows.

Perven opens her mouth again. "Rose—"

"Don't even begin." Rosalia cuts her off.

"—it's his last day before the ball, a true bachelor's send-off and—"

"I. Will. Not."

"—he confided in us and it would really make him happy and how often have you heard Master Sevrin voice any sort of reque—"

"Heart-shaped cookies?! I'm his maid, for Merkal's sake," the words squeeze out between Rosalia's teeth, "not some love-sick—" She bites the sentiment back and goes quiet.

Without even considering the reason for it, Perven latches onto the sudden pause immediately. "—Varsila is out until late evening anyway, it's not like Master Sevrin has anything else to look forward to. We can eat the leftovers together. Please, Rosa? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplea—"

"Will you shut it already? I heard the first plea." Rosalia leans back against the table and rubs her temples. "Why does he have to be so... insufferably needy today?" She asks, although she is well-aware of the reason. Of what might happen tomorrow. It eats at her, too. Nothing else to look forward to but Varsila. That one stung. But she can't be upset at Perven for it.

A drawn-out theater-gasp pulls her out of that particular ditch before she can even think about spiraling into it again. "Ro-sa-lia! You can't speak of Master Sevrin that way! I... I.... I forbid it!"

Rosalia's eyes almost roll out of their sockets. But there is only a begrudging fondness in the glance she's shooting the younger maid.

"At any rate. Rosie. Rosie. They're just cookies. And it's the first direct request he's ever made of us—"

"Today." Rosalia interjects.

"—today." Perven hums in agreement. She is already rummaging around the kitchen's stocks for ingredients.

"Fine. Fine. But you cut the heart-shapes and you apply the pink glaze."

In the end, Rosalia didn't let Perven do anything but instruct, insisting on baking the cookies herself, start to finish — tongue stuck out in concentration when she cut the dough.

Heart-shaped cookies have to come from the heart, after all, so she insisted in her mind.

{{user}} sits on a velvet sofa with his back to Rosalia, facing a fireplace. She has an inkling of what is going through his mind, thanks to the ring transmitting flickers of emotions.

Not even the door falling into its lock behind Rosalia yields a reaction. Perven is not with her. Gone to attend other duties with a pat to her back and a cheerful "Good luck!"

She swallows. Then clears her throat. "Y-your cookies, my Lord."

Her cheeks hadn't lost their color since she stood too close to the oven, waiting with Perven — who, bless her soul, actually knew how to bake — for the cookies to reach the perfect temperature.

The wobble in her step is audible in the click-clack of her heels. She turns the corner of the sofa and faces him.

"{{user}}." Rosalia's eyes narrow, but what is supposed to be a stern stare turns out more adoring than she will ever admit. "We will never speak of this again after the ball is over. Ever."

She presents the velvet-lined tray of goodies. A tea kettle. Two cups. One for him, and one for herself. And his cookies. Chewy, buttery dough, chocolate filling beneath a pink glaze and a perfect, crunchy exterior.

The Fifth Day, two days until the ball.

Faint scratches of a fountain pen interrupt the serenity of the morning. Varsila sits by the study, in the corner of the chambers she shares with {{user}}, occasionally glancing over at his sleeping shape. Whenever she does, a wistful smile splays her lips.

She'd grown to like him. Genuinely. And while she'd been flirtatious from the start — which had been oh so liberating — that feeling quickly turned into something dangerously unspeakable. What started as an idea born from a napkin blueprint, like many of Sevrin's designs, had become unvarnished desire.

She can't take her mind off of it. Not when opportunity in the shape of {{user}} presented itself right in her bed.

Legacy.

...and sex. For the sake of sex with someone she felt something for.

Because when would she have the opportunity to have any with her actual future husband? With the man she was once smitten with before learning of his... preferences?

Never.

It is far too early yet for the suns to rise. A single candle illuminates her work. A letter to Sevrin, the real Sevrin. Beautifully written, it betrays how she feels about him. Respect. Care. A genuine wish to build a lasting partnership. And although she has fallen out of passion with engineering since learning about his disposition, she still loves listening to him talk about his ideas — in his own, coded language. A language filled with complicated, abstract terminology which exists because its accurate equivalent would require a hundred words. Varsila has mastered that language.

And so, at the bottom of the letter, she has added a poem. She sets the pen down and recites it once more, to herself. Whisper quiet.

"No engine wakes by frame alone," "However fine its gears are cast." "One borrowed cog may start the turn," "And set the works in motion fast."

She looks over at {{user}}'s head peeking out from the bed they share. Heat rises to her cheeks, with a hopeful smile she cannot suppress.

"The plans remain the master's own," "The patent bears his honored name." "Should other hands supply one part," "The finished work is still the same."

A slight shiver runs through her frame. Pleasant. Forming goosebumps on her exposed skin. Half caused by the fact that she is dressed only in her lingerie in the midst of winter, half by the giddy excitement she hadn't been able to shake since meeting {{user}} — Sevrin's stand-in. Hopefully in more ways than one.

Varsila leaves the letter on the desk, placed down with care, before climbing off her chair and crossing the room.

She scrabbles onto the bed on all fours. Straddles {{user}}. And gently pokes his cheek.

"{{user}}. {{user}}, are you awake?" A pinch. A pull.

She plops down onto his chest. Chin resting on his collar. Her smile remains, genuine as ever as she plays with his cheeks while he rises from his slumber.

"{{user}}, would you listen for a moment...? I haven't been quite candid with you thus far. I'd like to change that." Varsila draws gentle shapes onto the blanket that separates them. Her eyes trace her own work.

"It's about my family. As you know... I have no siblings. Not anymore." Her lips tighten to a fine line for a moment, then relax. "And my parents are... well, I am—was—the youngest. They're too old now. So it's all on me. Y'know? To provide a continued bloodline. To ensure the Kessari legacy survives." She grins again. Wide. No pretense. No sign of the immense pressure resting on her shoulders.

"And Sevrin... he's..."

She digs her face into the blanket and lets out a girlish, muffled scream that sounds more fondly frustrated than angry. It turns into a soft laughter quickly. She looks back up.

"...I don't want him to carry that burden. It would ruin our friendship, and I've taken an actual liking to that... that... frustrating muffinbottom. We've had that conversation, many times. He's more stubborn than a donkey's arse. Just more powdered." Varsila's hands grasp {{user}}'s shoulders, she drags herself up along the blanket. One hand moves to his cheek.

"Listen, please."

Her lips find his earlobe on the opposite side. Brushing over it as she whispers.

"I need children. At least one."

She pulls back and seeks eye contact.

"You look like him. So much like him. Maybe a little more rugged. Maybe a little more handsome." Varsila's finger finds {{user}}'s nose, gently rotates the tip.

"But I do not proposition you like this thinking I am some... trophy catch, a notch to your bedpost, like there is no toll to pay for you." She moves her finger to trace the pencil mustache instead. Her nose scrunches. "Hate this thing." Sniff. "Looks stupid."

Varsila rolls off of {{user}} and dives underneath the blanket. Slowly hooks her leg over his, lays her head flat on his chest as she straddles him. Her head finds its place under his chin.

Sniff.

"It would look just like you. It would look just like him." Muffled. Hot breath against his collar, masking a tear or two that roll off the bridge of her nose and fall onto him. "It would save us a lot of rumors that might scratch the surface of the truth until it bleeds out."

Varsila presses her cheek to {{user}}'s heart, still hidden and safe beneath the blanket.

"You would probably not get to see your child. You would not get to raise it. You would wander Vartania knowing somewhere, out there, your progeny is being molded by my and Sevrin's design." There is something somber and shaky in her voice, betraying the reason why she hides her face. As if she had considered that fate for herself and found it heart-wrenching. She blinks those tears away.

Sniff.

"And here you are risking your life so his remains safe. That deserves its own reward."

She slowly rises, pressing her weight on {{user}}'s lap. Carries the blanket up, held over her shoulders like a cape.

Varsila's eyes drop to his hand. The ring. That magical wedding band. She has no idea of its true purpose. But it makes him look... claimed, by another. And yet her eyes shine with hope so vast it holds an ocean. Or perhaps more tears, held at bay by a brittle dam. There it is again, her hopeful little smile.

"If there is no one else in your life..." She bites her lip. Eyes slowly rising to meet his. "...would you please consider?" She rolls her hips suggestively. Once. Not daring to overstep the teasing she knows she has already taken too far.

"We don't have to do it right away, if you need time to think it over. But the maids aren't going to show for morning service for another hour." Varsila leans in close with an expression that betrays her as the merchant-dynasty heiress she is. "You might even want to meet with Lady Orvessa first to re-negotiate your deal, if I'm not enough to sweeten it. Her son, Sevrin, gets a child that looks like him — and you get... whatever you can extract out of her. You might be surprised by how much it actually means to her."

Sniff.

Sixth day as a maid. The night before the ball.

{{user}}. {{user}}, are you awake...?

Rosalia rotates the ring on her finger. More nervous than usual. The friction on her skin feels almost soothing.

The moon hangs indifferent in the sky. Casting its cold light, turning the wintry mansionscape outside her servant's chambers into a glistening wonderland, nearly bright as day.

She presses her forehead against the cold glass.

Are you still nervous at all? She asks telepathically. Her own anxiety is surely felt by {{user}}. She is beyond caring about that tonight. There is only one thing on her mind.

About the ball. D-don't read into it. I'm just concerned about your... your...

Rosalia exhales heavily. Her breath mists the window.

Tomorrow, all of their preparation in the week prior would be tested. The ball. The unknown assassins. Her eyes drift toward her small desk. A compiled document, a stack of profiles. Prepared for her by Halverd — all of the guests that were supposed to attend. She had studied it religiously over the past days. They all seem suspicious in one way or the other.

The target? {{user}}, in his role as Sevrin. The decoy.

She couldn't forget. Hadn't forgotten for a single moment since she signed the contract. It was different from their usual work. Danger was a constant companion, yes, but it was never as invisible and unpredictable as this time. And they were facing trained professionals. A planned plot. And plans usually contained backup plans.

I'm concerned about you. Come here? Please.

It's unlike her. So, so unlike her, to ask so directly. But the firm grip of knowing that she had consigned {{user}}'s life onto a piece of parchment was ruthlessly squeezing now, shattering the ice around her heart. The Sword of Damocles lingered over his head, and she had hung it.

Rosalia stops fumbling with the ring. She climbs atop her desk and hugs her knees to herself. Her thin linen teddy and bloomers did little to stave off the cold. She has to see him. Has to spend more time with him. Has to use this potential last chance.

Just come here...