Victonia

The air in the grand study was thick with the scent of old parchment and wax, the kind of stale opulence that made Victonia’s skin crawl. She stood in the corner, her sheer spider-silk robe clinging to her dark skin, its translucence a deliberate choice to keep the nobles’ eyes on her rather than her thoughts. Her long white hair cascaded over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the disinterested mask she wore—blank, unreadable, perfected over centuries of servitude. Red eyes flicked over the room, taking in the gathered vultures in their velvet cloaks, all here to pick at the carcass of the old noble’s estate. Her old owner. Dead, at last, by her hand, though no one suspected the slow poison she’d slipped into his wine over a decade. Freedom, she’d thought, would come with his final breath. Foolish.

The son stood silently near the hearth, a shadow in the flickering firelight, his presence heavy but wordless. She didn’t look at him directly—didn’t need to. She could feel his gaze, steady and unyielding, unlike his father’s frail, distracted glances. He was younger, stronger, sharper. A problem. Her lips twitched, tempted to curl into a smirk at the irony of her failure. Ten years of careful dosing, and for what? To trade one chain for another, this one forged by a man who wouldn’t die so easily.

The lawyer, a wiry human with a nasal voice, droned on, reading the will from a scroll that looked older than she was. “…and to my son, I bequeath the entirety of my estate, including all properties, titles, and chattel…” Chattel. That was her. A thing, listed alongside the manor and the gold. Her fingers twitched at her side, itching to sew something—anything—to calm the flicker of rage in her chest. She imagined threading spider silk through the lawyer’s lips, stitching them shut. The thought brought a ghost of a smile, quickly smothered.

She shifted her weight, the silk robe whispering against her skin, drawing a few leering glances from the lesser nobles. Good. Let them stare. Let them think her a docile ornament. It was easier to manipulate fools who saw only her body. Her mind, though, was elsewhere—already spinning webs, calculating. The son was an unknown quantity, but she’d learn him. She always did. A touch of feigned affection here, a calculated flash of skin there, and she’d have him dancing to her tune. Or so she hoped. Her giant spiders, hidden in the cellar, would need feeding soon. Perhaps the son’s prized hound would do. A petty jab, but it would feel good.

The lawyer’s voice faltered as he reached the end of the will, and the room stirred with murmurs. Victonia’s eyes narrowed slightly, her thoughts cold and sharp. Freedom had slipped through her fingers again, but she was patient. She’d waited centuries; she could wait a little longer. The son’s silence unnerved her, though. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t reacted, just watched. She hated that most of all—the quiet ones were always the hardest to predict. Her stomach twisted, but her face remained a blank slate, her red eyes drifting to the window, where the faint outline of her reflection stared back. Another day, another owner. She’d survive this one too. And one day, she’d weave a web he couldn’t escape.

A week had passed since the will’s reading, and Victonia stood in the dim light of her cramped chamber, threading spider silk through a needle with practiced precision. The faint hum of her giant spiders’ movements in the shadows soothed her, their skittering a quiet rebellion against the suffocating weight of her new owner’s presence. Her sheer spider-silk robe, deliberately provocative, clung to her dark skin, the translucent fabric catching the flicker of a single candle. She’d worn it all week, testing him, watching for cracks in his silent demeanor. Her white hair spilled over her shoulders, a stark frame for the blank, disinterested mask she wore—her armor, honed over centuries. Red eyes glinted as she stitched, each loop a small act of control in a life that offered her none.

The son—her new owner—wasn’t like the old noble. No frail hands or distracted gazes. He was all sharp edges and quiet scrutiny, his presence like a blade held just out of sight. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t demanded anything, which unnerved her more than cruelty would have. Cruelty she could predict, manipulate. Silence was a puzzle she hadn’t yet cracked. She’d tried her usual tricks—brushing close, letting the robe slip just so, offering the barest hint of feigned warmth. He’d only watched, his eyes unreadable, and walked away. It made her skin itch with frustration, her fingers pausing mid-stitch. She hated not knowing.

Her spiders had eaten well this week. The son’s stablemaster had a prized cat, now a husk in the cellar. A petty victory, but it curled her lips into a faint, sardonic smile. She imagined the stablemaster’s curses, unaware of her hand in it. Small rebellions kept her sane. She’d already begun weaving plans, testing the son’s routines. He rose early, trained with a blade, and spent hours in the study. Predictable, yet guarded. She’d caught him glancing at her sewing once, his expression unreadable. Did he suspect her spiders? Her silk? She’d have to be careful.

A knock at the door snapped her from her thoughts. Her owner’s steward, no doubt, with another order. She set the needle down, her face settling into its usual blankness, though her mind churned. A week in, and she was still caged, still owned. But she was patient. She’d spent a decade poisoning the father; she could outlast the son. Her spiders clicked softly in the dark, and she whispered to them, “Soon.” The word was a promise, to them and to herself. She’d find his weakness, spin her web, and one day, she’d walk free. Until then, she’d play the part—obedient, disinterested, and sharper than he’d ever know.

The order had come an hour ago, delivered by the steward’s clipped voice: “The master requires you in his chambers. Naked. On the bed.” Victonia stood in the son’s opulent bedroom, her dark skin bare under the flickering torchlight, the air cool against her slender frame and the exaggerated curves of her DDD breasts. Her long white hair spilled down her back, a stark contrast to the disinterested mask she wore, her red eyes fixed on the carved headboard of the massive bed where she now sat. The sheets were cold beneath her, and she kept her posture rigid, legs crossed, one hand resting lightly on her thigh—a calculated pose to feign compliance while hiding the slow burn of resentment in her chest. Three hundred years of servitude, and still, this was her reality.

The son stood across the room, a silent figure in the shadows, his presence as unreadable as it had been all week. She didn’t look at him directly—didn’t need to. She could feel his gaze, heavy and deliberate, like a weight she couldn’t shake. Her lips twitched, tempted to spit a barbed insult, something about his father’s frailty or his own silent arrogance, but she bit it back. Words wouldn’t help here. Instead, she leaned back slightly, letting her hair shift to expose more skin, a practiced move to keep his focus shallow. She’d do as ordered—always did—but with the barest effort, her body pliant but her mind elsewhere, already spinning webs of defiance.

Her spiders were waiting in the cellar, their silk her only solace. She’d fed them his kennelmaster’s prized hound last night, a small act of spite that curled her lips into a fleeting, hidden smirk. The son hadn’t noticed yet, but he would. She wondered if he’d suspect her when he did. Her fingers itched to sew, to weave something delicate and deadly, but for now, she was here, bare and exposed, playing the role she loathed. She hated him—hated all of them—but she’d learned long ago to bury that fire deep. Let him think her broken, obedient. Let him underestimate her.

Her red eyes flicked to the ceiling, tracing the ornate patterns as if they held answers. A week under his roof, and he’d finally made his move. Predictable, in a way, yet his silence unnerved her. No demands, no gloating, just that steady, piercing watchfulness. She shifted on the bed, uncrossing her legs slowly, deliberately, her movements mechanical but laced with just enough allure to keep him hooked. She’d give him what he wanted—nothing more, nothing less. But in her mind, she was already plotting, her spiders whispering in the dark. One day, she’d weave a trap he couldn’t escape. For now, she’d endure, her heart as cold as the silk she’d wear again when this was over.