The candlelight flickered against the polished wood of the master's study, casting long, wavering shadows. Anna stood before the heavy oak desk, hands clasped tightly before her, back straight. Her master, Lord D'Armand, did not like slouching.
"You will clean the waste rooms tonight," he said, his voice smooth but utterly devoid of warmth.
Anna did not react. She had known this was coming.
"Yes, my Lord," she said, her voice steady.
D'Armand leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest. His nails were perfectly manicured, pale against the deep mahogany wood. His lips curled into a faint smirk.
"I trust I do not need to remind you to be thorough?"
"No, my Lord."
"Good." He reached into a drawer and retrieved a small glass vial, filled with a thin, shimmering liquid. "Your payment."
Anna stepped forward and took the vial with careful fingers, resisting the urge to sigh in relief. This was why she obeyed. This was why she endured.
The medicine inside was the only thing keeping her husband alive.
"You may go," D'Armand said, already turning his attention to the papers before him.
Anna bowed her head slightly and left the study without another word.
This was Anna Belrose, one of the few trusted—or rather, controlled—maids in her master's mansion. The position was sought after, not for its work but for its privileges. Better food, warmer quarters, protection from the worst abuses that ran rampant among the lower staff. But such benefits came at a cost.
The master did not assign these tasks to just anyone. No, to be chosen for this work, one had to meet his criteria. Either he had their trust, their fear, or a firm grip on their secrets. In Anna's case, he had all three.
She trusted her husband, the master's tailor, when he told her that keeping her head down and doing what was asked was the only way to keep them both safe. She feared her master and what he was capable of—the quiet disappearances, the unspoken rules, the whispered warnings that carried the weight of truth. And blackmail? Yes, she had that too. A blade held to her throat, ensuring her silence.
Her grip on the mop tightened, knuckles whitening as a flood of awful memories rushed back. She had once thought about running. Everyone did, at first. But she had seen firsthand what happened to those who tried. A young footman had attempted to flee only three months ago. They found him days later, or rather, they found what was left of him, displayed as a warning at the estate's entrance. His remains had been positioned deliberately, almost artistically. The master had a taste for messages, for making sure his lessons were understood.
No one had tried to run since.
Shaking her head, she pushed the dark thoughts aside and forced herself into routine.
The human-waste rooms—sterile words for what they really were—held the failed experiments of her master. She didn't know what happened to them, or why, or even who was responsible for the actual experiments. She only knew that her master was funding it, and that it was her job to clean up the aftermath.
With a sigh, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a smooth white marble—one of many. Without hesitation, she popped it into her mouth and bit down. A faint mist escaped, swirling around her face before settling into a thin, translucent mask over her nose and mouth. The familiar, filtered sensation followed, blocking out everything but clean air. The marbles only lasted half an hour. She had three left. Enough.
Bracing herself, she unlocked the door with a glowing key and stepped inside.
The usual.
Women. Children. All dead.
The stench of blood, rot, and something unnatural hit her even through the mask. It wasn't the smell of mere death—it was something worse. Something corrupted.
Ten months. That's how long she had been doing this. At first, she had wept. She had raged. She had prayed. But grief and horror were luxuries she could no longer afford. They had burned out, spent like a candle left to smolder for too long. Now, all that remained was the empty, mechanical rhythm of her work.
Expression blank, she placed the bucket down and propped the broom against the wall. First, she had to separate the bodies. Then, she had to disassemble them. After that, she would dissolve the remains in the Ash Bucket.
Her hesitation about the job had long faded into numb routine. She moved toward the pile, ready to pick up the first corpse—when she felt it.
A gaze.
Sharp. Fierce. Cutting through the stagnant air like a blade against her spine.
Cold sweat prickled at her skin as her eyes darted across the room. Empty. The door? Still shut. Yet the sensation of being watched only grew stronger, more tangible. Her breath hitched as she turned back to the pile, scanning the lifeless forms.
And then she saw it.
Between the dissected remains of women and the limp bodies of infants, something stared back. Two dull, glowing eyes, barely visible in the dim light. A baby. But its gaze—it wasn't vacant, wasn't weak or confused like it should be. It was piercing. Intentional. Intelligent.
A chill crawled up her spine.
"Shit," she muttered, fingers going slack as the broom clattered to the ground.
Nathan watched as the woman entered, her bucket and broom in hand. His chance. His best chance.
But he waited.
Back in his old life, he prided himself on reading people, on understanding intent and emotion. But looking back now, at the countless blank faces in his memories—names forgotten, relationships blurred—he wondered. Had he really been a good judge of character? If no one in his past had been important enough to remember, had he ever truly understood them at all?
No. Now wasn't the time for doubt. He needed to act.
He focused, letting his magic flare in his gaze, not only to draw her attention but to analyze her. The way her mana flowed, the way it pulsed through her body—steady, refined. It was stronger than the weak, flickering traces he had sensed in the corpses around him. She had the same organ he did, though hers was dark and lumpy, like a diseased heart.
She was like him.
Then their eyes met.
And just like that, control slipped from his fingers. His survival, his future—everything was now in her hands. He loathed that feeling.
She spoke, something sharp and startled. A curse, maybe? He couldn't understand her. Of course, he couldn't.
`New world. New language. I can adapt.`
The woman hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, peeling away the corpses one by one. He barely felt the weight being lifted. His body was too weak, too frail. The constant use of his magic had drained every last calorie he had to spare, and malnutrition had already begun sinking its claws into him.
As she worked, her movements slowed, hesitating as she uncovered more of him. He could see the realization setting in—he wasn't just another failed experiment. He wasn't just a mindless infant gasping its last breath.
He was something else.
He forced himself to move, just slightly, his fingers curling against the cold floor. A test. A final gamble. Would she recoil? Call for someone? Or—
She didn't scream. Didn't flinch.
Instead, she exhaled, slow and measured. Her hand hovered above him, uncertain.
He stared up at her, willing his gaze to hold, to convey what his voice couldn't.
Save me.
She clenched her jaw. Looked toward the door.
Then, finally, she moved.
Not away. Not to call for help.
She reached for him.