The scratch of quill against parchment filled the dimly lit chamber, the only sound in the heavy silence.
She sat stiffly at the grand desk, the glow of candlelight casting long shadows across her face. The vampire loomed behind her, his presence as suffocating as the quiet. Twenty minutes had passed, and she was finally done.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the paper as she turned to face him.
"This is it," she said, her voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at her.
He didn't respond immediately. His red eyes flicked from the parchment to her, unreadable as ever.
"How can I trust that it's correct?"
She swallowed. Something about the way he looked at her made her chest tighten.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "It just… feels right. The words feel familiar, even though I have no idea what language it is."
His gaze sharpened at that, a flicker of something passing through his expression—something she couldn't name.
His silence stretched, and she forced herself not to shrink under it.
She had seen those writings before. The script had always drawn her in, even when she was too young to understand why. Her father had kept similar texts hidden away, never allowing her to touch them. Yet the moment she had laid eyes on this parchment, she hadn't needed to decipher the words. They had come to her instinctively, flowing from mind to ink as if she had always known them.
The vampire exhaled softly, stepping away from the chair. His posture remained composed, but she caught the slightest crease in his brow.
Not only did she resemble those people… she could understand their language.
But that was impossible.
His own knowledge of the text was limited, yet what she had written aligned with what he already knew. Her translation was correct—at least, mostly.
And that disturbed him.
"Why do you think this is important to me?" he asked at last, his voice even.
She hesitated. From the way the notes were scattered across the desk, it was clear whoever had been working on them had struggled. Someone had been desperate to make sense of this language.
She parted her lips to answer, then stopped herself. No. If he wanted to keep secrets, so could she.
"I just thought—" She caught herself, inhaling sharply. Pride wouldn't help her here.
Lowering her gaze, she swallowed her hesitation and spoke.
"Please don't put me in a cell." Her voice wavered slightly despite herself. "Anything but that. Please."
She saw the flicker of amusement in his gaze before it vanished.
"Anything?" he echoed.
She tensed, suddenly aware of the weight of her own words.
"And a whore," she quickly added, lifting her chin. "I won't be that either."
A beat of silence.
Then, he turned away. "I'll decide by morning."
She stared after him, her pulse still unsteady.
___
The maid didn't move right away, merely watching her with an expression she couldn't quite place—pity, perhaps, or curiosity.
Her throat felt tight. She wanted to demand answers, to ask what would happen to her, but the words stuck.
Would he really decide her fate by morning? Or was this just another mind game?
"Come," the maid finally spoke, her voice soft but firm.
Still gripping the edges of the parchment, she hesitated before pushing herself up from the chair. Her legs were unsteady, but she forced them to move.
The room blurred around her, candlelight flickering against towering bookshelves and deep red drapes. She had spent the past hour drowning in unfamiliar words, her mind tangled in them, but now… now reality was settling in.
She wasn't free. She was still a prisoner.
And worse, she had no idea if she had just saved herself—or unknowingly sealed her fate.
The maid led her through the dimly lit halls, her footsteps light against the stone floor.
She clenched her fists as she walked
__
Morning came too soon.
She barely remembered falling asleep, but when the knock came at her door, she knew she had.
The same maid from the night before led her through the winding halls. The scent of parchment and candle wax thickened as they approached the library, pressing against her lungs.
This time, he was seated behind the desk, flipping through papers with an air of indifference. He didn't look up when she entered.
She waited.
Minutes passed
He finally looked at her then, his crimson gaze steady, assessing. "You translated that text too well for someone who's never seen the language before." A pause. "Too naturally."
Her fingers curled at her sides.
"I don't know how I did it," she admitted. "It just… made sense."
His expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted.
"Made sense," he echoed, voice almost thoughtful.
She had no way of knowing, but he did. He recognized the structure of what she wrote. He knew she had translated it correctly. And he knew—he knew—that no ordinary human should have been able to.
Only they could.
His jaw tightened. The resemblance had been unsettling enough, but this? This was something else entirely.
It was impossible.
It had to be impossible.
She couldn't be one of them. They were long gone, wiped from existence.
And yet…
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "You don't want a cell. You don't want to be a wh0re" he mused at the second statement. A pause. "Fine. But I can't let you walk freely either."
Her stomach twisted.
"So I'm giving you a position" He tilted his head. "Not as a prisoner. Not as a guest." A deliberate pause. "But as a maid
Her breath caught "whose?" she asked
"Mine"
She wasn't naïve. This wasn't an act of mercy.
It was control.
It was surveillance.
He was keeping her close. Watching her
She forced herself to meet his gaze. "You don't trust me."
His lips curled, just slightly. "Should I?"
The weight of his stare settled on her, searching, dissecting. Unspoken questions beneath it
She lifted her chin. "When do I start?"
His gaze lingered a moment longer before he stood.
"Now."
---
The servant's hall was already full when she arrived.
The long wooden tables, worn from years of use, were packed with bodies—maids, footmen, kitchen staff, laundresses. A mix of humans and vampires, all turned toward the front where the head maid stood.
She felt the weight of their stares before the woman even spoke.
"Listen well," the head maid's voice cut through the murmurs. "This is the new girl. She'll be handling all matters concerning the king's chambers from now on."
A ripple of shock moved through the room.
She saw the shift—the way some maids stiffened, eyes narrowing, while others exchanged quick, knowing glances.
They weren't expecting this.
She wasn't expecting this.
A new maid wouldn't usually get an introduction, let alone an announcement. They were assigned, they worked, they blended into the background. Yet here she was, standing beside the head maid like some kind of… special appointment.
A cough from the front. "So that means," the head maid continued, ignoring the tension, "all food, all bedding, all clothing, all bath preparations—everything going to the king—will go through her hands first."
The murmurs swelled.
She caught fragments— a new girl?, what's she done to earn that?, wasn't she a prisoner?
She forced herself to keep still, keep her face blank.
The head maid didn't bother quieting them. She simply turned to a younger maid, a girl no older than sixteen. "Ena, you're moving to kitchen duty full-time. Lin, you'll handle the main hall laundry. Your room shifts are now hers."
More shuffling. More exchanged looks.
No one protested outright, but she could feel the silent pushback—maids who had worked years to rise through ranks now being shifted to make way for her.
She swallowed.
He wasn't just keeping her close. He was setting her apart.
It wasn't trust.
It was a warning, she wasn't like them; she was different
And every maid in this room had just received it loud and clear.