The library of Black Crow Castle lay in near-stagnant silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of pine logs in the hearth. The future lord of the castle, Harlotte Kodanis, the seventeen-year-old heir of the Kodanis family, sat in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk.
His seventeen-year-old frame had yet to fill out—narrow shoulders wrapped in a light-gray linen shirt.
His fingers were slender, the knuckles distinct, holding a quill pen suspended above the parchment. The white feather of the quill was pinched between his fingertips, its plume slightly crumpled.
Harlotte lowered his gaze; long, thick lashes cast pale shadows that hid the turmoil in his eyes—that age-inappropriate, suppressed despair.
The parchment lay flat at the center of the desk, its edges curling faintly. Harlotte dipped the quill in ink, then let it fall to write a few concise lines:
“There was once an ill-fated soul whose mother was a deceiver, tricking supernatural beings. She promised the firstborn child in exchange for whatever she desired.”
“That poor child was raised under the watch of devils, demons, vampires, werewolves, and witches.”
“The vampires thirsted for his blood, devils craved his soul, demons lusted after his body, werewolves feasted on his flesh, and witches harvested his bones.”
“On his eighteenth birthday, he was devoured by every existence.”
“If I’m not mistaken, I am that doomed child—Harlotte Kodanis.”
“Eighteen—only two months remain until my eighteenth birthday. I just want to survive.”
Finishing the last word, Harlotte set the quill by the inkpot; the pen’s shaft tapped softly against the glass. He folded the parchment into a neat square, deliberate and solemn, as though handling a secret too shameful to see the light.
Rising, the chair’s metal arm scraped against the floor with a hushed “creak.” He walked to the hearth; the firelight flickered over his handsome features, stretching his shadow long against the stone wall like a gaunt, elongated prisoner.
He tore the paper into fragments and tossed them into the hearth, watching them burn to ash. Whatever had been written would remain known to no one.
At that moment, the study door was tapped twice, and a soft, gentle voice followed: “Young Master Harlotte, you should wash up; the onsen has been refreshed with hot water.”
It was the senior maid, Lilith.
Harlotte hastily used the wrought-iron tongs to stir the ashes, pressing the last unburnt scraps into the coals. He turned, his earlier gloom replaced by the calm, courteous expression befitting “Young Master Kodanis.” He straightened his shirt collar and opened the door.
Lilith stood just outside, clad in a tailored black maid’s gown that fell to the floor. Though the dress concealed her feet, small round-toed shoes and a pair of black silk-clad feet hinted at the secrets beneath. Lilith understood men too well.
Beyond her, the wooden door of the top-floor bath exhaled a faint scent of cedar. Opening it released a warm, golden glow. A copper tub stood in the center of the room, filled with steaming water and scattered rose petals floating atop.
Harlotte reached out to test the temperature; the warmth was perfect. He was about to undo his shirt buttons when soft footsteps sounded behind him.
“Master, are you going to bathe?”
Her voice was gentle, perfectly reverent. Without turning, he knew it was Lilith—his personal maid. In every aspect of his life, from attire to hygiene, she was ever ready to serve.
He looked back to see her at the doorway, the black gown accentuating her slender figure.
“I’ll help you. You’ve seemed under too much stress lately; your spirits appear drained.”
Instinctively, Harlotte wanted to refuse—he wasn’t accustomed to assistance with bathing. Yet he paused, recalling dim memories of the original heir always attended by Lilith.
He pursed his lips, then nodded, turning back to unbutton his shirt as his ears warmed.
Without another word, Lilith approached the tub and began to undress. The black dress slipped to the floor, revealing only a black apron and those same black silks beneath. The apron hugged her waist while leaving her neck and shoulders achingly pale.
The silk stockings clung to the shape of her legs, tracing curves from ankle to thigh, even the slight folds at the knees exuding an unspoken allure. In the warm light, her skin gleamed like fine porcelain—every line flawless.
Harlotte gasped—how could anyone endure such temptation? This was a test of will, surely! He turned his gaze away and stepped into the tub. The hot water lapped over his waist, easing his racing heart. He heard Lilith’s footsteps approaching.
Then, soft and deliberate on his shoulders, her hand began to knead away tension. The bath fell silent save for water’s faint lap and Harlotte’s contented sighs. Lilith’s massage was masterful—every pressure point, every movement precise.
“Does it feel good, Master?”
“Yes.”
He trembled with half-dreamy drowsiness—whether from the massage or the intoxicating scent of Lilith’s skin, he could not tell. His mind hazily answered her question as instinct took over.
“Master, would you like me to sleep beside you tonight?” She pressed closer; her supple form pressed wholly against his back.
“I… I…”
Before he could finish, her body underwent a startling transformation. Bat-like wings unfurled, heart-shaped pupils bloomed pink, and a slender tail with a heart-tipped end flicked into view. Her once-slim form swelled into voluptuous curves—the innocence vanished, replaced by utterly inhuman seduction.
If mortal beauty were scored at ninety, her nonhuman allure soared to ninety-five.
Her blood-red lips parted. Harlotte felt his life-force begin to flow as white mist into her mouth—just wisps now, yet he could be drained in an instant.
At that moment, a sharp “click” rang in his mind, as if dice had clattered to the floor. A crystal twenty-sided die marked at its center with the word “Will” appeared in his thoughts, spun, landed on 5, then vanished.
His scattered will crystallized. Through the water’s reflection, he saw Lilith’s inhuman form. Cold sweat trickled down his temple. This was a succubus of some sort? No—the very image of a libido demon.
“Why are you trembling, Master? Don’t you wish to share my bed?” Lilith’s voice whispered seductively.
“I am your maid… your coming-of-age ceremony is meant to be guided by me.”
“Sooner or later, does it matter?”
“I can sense how desperately you crave my… assistance.”
Her words accompanied a push that sent him to the bathroom floor. Lilith’s pale foot drifted down his chest toward his most vulnerable place.
“Knock, knock, knock—”
A brisk rap shattered the charged atmosphere.
Lilith stiffened; the heart-shaped pupils and wings and tail retracted in an instant. Her figure returned to its slender, obedient form. She smoothed her apron and spoke at the door with calm courtesy: “May I ask who is there?”
“Open the door.”
The cool, clipped voice of the stewardess Seraphina came from beyond—tone as cold as ice on flagstones.
Lilith answered “Yes, ma’am,” then drew the linen bath curtain to shield Harlotte’s trembling hand, pale from cold sweat and lingering heat. Embroidered roses on the curtain, steamed transparent, hid his face and the telltale warmth on his chest.
Seraphina entered, clad in a crisp black velvet maid’s uniform, silver buttons fastened to the throat, and starched gloves. Her gait was measured, as if on daily inspection.
Her gaze swept the room—first to Lilith’s clenched apron, then the rose petals in the copper tub, and finally to Harlotte’s quivering hand behind the curtain.
“It’s late. As maid, you must ensure the young master returns to his room.” Her voice was flat, leaving no room for argument. “Look at the time.”
Lilith bowed her head, voice slightly strained: “I apologize, ma’am. I was drying him and will escort him back at once.”
“If nothing else remains, help him finish his washing immediately.” Seraphina glanced at the silver chain on her wrist. “You and I both must abide by the lady’s rules.”
Those final words, spoken quietly, stung Lilith like a needle. She raised her head, all charm gone, replaced by meek obedience: “Yes, ma’am. I will take him back now.”
Harlotte leaned against the cold stone, his shirt clinging to his sweat-damp skin, heart pounding. Lilith’s inhuman visage haunted him still.
Realizing Seraphina had never been merely passing by—that she must know all nonhuman secrets of the castle—he watched her silent departure. The door closed without a sound, as though no one had been there. But his own shock would not fade.
Lilith exhaled a relieved breath and dabbed sweat from her temple. Had she been even seconds later, she might have crossed their contract’s forbidden line. She regained her composed demeanor and handed Harlotte a clean towel. “The stewardess was right. You should rest now.”
He took the towel; their hands brushed, cold as marble. He said nothing, drying himself in silence. His gaze fell on the apron at her waist—where the bat wings had emerged—now just smooth fabric, as if his terror had been an illusion.
In the corridor, several brass lamps were dark, and the suits of armor cast shifting shadows like guardians come to life. Everything in the castle felt orderly yet twisted.
Lilith’s high heels clicked ahead more briskly than before. Harlotte followed, watching her graceful silhouette, feeling as though every “family” member here was an iron bar in an immense cage.
At his door on the top floor, Lilith paused and bowed lightly. “Good night, Young Master. Call me if you need anything. If you wish for me tonight, you may come to my room at any time.”
“Mm.” Harlotte nodded and entered. Once the door closed, he leaned against it and finally dared to breathe deeply.
“In Call of Cthulhu dice rules, a 1 is an extraordinary success—so much that you could out-wrestle an Outer God; tentacle charm is trivial. A roll of 5 or below is extremely difficult success, yielding extra clues. 10 is a standard success, merely ensuring your action succeeds. Above 10 is failure, the higher the roll the greater the danger. 20 is a catastrophic failure—rare, but capable of choking oneself on cold water.”