Many times, being disgraced isn’t the worst thing; what truly matters is never losing face before those you know. Poor Head Maid Lilith had just made a judgment—and immediately discovered she was wrong.
Needless to say, in front of Harlotte she was certainly humiliated. After all, she had sworn that before Harlotte came of age she would devour him like a tender chick—one of her castle rules being to “help” him reach adulthood.
Her best opportunity had been ruined by the steward, leaving Harlotte wary of the steward ever since. That stung her deeply—like a person starved for decades staring at a feast but forbidden to eat.
She was already depressed; now this slip gave her just the outlet she needed.
Harlotte keenly detected the flash of anger in Lilith’s eyes. In his mind he cheered, Fight, fight—I love watching women fight. If Lilith and the guest noble clashed today, he could profit handsomely from the chaos. The more brutal, the better—ideally one of them would die, and he’d have fewer rivals.
Yet to his surprise, it was not the guest noble who emerged, but a young maid of perhaps sixteen or seventeen years.
“Lucia, what are you doing here?” As Head Maid, Lilith naturally knew her subordinates.
“Lady Margaret asked me to help tidy her quarters. And you, and Young Master…” Lucia’s voice trembled as she noticed both Lilith and Harlotte standing in the doorway, her heart leaping to her throat.
Rules in the castle’s interior were legion; any maid who survived here was astute and endlessly cautious. Speak when spoken to, look only where permitted, act only when commanded.
Why risk working here? Simpler to starve outside than starve with your whole family—at least here you’d eat better and earn more than any common servant elsewhere.
“Do you know where Guest Noble Margaret has gone?” Lilith’s ire diminished slightly upon seeing it was her own maid, not Margaret, who stood before her.
“I’m sorry, Madam Head Maid, I don’t know.” Lucia kept her head down, staring at the floor out of fear.
“I understand. You may go. I’ll check Lady Margaret’s chambers myself.”
Before either of the two could reply, Harlotte interjected, “Let’s go.” Lilith froze for an instant, then silently allowed him to proceed.
As the steward had said, apart from his mother, no one could bar Harlotte’s entry to any part of the castle.
Perhaps Margaret’s absence was her greatest mistake—her room now stood undefended before him.
Lilith did not follow; she showed no intention of observing him. Intriguing—Harlotte sensed Lilith and this guest noble were not on good terms. Such infighting among nonhumans could be useful if he could uncover it.
But such thoughts would wait. First, he needed to survive tonight; if he lived, there would be days to come.
He had visited Margaret’s room before, but then she’d been present, so he hadn’t examined the layout closely. Now, surveying the chamber, the first thing he noticed was the human-skin parchment Lady Margaret had held aloft when explaining the transcendent path of sacrifice.
Don’t ask why—Harlotte knew it was human skin. Its texture and thinness differed completely from any animal hide. Most telling, it lay arrogantly in the room’s most conspicuous spot.
A trap? Harlotte did not know what the parchment did or how to use it, but he knew all nonhumans in this castle were dangerously unpredictable.
Regardless of whether it was a trap, he had to take it. The countdown to his eighteenth birthday was a death warrant; he would seize any chance to stay alive.
Drawing a deep breath, Harlotte stepped forward and, ignoring the nauseating slickness, lifted the parchment. As long as it doesn’t say, “I am Harlotte; when you read this I am dead,” we’ll be fine.
Of course, if it truly bore that message, he could hold his nose—it would still prove valuable; such unerring prophecy was too useful.
To his surprise, the parchment bore no words—only a series of intricate patterns. One glance made his head spin, his sanity slipping away.
At the instant he focused on those designs, the crystal dice in his mind spun once more—but this time three dice appeared, each bearing a word: Inspiration, Will, and Luck.
With clatters, all three dice tumbled and landed showing 5, 7, and 12 respectively.
In that moment, Harlotte felt his consciousness drift from his body, weightless, drawn toward the parchment. Those chaotic designs resolved into a three-dimensional vision of a bizarre altar.
This must be the sacrificial altar, he thought. But I’m not here to sacrifice—damn it, it really is a trap.