The castle lay bathed in ink-wash dusk after dinner. The corridor sconces cast warm golden light through carved glass, sprinkling the flagstones with flecks of molten gold.
At dinner, Sister Lorelei had said little, merely spearing vegetables with her silver fork—but her gaze never left him, as if she had seen straight through him. Under her scrutiny, Harlotte dared no extra movement. When the meal ended, he did not return to his east wing chamber but cut across to the mid-level study. Entering, he slid to the floor by the door, his heart hammering in his chest.
That sense of oppression from his sister exceeded even the combined weight of the other inhumans. She smiled, yet inspired an inexplicable dread.
After ten minutes, he shook off the panic. The die had remained silent, and he exhaled in relief.
Pacing the study, Harlotte resolved on his next inhuman to test: the guest scholar Margaret, who had revealed “God is dead.” But he needed a plausible pretext.
At the window-side bookcase, his fingertips traced dusty spines. The original heir had read perhaps eighty percent of these volumes—though Harlotte’s memory of that was incomplete. He skimmed titles: Commentary on the Sacred Texts, History of the Inquisition—none appealed. Discarding astronomy, geography, military protocol, culinary travelogues, he settled on two yellowed tomes: General History of the Curia and Origins of Power, the latter bearing a tiny spine-stamp: “Not Curial-Approved.”
Origins of Power it would be.
Clutching the book, he turned for the stairs—then halted at steady footsteps. Looking down the hallway, he saw his stewardess Seraphina.
Though nighttime, Seraphina’s black velvet uniform was immaculate: every silver button fastened to the collar, the cuff pleats flawlessly pressed, the skirt’s slit ending precisely two fingers above the knee. Yet the stern fabric could not conceal her fiery curves: the velvet at her chest was stretched full and taut, her waist cinched by a narrow belt, alluring in its precision.
Harlotte’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat—such formidable temptation!—but he repressed the stir in his core. He dared not provoke this likely demon bound by contract.
Seraphina paused too, and one silver button at her chest strained, then pop—it flew off, clattering on the stones. In that instant he saw the seam gape, revealing pale violet undergarments.
Unperturbed, Seraphina stooped to retrieve the button, slipping it into a hidden pocket as if picking up a fallen leaf. She showed no embarrassment at the glimpse of her inner layer—typical of a confident elder sister, unflappable where the maid Lilith seemed provocative.
Meeting Harlotte’s stare, Seraphina held his gaze two heartbeats before frowning, “Master, why are you out so late?”
“I didn’t understand parts of today’s lecture,” Harlotte said, relief softening his tone. “Guest Scholar Margaret said to seek her if questions arose. I intend to ask.”
Seraphina was silent a moment. Her voice turned sterner yet caring: “It’s dangerous to roam the castle at night. You know how you stay in the study until Maid Lilith escorts you to wash and to bed.”
Harlotte began to respond, but Seraphina did not press. Instead she noticed a small issue: “Lately your eyes are bloodshot—you mustn’t be sleeping well. Perhaps the young ladies disturb your rest. I will speak with them tonight.”
She paused, eyes serious. “And do not study too late—fatigue hinders memory. No matter how long you question, return to your room by nine o’clock. Before half-past, you must be in bed unless I or the Senior Maid is with you. These are the castle’s rules—to ensure you rest. My dear young master, you may forget some rules; I will find you in the study tomorrow afternoon. And as you near adulthood, there are things you must learn.”
Her final warning—mind you don’t draw attention—sent shivers over Harlotte’s skin.
A new rule! After nine, remain in your chamber or misfortune follows. The castle after half-past nine was perilous, though from whence the danger came, he did not know.
He trusted Seraphina’s word—devils kept their covenants. As long as he honored his part, she would protect and obey.
Before he could reply, urgent steps sounded—and Lilith, in her Rem-style maid’s dress, rushed toward them. Her over-the-knee socks were askew; her chest heaved slightly from haste.
Bowing to Seraphina, breathless, she said, “Stewardess Seraphina, the young lady urgently requests your presence in the tower.”
Then Lilith looked to Harlotte. Concern replaced seduction in her crimson eyes. “Master, you scarcely ate at dinner. Are you over-tired?”
His heart raced, recalling her earlier enticements. Which side of her was true?
By his mother’s rules, without the coming-of-age ritual, the maid remained merely a maid—yet such thoughts offered little comfort.
Seraphina adjusted her button and quietly reiterated, “Remember, return punctually.” Then she followed Lilith toward the tower.
Lilith paused after two steps, glancing back at Harlotte with tentative concern. “Master, if dinner was unpalatable, tomorrow I shall personally prepare your favorite dish.”
Unsure of her motives but unwilling to rebuff kindness, Harlotte managed, “Thank you, Lilith.”
She brightened. “It’s my duty! Now go ask your questions—time is precious.”
With that, she hurried after Seraphina.
Watching their retreat, Harlotte felt a pang of regret—had he waited longer, he might have gleaned more. But time pressed; he tucked Origins of Power under his arm and made for Margaret’s east-wing salon.
The mid-level corridors grew dark; sconces dwindled until only room numbers were legible. Margaret’s guest chambers lay behind an oak door set in damp, moldy stone. The relief carving above was eroded beyond recognition—twining vines that at first seemed to burst outward, yet all tendrils twisted inward, as if to crawl into one’s eyes.
A small wooden plaque read “Guest Scholar.” Neither he nor the original heir had visited often. Harlotte knocked; a faint rustle answered, then Margaret’s surprise: “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Harlotte.”
The door swung open.
Margaret wore a deep-green silk robe—not coarse linen, but fluid satin that gleamed like liquid emerald. The neckline fell just enough to reveal a patch of pale collarbone, edged in fine silver embroidery that fluttered with her movement. A loose sash tied at her waist hinted at gentle curves, the hem ending above her knees to show smooth calves.
Harlotte’s breath caught as his eyes swept over that silk-clad figure—mature allure like aged wine. He hastily averted his gaze, swallowing his flush.
Seeing the book in his arms, Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “Master, at this hour? You look better than in class.”
“I didn’t follow parts of the myths you spoke of,” he said, offering the volume. “You said I could ask you questions. The stewardess and Lilith… their concern eased me.”
Margaret took the book but did not open it, her fingertip tracing margin notes as a small smile curved her lips. She stepped aside, voice softer than in lecture. “Come in—outside is chilly. Though they seem austere, they care for you.”
She set the book on a wooden table by the window, then poured a cup of water and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed; the warmth sent a flurry through him. He drank quickly, stifling the tremor.
“There’s a rule to my role as Guest Scholar,” Margaret said, voice gentle with mature warmth. “Any question you have about knowledge, I must answer—no lies, no refusals. This was agreed with your mother, and it’s why I remain here. But even without that pact, I would still teach you if you sought answers.”
Holding the cup, its heat seeping into his palm, Harlotte met her kind gaze and looked at Origins of Power on the table. A weight lifted—he had chosen well.
“Perfect timing. Taste this freshly brewed valerian tea.” She rose, retrieved a teapot from a small brazier, and poured. The aroma curled between them.
He hesitated to drink, then she poured herself a cup and leaned against the carved table. Her robe gaped low, revealing a pale pink rose–shaped birthmark at her collarbone. She tucked a curl behind her ear; herbal stains dotted her forearm like indigo petals around her veins. The slit in her robe revealed a glimpse of a silver-chained animal bone at her ankle—another subtle sign that this world’s power was entwined with the uncanny.
Harlotte’s gaze lingered two seconds too long, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Ask what you will,” she murmured, languid and inviting, half-clothed yet commanding. Her autumn-water eyes held him, awaiting his student’s query.
“Teacher, why does the Inquisition have authority to judge heretics? Shouldn’t those you call heretics resist?” Harlotte chose his words carefully, avoiding mention of supernatural power, though it was his real question.
“They resist? The Inquisition bears divine grace—heretics cannot withstand it.” Margaret shook her head, a trace of melancholy in her tone. Without the Curia’s might, they would still be in hiding.
“What is this divine grace? Is it the supernatural? Teacher, does this world truly host superhuman power? Can you teach me what that power is?” He blinked, voicing his deepest question.
Her lips curved in satisfaction—what a spirited soul, striving despite hopelessness. “To understand the supernatural, we must first classify it.”
She extracted an iron box from the bottom shelf. Opening it unleashed a wave of decay. Inside lay a yellowed human-skin scroll, inscribed with twisted prayers in dark red ink.
“The first system is Sacrifice—the oldest and most inscrutable. Its essence is a bargain with an unknown Great Being. One might call it pleasing them. Those Outer Gods hidden in higher-dimensional chaos, or great entities from other realms, all fall under this trade.”
Her fingertip traced a tentacled illustration on the hide; she did not say how to summon such entities. “Sacrifice cares only if the ‘price’ is sufficient; it never stipulates how or what the price must be.”
“But the greatest peril: you never know what you sacrifice to, nor if the being accepts your offering.”
Harlotte’s eyes darted to the illustration: priests thrusting a living person into a stone circle beneath a sky filled with tentacled eyes. For whom was this sacrifice? Did any survive?
“Some sorcerers gain the knowledge they seek, then perish in an instant, their minds unable to bear the cosmic weight,” Margaret continued. “Some offer grand ceremonies, only to be crushed by a heavenly club, for the recipient was not an evil god. And some succeed—for a single apple, they attain unparalleled power.”
“The problem with Sacrifice is its utter unpredictability: you cannot know what you will gain, nor what you will lose.”
Her words sent a tremor through Harlotte. Sacrifice—so simple, yet fraught with ultimate uncertainty.