---
Fortunately, the flower-monsters appeared to be rooted in place. Their petals beckoned and swayed, stretching toward him with desperate hunger, but their stems remained fixed to the earth. They could not pursue.
Gerald tested his blade against the nearest stalk.
Steel met something harder than steel. The sword rebounded without leaving so much as a scratch.
He gathered his aura—that inner flame that separated knights from ordinary soldiers—and channeled it through the blade. Golden light shimmered along the edge as he struck again.
This time, a shallow notch appeared in the stem.
*Tougher than monster hide. Nearly as dense as enchanted armor.*
There was nothing for it but persistence.
*Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.*
He struck like a woodsman felling an ancient oak, each blow biting deeper into the fibrous stalk. The sword grew slick with pale sap that smelled faintly of rot beneath its sweetness.
Finally, with a grinding *crack*, the stem gave way.
The flower-monster's bloom split open in what might have been a scream. A thick, cloying fragrance erupted from its throat—more concentrated than before, almost visible in the air—and then the entire creature went limp. Petals wilted. Colors faded. The thing collapsed into itself like a puppet with severed strings.
*One down.*
Gerald surveyed the garden. Dozens more swayed before him, arranged in protective rings around some central point they clearly wished to guard.
The monsters were essentially stationary. They posed no difficulty as opponents—individually. But their hide could withstand even aura-enhanced strikes. Cutting through each one would require multiple blows, precious energy, irreplaceable time.
*Strike the heart.*
He made his decision and moved.
The flower-monsters seemed to sense his intent. As he approached the center, every bloom turned toward him simultaneously—a field of hungry faces tracking his progress. Those nearest stretched their petals in his direction, trying to block his path.
Gerald's sword sang through the air.
He severed reaching petals without slowing. Ignored the distant flowers entirely. Carved a direct path toward whatever they were protecting.
The center of the garden revealed itself.
There stood a flower slightly smaller than the others, its petals shimmering with iridescent light. Where the common monsters displayed single colors, this one sparkled with every shade imaginable—shifting, flowing, hypnotic.
*The most beautiful of them all.*
Gerald wrapped his blade in aura and struck.
A single blow.
The magnificent flower toppled.
Unlike its guardians, the central bloom required no sustained assault. One clean cut, and it fell.
The effect was immediate.
Throughout the garden, the remaining flower-monsters began to wither. Petals curled and blackened. Stems drooped. Colors leached away into grey. One by one, they died where they stood—satellites losing their sun.
Only the fallen leader retained its beauty. Even severed from its roots, the iridescent petals gleamed with undiminished luster.
*Why isn't it dying?*
Gerald stepped over the desiccated corpses of lesser monsters and approached the central flower.
In that instant, the bloom's throat opened.
Something flew at his face—faster than thought, faster than reflex could counter.
Lightning struck behind his eyes.
Then darkness. Complete. Absolute.
The last thing Gerald ever saw was a flower.
---
*Colorless. Odorless.*
*A poison that stole sight itself.*
*So that was how it happened.*
---
"Good night."
The whispered words reached him through layers of unconsciousness.
Gerald woke.
For a moment, he simply lay still, trying to remember where he was. The nightmare clung to him—that flash of light, that endless dark, that flower opening its mouth like a wound.
But this darkness was different. Familiar. His study. His chair.
And the sound of soft footsteps retreating. A door clicking gently shut.
*She's gone.*
"Kay. How long did I sleep?"
The shadow materialized silently.
"One hour, Your Grace."
Kay's voice emerged barely above a breath—even he understood that volume was Gerald's enemy now.
*One hour.*
Such a small span of time. Insignificant by any reasonable measure.
And yet.
Energy flowed through Gerald's body like water returning to a parched riverbed. His thoughts sharpened. The constant pressure behind his eyes—that grinding weight he'd grown so accustomed to he'd stopped noticing it—had eased.
His senses still raged. The battle for control never truly ended.
But for the first time in longer than he could remember, the struggle felt *winnable*.
"Sleep is good."
He spoke the words aloud, testing their truth.
*Yes. This is what I'd forgotten.*
During those endless weeks of forced wakefulness, he'd convinced himself that sleep was unnecessary. That he could function indefinitely on sheer will. That rest was a luxury his broken body could no longer afford.
He'd been wrong.
Now that he'd tasted it again—now that he remembered what relief felt like—the thought of returning to that sleepless existence made something cold twist in his chest.
"The temporary worker..."
*What to do about her?*
Strange girl. Remarkable girl.
*Dangerous* girl.
She could give him infinite strength. The ability to sleep—truly sleep—would restore him in ways he'd stopped believing possible.
Or she could trap him forever.
What if he grew dependent? What if he couldn't sleep without her voice? What if she left, or died, or simply lost whatever quality made her reading tolerable to his tortured senses?
She was a vulnerability now. A weakness he couldn't afford.
And yet—he couldn't let her go.
*Not yet. Not until I understand what she is.*
---
## — The Outbuilding —
Marin walked past her mother's door without stopping.
Usually she went to Roenna first—to reassure her, to share a meal, to simply sit together and pretend their circumstances weren't dire. But tonight, she headed straight to her own room.
She settled before the vanity and caught her reflection in the mirror.
Her stomach dropped.
"Dear God..."
*No wonder Olive looked at me that way.*
Her hair resembled a bird's nest after a windstorm—tangled, matted, with suspicious debris caught in the strands. A long scratch ran diagonally across her left cheek, the skin around it pink and tender.
This was how she'd appeared before the Duke.
*At least he couldn't see me.*
The thought offered cold comfort.
*Knock-knock.*
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you."
Julia entered cautiously, pushing a small cart before her. Her eyes swept over Marin's appearance, widening with concern.
"Miss Marin—are you all right?"
"Perfectly fine." Marin manufactured a reassuring smile. "The Duke didn't even scold me, so there's nothing to worry about."
"Oh, thank goodness."
Julia's shoulders dropped with visible relief.
"What about you?" Marin studied the girl's face carefully. "Any injuries?"
"Me? I'm fine." Julia waved a dismissive hand. "This isn't my first time. I'm used to it."
She said it so casually. So matter-of-factly. As though being beaten by fellow servants was simply part of existence.
Marin's heart clenched.
*This is the life of common people. This is what I pretend to understand.*
And Julia was an orphan. No family to protect her. No connections to invoke. For someone like her, receiving help from another person must have felt like witnessing a miracle.
*I almost walked away.*
The memory shamed her.
"Julia." Marin made her voice deliberately bright. "If anything like this happens again—come find me immediately. We'll fight together! Understand?"
Julia's only response was a shy smile—the expression of someone who didn't want to impose further burden.
Then she lifted something from the cart.
"The butler sent this ointment. For your face."
"Oh, perfect timing—"
Marin reached for the small jar, but Julia hesitated, holding it close.
"May I... may I apply it myself?"
"I can manage—"
"I want to." Julia's voice dropped. "Please. Let me do this."
She looked so nervous. So afraid of rejection.
Marin relented immediately.
"Then by all means."
Julia's touch was gentle as she smoothed the ointment across Marin's scratched cheek. Cool relief spread where the salve met torn skin.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For earlier. For your words. For fighting beside me." Julia's hand paused. "You weren't obligated to do any of that."
Marin lowered her gaze.
"Actually... I need to confess something."
"Yes?"
"At first, I planned to ignore everything." The admission came harder than she'd expected. "I'm here temporarily. I could leave at any moment. I didn't want to involve myself in other people's business."
She forced herself to continue.
"If they hadn't insulted my mother... I wouldn't have intervened at all. I'm sorry."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Julia smiled—warm and genuine, utterly without judgment.
"Don't apologize to me. I'm only grateful."
"And I'm grateful to you." Marin met her eyes. "We're comrades now. Fellow soldiers who defeated a common enemy."
For a moment they simply looked at each other.
Then both burst into laughter—the clean, uncomplicated sound of two people who had survived something together.
When the laughter faded, Julia spoke again.
"Miss Marin... please speak to me more informally."
"I—"
"You're older than me."
"That's true, but—"
"Please." Julia pressed her palms together in supplication. "I'm begging you."
How could she refuse such earnest pleading?
"Very well." Marin smiled softly. "If that's what you want."
"Thank you!" Julia brightened visibly. "Now let me fix your hair. If Lady Roenna sees you looking like this, she'll be frightened half to death."
"That would be much appreciated."
Julia moved behind her, and Marin felt practiced fingers working through the tangles. Pins came loose. The tight arrangement unraveled.
Then—
"Oh!"
Julia's hands stilled as Marin's hair tumbled free, cascading down her back in waves that fell past her waist. The ash-platinum strands caught the lamplight, revealing threads of pale gold and silver woven through.
"It's beautiful," Julia breathed. "Why don't you wear it down?"
"It gets in the way."
Marin reached up self-consciously to touch the loose waves—and her torn sleeve flashed into view, the fabric hanging by threads.
"Miss Marin!" Julia's attention snapped to the damage. "May I mend this for you?"
"Can you sew?"
"People say I have golden hands."
"Really?" Marin's face lit with genuine pleasure. "I would be so grateful."
"Yes!"
Julia beamed—delighted to have found something she could offer, something valuable she could contribute.
This was a good employer. A good person. Someone worth serving with her whole heart.
Julia made herself a silent promise: from this day forward, she would do everything in her power to help Miss Marin.
Whatever that might require.
---