The corridors of the Ravenscroft estate were quiet at night.
Morena walked with steady steps, the ring of keys cold against her hip, the scent of parchment and smoke still clinging to her from hours in the archive. Her body was weary, but her mind was sharper than ever; every detail she had uncovered was stored in her mind, easily accessible.
The candles along the walls flickered faintly, leaving long shadows stretching over stone. Outside, the air was cold, seeping through the cracks of the shutters, the sound of wind whispering softly as it moved.
When she reached her chamber, she paused.
The door was closed exactly as she had left it; the latch was in place. But when she pushed it open, the faintest shift in air reached her nose—the trace of water and bitter resin.
Her eyes flicked to the table. And there she saw it, a jug sat there, filled. The glass beside it was half poured, as though waiting for her.
She had not poured it nor had she asked anyone to pour it for her.
"Analyze the jug and water."
[Trace elements detected. Bitter resin, ash compounds. High probability: poison.]
Morena’s eyes narrowed faintly.
’Of course there’s someone inside the walls.’
She stepped past, careful not to disturb anything. Her boots made no sound on the rugs as she set her spear against the wall and slipped her mother’s dagger free, holding it low in her right hand.
She did not drink the water, but she also did not call for help. She simply crossed to her bed and sat down, fingers resting lightly on her knees, her breathing slow, calm.
If someone wanted her dead, they would not stop at poison. They would come to see it done or at least come and remove the evidence.
So she had a plan to wait for them.
Lying down on the bed, she pretended to be asleep; however, in her grip, she didn’t release the dagger.
The AI hummed softly at the edges of her mind, cataloging the air, listening for shifts in sound.
Minutes passed. Then—
[Movement detected. Footsteps approaching. Cadence: familiar. Source: maid registry cross-match, probability 87%. Identified: Lira.]
Morena’s brows twitched as she heard the name.
One of the older maids. She had been in the house for more than ten years, longer than some of the guards. A quiet woman, dependable, trusted enough to carry trays to her father’s hall when he held court.
Morena remembered her face from childhood memories—the way she tied her apron neatly, the way she always bowed with respect and treated her, a failure, without disgust in her eyes.
Morena stilled; she kept her body completely limp to avoid being noticed, but she rotated her energy, ready to move. The dagger stayed hidden, pressed between her thigh and the blanket.
The door creaked open, and a figure slipped in, careful, silent. The scent of resin grew stronger.
Her steps were soft; if Morena didn’t have her enhanced hearing, she might not have even heard it. In her hand, a knife glinted faintly against the candlelight.
Not the normal kitchen knife a maid might have access to, but a narrow blade meant for hunting.
She moved closer, one careful step at a time. Morena could see her figure move in the form of stretched shadows against the wall, her figure approaching with careful ease.
Morena’s breathing slowed.
The maid raised the blade.
Morena’s eyes snapped open. Her hand shot up, catching Lira’s wrist just as the knife descended. The maid’s eyes widened in shock, but she had no time to react—Morena twisted, wrenching her arm sideways, forcing her body to stumble across the bed.
The knife clattered against the frame as they struggled. Lira gasped. At first, it was in shock, but then it turned into a struggle, her voice shaky as she spoke.
"You weren’t supposed to—"
Morena struggled with the maid for a few seconds, then the girl pushed herself away, freeing herself.
The maid steadied herself, knife recovered in her left hand, her posture no longer meek. She lunged, faster than Morena expected from someone her age.
Steel cut through the air as she aimed for Morena’s side, but Morena was still faster.
Morena stepped aside, her dagger flashing, cutting across the woman’s arm. Blood spattered against the sheets, but Lira didn’t cry out. She pressed forward, her strike wild but desperate, like someone who had already accepted death.
Morena’s voice was cold, flat as she parried the next blow with the edge of her dagger, twisting the blade aside and slamming her elbow into Lira’s face. Bone cracked; the woman staggered but did not drop her knife.
Instead, she spat blood and lunged again.
[Warning: opponent showing signs of suicidal resolve..]
"Of course, even I can tell that much."
Morena muttered, her grip tightening. She caught the next strike, turned it aside, and slammed Lira down against the edge of the table. The jug toppled, poison spilling across the floorboards with a sharp, acrid scent.
Lira’s breath was ragged, her eyes burning with something Morena had seen before: not loyalty, not greed, but fear.
The maid’s lips twisted into a faint scowl, blood streaking her teeth.
"They... promised my sons... safety."
Morena’s hand stilled.
"Men with blades, I... I don’t know who."
The woman whispered, the words strained.
"Serve... or they take them."
Her body jerked suddenly. Morena recognized it instantly—the tightening of the jaw, the faint bulge of the throat. She moved to pry her mouth open, but it was too late. Foam bubbled at Lira’s lips as her body convulsed.
A capsule—hidden in her cheek, crushed between teeth.
Within seconds, her body stilled, eyes glazed, lips parted in a frozen grimace.
The silence pressed heavy.
Morena let out a slow breath, wiping her blade clean before sheathing it. Her eyes lingered on the maid’s still face for a long moment, but her chest did not stir with pity.
"AI. Record everything. Cross-link Lira’s movements for the last month. Family, errands, every delivery she carried."
[Acknowledged. Compiling.]
Morena knelt, checking the maid’s apron pockets. Inside: nothing but a scrap of cloth, frayed, with a faint mark stitched into the corner—a white thread crossed with black.
She held it up to the candlelight.
Her voice was a whisper, her tone cold.
She dropped it onto the table beside the spilled jug. The air stank of bitter resin and death.
Rising, she adjusted her coat, wiped her gloves, and glanced once more at the corpse.
"No one in this house is safe. Not even me."
She moved to the door, opening it just a fraction. The corridor was empty, the silence unbroken. For a moment, she considered calling Adolf, or Rorik, but she stopped herself.
Better to keep this in her hands alone for now.
She closed the door, locking it behind her, leaving the body where it fell. Tomorrow, she would decide how to deal with it—whether to dispose of it quietly or make it a warning.
For now, she slipped back to her bed, sat down, and pressed her palm against her chest. The letters carved into her body pulsed faintly, as energy began to flow through her.
She was already aware that they would try again. If they could threaten someone who had served them for over ten years to do their bidding, what couldn’t they try next?
At least, she had to be strong enough to be ready for anything. This time it was easy to deal with, but who knows what might happen next?