The butler's words refused to leave her mind.
It would mean someone has dared to move your attendants without your consent.
In the life she'd left behind, those words might have sounded like petty drama from an afternoon soap opera. But here—inside Kira Blackwood's world—they carried weight sharp enough to cut.
She dismissed the butler with a nod, pretending his warning was a minor inconvenience. Only when he was gone did she let her shoulders drop and release the breath she'd been holding. The silence of the corridor pressed in on her, thick and watchful.
The maids were here this morning. She was certain of it—at least, she thought she was. The hours since waking in this body had blurred together in a haze of confusion and guarded conversation. But now that she thought about it… she couldn't recall seeing a single familiar face from the original game.
Her slippers made no sound on the polished marble as she returned toward her chambers. The golden door loomed ahead, its silver handle glinting faintly in the lamplight.
She paused.
Something lay at the threshold.
A small, folded scrap of parchment.
Kira bent down slowly, half-expecting it to vanish like a dream. The paper was coarse beneath her fingers, creased and slightly damp—as if it had passed through more than one set of hands before reaching her.
She broke the fold. Elegant script spilled across the page in deep black ink:
They are not your allies. Midnight. East garden.
No signature. No seal—though faint traces of red wax clung to the corner.
Her stomach tightened. They could mean the maids. Or the butler. Or—given her inherited reputation—nearly anyone in this manor.
She turned the note over. A faint scent of lavender clung to it. That was unusual; in the original game, lavender was the scent of the East Wing—home to the patriarch's private offices and the rooms of the heir.
A floorboard creaked somewhere down the hall. Kira's head snapped up, but the corridor stretched empty, its shadows unbroken.
She slipped the note into her sleeve.
If this was a trap, she had to prepare for it. And if it wasn't… she might have found her first real lead in understanding this world's plot changes.
The rest of the day passed slowly. Servants entered and exited her chambers with lowered eyes, their footsteps brisk and careful. None of them were the maids from earlier. None dared linger.
When the dinner bell rang, Kira excused herself early, claiming fatigue. She needed to be gone from her room well before midnight, without anyone noticing.
At half past eleven, she slipped into a simple dark cloak she'd found in the wardrobe—a far cry from Kira's usual jewel-toned silks. The hood shadowed her face as she eased open her door.
The manor was quieter than she had ever heard it. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. She moved quickly, skirting the pools of light cast by the sconces, letting muscle memory from her old life guide her steps.
She'd memorized the map of the manor from the game, but this was different—shadows were deeper, hallways narrower, the air colder. The game had never shown the place at night.
She reached the east garden doors just before the clock struck twelve. The moonlight poured in through tall windows, silvering the frost on the glass.
A figure waited there—tall, wrapped in a dark coat, the hood drawn low.
"You came," the voice was low, almost relieved.
"You left me a note," she replied, keeping her distance. "Why?"
The figure stepped forward, just enough for the moonlight to catch a sliver of their face—a young man, no older than twenty, with sharp grey eyes that watched her as if weighing every breath she took.
"Because, Kira Blackwood," he said quietly, "you're in far more danger than you realize. And if you want to live past spring… you'll need my help."
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. This wasn't in the game. Not at all.