Sapphire sat rigidly on the edge of the high-backed chair, hands clasped in her lap, the fire in Lord Typhon's study burning low as shadows flickered across the stone walls. She had been waiting for what felt like hours since Eugene had informed her that Lord Typhon had summoned her.
The thick scent of parchment and ink hung heavy in the air, mingled with the distant scent of musk and leather that always seemed to linger wherever he had recently been.
Then the oak door creaked open, groaning on its hinges before slamming shut with a finality that made her jump.
Typhon entered without ceremony, his boots thudding heavily on the floor as he crossed the room. His dark cloak trailed behind him. He didn't spare her a glance. Instead, he moved straight to his desk and began thumbing through a stack of papers with swift, practiced motions.
"Milord," she murmured, rising slightly in courtesy.
No response.
His eyes scanned the documents until one caught his interest. He plucked it out with the same precision he wielded in battle, then finally, without looking at her, spoke.
"You seem strong enough to work now. Can't allow you to keep eating free food. Here in Hivites, we work."
Sapphire lowered her gaze. He wasn't wrong. She was no longer the delicate lady of noble courts. Life had beaten her down, but she was still standing. Somehow.
"I understand, Milord. What do you have in mind?"
That question gave him pause.
He finally looked up those piercing gray eyes scrutinizing her, judging her not by her clothes or posture, but by the will that kept her upright.
"You probably can't clean. Cook. Sew—" he listed dryly, his voice edged with annoyance.
He was right.
Back home, she had been raised with privilege .Her time was spent immersed in political treaties and history scrolls, not under a needle or broom. Her governess had often complained to her father that Sapphire would rather argue over old wars than learn to embroider napkins.
She held his gaze now, not flinching.
"You're right, Milord," she said quietly, firmly. "I'm no use in that aspect. But I'm certain you can think of something I can do. I'll earn my keep "
Something flickered in his eyes. Not Amusement. Not Warmth. Curiosity.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, gaze piercing as he tilted his head to his Side his cold gaze raking over her from head to toe — slow, deliberate, as if he were weighing her worth.
Sapphire's fingers instinctively clenched the fabric of her gown, her posture tightening — but she stood her ground.
"Anything,"She said quietly, but with resolve.
He arched a brow, then gave a faint wave of dismissal, almost bored.
"Fine then."
She took that as her cue and rose from her seat, walking steadily toward the door. But just as her hand touched the iron handle, his voice sharp and commanding cut through the stillness.
"Keep your identity hidden. No one must know the reason why you are here "
She froze.
"I won't have you dying before fulfilling your end of our agreement."
Sapphire swallowed hard. She had nearly forgotten… that was the bargain — her medical knowledge in exchange for his protection. A solution to Hivites' curse of barrenness.
So that was why he hadn't tossed her back to the wolves.
She turned her head slightly, not daring to meet his eyes.
"Yes, Milord"
There was a pause.
Then his voice, quieter, yet just as firm:
"You're a smart woman."
With that, she exited the room, her steps heavy and mind clouded. Her heart weighed with the truth — she was not a guest, nor a prisoner, but a gamble.
And time was running out.
***
That night, sleep eluded Sapphire. Beneath the dim flicker of a lone beeswax candle, she hunched over a timeworn trestle table, her quill borrowed from a literate maid—scratching softly across a wrinkled piece of vellum. The ink, thinned and near spent, stained her fingers as she dipped and scribbled with tireless resolve.
Most back home could scarce spell their own names, let alone ponder ailments of the womb or maladies of the flesh, but Sapphire was not like most. A fortunate find—a Western treatise buried in the forgotten alcove of the palace library had once ignited her passion for the healing arts, and she had never let that flame dim. Not even when her father called it folly, nor when her husband mocked her pursuit.
Page after page, she searched for a pattern, a cause, anything that could explain the strange sickness that plagued the women. She was no trained scholar, but she had experience and determination.
By the time the first light of morning slipped through the shutters, she was still seated, her eyes heavy, her notes scattered. She hadn't found the answer—but she didn't give up.
Sapphire stood, stretching her aching limbs as the cold air of dawn brushed against her skin. Her bones ached from the long hours hunched over parchment, and with effort, she dragged her weary body to the bed. Sleep came quickly—silent, deep, and without dreams.
But it did not last.
A rough shove to her shoulder ripped her from slumber.
"Up, Sleeping Beauty," Eugene's dry voice teased, laced with mockery. "Lord Typhon requests your presence in his study."
He tossed a bundle onto the bed.
"Do well to wear this," he added before turning on his heel and disappearing into the corridor, leaving only the sound of his fading steps.
Still groggy, Sapphire sat up and rubbed her eyes, muttering under her breath. She had barely touched the edges of sleep, and already the day demanded her.
She eyed the clothes Eugene had left — a pair of coarse brown breeches, a thick over-tunic, and a leather belt. Her brows furrowed. Breeches? Everyone knew well — women did not wear such attire in Creedom. It was unseemly, improper even.
But time was not a luxury she possessed. With reluctant fingers, she slid into the breeches, far too large for her slender frame. She folded the waistband and cinched it tight with the belt, the leather stiff against her waist. The tunic hung low and wide, sleeves billowing past her hands. She rolled them up quickly and secured them with makeshift knots.
By the foot of the bed were brown boots , scuffed and worn. Likely Eugene's doing. She slid her sore, healing feet into them with a wince, biting her lip at the sting.
She straightened, And then she made for the door.
The manor stirred with quiet purpose as Maids busied themselves in the corridors, scrubbing stone floors with worn brushes and polishing sconces with delicate feather brushes. The scent of beeswax and damp linen lingered faintly in the air as Sapphire made her way down the hallway, the sound of her borrowed boots echoing softly.
She paused before the thick oaken door to the study.
"Enter," came Lord Typhon's gruff voice from within — sharp, as if he'd sensed her hesitation before her knuckles even met the wood.
Taking a steadying breath, she pushed open the heavy door and slipped in, head slightly bowed. The warmth from the crackling hearth brushed against her skin.
She curtised stiffly. "Milord."
Typhon sat across the room behind a large desk strewn with parchment and sealed scrolls. He did not glance up right away, instead continuing to mark something with a feathered quill. The scratching sound filled the quiet.
Sapphire stood in silence, the weight of his silence coiling in the air between them.
At last, he looked up, those unreadable eyes flicking over her unladylike garb with a raise of the brow, but he said nothing of it.
"You're late," he muttered.
Sapphire immediately stiffened, lowering her gaze.
"Forgive me, milord. I came as soon as I could."
He gave a brief grunt of acknowledgment as he dipped his quill back into ink, his tone cold and dismissive.
"Go to the stables. Asahel will tell you what needs doing."
He turned a page with calm precision.
"Let's see if you're of any actual use."
Sapphire's lips parted slightly, but she quickly caught herself. With a low curtsy, she murmured, "Yes, milord," and backed out of the room, her pride smarting just a little more than usual.