The morning sun had not yet reached the far side of the estate, but the halls of Ardent Mansion were already alive with quiet footsteps and whispered chores.
John made his rounds as usual, his boots soft against the polished marble. A bundle of fresh linen rested in his arms, meant for the upper quarters. His expression remained calm, impassive—but his ears were trained, as always, to the sounds beneath the surface.
Just as he turned the corner toward the servants' wing, he slowed.
Laughter. Then whispers. Female voices.
He stopped near the archway, partially hidden by the wall. He knew it was wrong to linger, but the mention of a name froze him.
"Lady Jane."
He stilled.
"She walks like a ghost," one of the maids said, chuckling softly. "Always barefoot. Always alone."
"Don't say that," another whispered quickly. "She's a noble."
"She's strange," a third voice added, quieter. "You've all felt it. The way the air changes when she passes."
"I heard she doesn't eat anything sweet," someone muttered. "She once spat out a tart and said it tasted like 'nothing.'"
John's grip tightened on the linens.
"She doesn't taste anything," said the first again. "Didn't you know? She can't smell or taste—like a statue carved too perfectly."
"That's not her fault," one of the younger maids murmured.
"No. But people are starting to talk. The gardener said he saw her standing in the middle of the orchard, touching the trees like she could hear them talk."
A few laughed. Not cruelly, just nervously.
And then a different tone crept in.
"But the strangest thing is the new servant. The one always with her."
John didn't move, but his breath caught.
"The quiet one. The Savorian."
"Oh, him." A pause. "He barely speaks. But have you seen the way she looks at him?"
"I'd swear she talks to him more than her own family."
"And he listens," another added. "He looks at her like… she's something fragile. Or dangerous."
A long silence.
Then: "Do you think they—?"
"Shhh!"
The linen bundle in John's arms shifted slightly. He exhaled and stepped back into the hallway before they could hear him. Footsteps light, posture straight.
He made no sound as he turned away, walking down the servants' hall with quiet precision, even as the words echoed in his head.
Fragile. Dangerous. Strange.
And she talks to him more than her own family.
He didn't know which part unsettled him more.
But as he turned a corner near the west wing, his steps slowed.
Voices.
Soft. Urgent. Muffled behind the double doors of Lord Eddric's study.
John froze in place, back pressed lightly against the wall. He knew better than to eavesdrop. A servant's life was bound by obedience and silence.
But then he heard it—her name.
"Jane."
His heart skipped. He didn't mean to listen, but his feet refused to move. His breath stilled.
"She shows no signs of tasting, smelling… not even the faintest sensitivity," Lady Maerina said. "The clock is ticking."
"She's nineteen," Lord Eddric replied, his voice low and heavy. "If she reaches twenty and the Nullness remains… the Rite demands we act."
John's stomach twisted.
The Rite.
He'd heard it only once before—on the night he signed the contract. But no details were given. Just a silent, implicit burden passed into his hands. A future he wasn't allowed to question.
"She doesn't know," Lady Maerina continued. "And she must not. Not yet."
There was a long pause.
Then Lord Eddric spoke again, slower now. "If the senses cannot awaken… we will need the sacrifice. As written. His blood—his life—is the price."
Silence.
John nearly staggered backward.
His blood.
His life.
He was the sacrifice.
The truth sank in cold and brutal, like a knife slipped between his ribs. That was the contract. Not protection. Not service. But a countdown. A death sentence.
One year.
If Jane remained Giftless, he would die.
For her.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He backed away, the shadows swallowing his form as he turned down another hallway, away from the door, away from the voices that now felt like knives.
The moonlight from the tall windows slashed across the floor as he walked blindly, fists clenched at his sides.
He had never felt anger like this.
Not at her.
But at them.
He thought of Jane's smile—rare, mischievous. The way she sat on the floor with him and whispered her fears like secrets. The bold way she kissed him just days ago, no hesitation, no shame. She had called him hers.
And part of him—some stupid, hopeful part—had wanted to believe that was enough.
But now he knew.
He wasn't her protector.
He wasn't her equal.
He was a pawn on a timer. A lamb fattened for slaughter.
He stopped in the hallway outside her room, forehead pressed against the cool wood of the door.
From inside, he could hear her laugh faintly. A book page turning. Her humming, soft and slightly off-key.
His eyes burned.
One year, he thought. If she stays the same… I die.
But then another thought came, darker.
What if she's not the same anymore?
His mind flickered to the night of her awakening. The glow of violet flame. The door slamming shut. Her terrified eyes.
That was no Gift.
That was something else.
He hadn't said a word since then. Hadn't breathed a whisper of it to anyone.
But now…
His hand dropped from the door.
And without another thought, he turned and walked away—fast. Purposeful.
Straight to the study.
⸻
"I know something," John said, standing in front of Lord and Lady Ardent with his hands shaking.
They both looked up from their writing desk, surprise flashing across their faces.
"She… Jane. She's not just Giftless. She's something else."
"What do you mean?" Lady Maerina's voice was sharp.
"I saw her hands," John said. "They glowed. Violet. And she… moved the door. Without touching it. It was like—"
"Magic," Lord Eddric said quietly.
The room fell silent.
The word lingered like poison in the air.
Lady Maerina stood slowly. "Are you certain?"
John nodded. "It happened the night of her birthday. She said it felt like fire. But it wasn't. It didn't burn."
The two nobles exchanged a look—cold, calculating.
"She's not a Healer," Maerina whispered. "She's a Witch."
The word stabbed through the air like a blade.
A Witch.
Unholy. Cursed. Forbidden.
And worse—impossible. There had never been a Witch born into noble blood. Magic came from chaos, from broken lines. Not from Ardent.
"But how…?" Lord Eddric began.
"Something must have awakened it in her," Lady Maerina muttered. "Something ancient. Something dangerous."
John stood frozen.
He expected anger. Accusation. Instead, all he saw in their faces was fear.
And resolve.
"What do we do?" he asked.
Lady Maerina turned toward him, eyes sharp. "We thank you. You've done your duty."
Lord Eddric rolled up the scroll on the desk. "From this moment on, she is to be watched. Day and night. No more freedom. No more wandering."
"Restrain her," Lady Maerina added. "Quietly. Without alarm. If she suspects we know, she might run."
"She won't," John said quietly.
"Good," Lord Eddric replied. "Because if she is truly a Witch… then the Rite may not be enough to save her."
⸻
That night, chains were fastened to Jane's door.
The windows were barred.
And inside, she sat in her armchair, flipping through a book about flowers, unaware.
Unaware that everything had already begun to fall apart.
And the person she trusted most…
Had just betrayed her.