The carriage stopped before a black iron gate adorned with a blood-red crest: a hawk's head spreading its wings above a crown. Duke Alvar's domain. A legend in the streets, a nightmare for the servants.
Saphira stepped down, her sandals barely touching the stone slabs.
No introduction was given. A butler, face sharp as a blade, motioned for her to follow. The hallways smelled of leather, warm wax… and fear. She could feel it everywhere.
Maidservants passed without daring to meet her eyes. Guards posted at the doors stared into the distance as if expecting an attack. Even the walls seemed to listen.
"You'll sleep in the basement. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't look at the master. Don't touch what isn't yours."
The butler's voice was dry, quick, mechanical.
"What's your name?" he asked without stopping.
She hesitated. Silence weighed down. Then:
"Saphira."
He stared, surprised she answered.
"Too pretentious for a servant. We'll see if that name survives a month here."
They descended a narrow staircase. The underground corridor was damp, faintly lit by flickering lanterns. He showed her a tiny room with a straw mattress against the wall, next to a bucket. That's where she'd sleep.
Before leaving, he added:
"Young Master Rowen wants no one near him. If you cross his path… turn around. Got it?"
She nodded. Just another shadow among shadows.
But that night, as the house fell into the tense silence of its halls, Saphira did not sleep. She sat on her mattress, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes wide open in the dark.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel invisible.
She felt… in danger.
And strangely, it made her smile.