It was the middle of the night. Silence blanketed the estate, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the dim corridor-slow, deliberate, and heavy-like a monster prowling through the dark.
They belonged to the Head Maid.
With her face carved by deep wrinkles and eyes like dark, empty wells, she looked as though she had stepped out of a horror tale. Her pupils were pitch black, lifeless, yet sharp-watching everything and missing nothing.
At nearly sixty, she still moved with unsettling precision. There was something inhuman about her presence-quiet, cold, and always lurking where she was least expected.
Behind her, Veralyn followed quietly, her footsteps light, but her mind far from still.
A storm of anxious thoughts churned within her-each one darker than the last, trying to prepare for whatever worst-case scenario might be waiting ahead.
This sudden summons in the dead of night... it was too strange, too unpredictable.
Her throat felt parched, and cold sweat clung to her forehead as dread settled deep in her chest.
It felt like time was slipping through her fingers-like sand escaping a clenched hand.
They arrived at the Baron's study. Veralyn's heart thudded with unease.
Why summon her here?
Why now, in the dead of night? And more importantly-why not in the Baroness's room?
The Baron's study was one of the few places she was strictly forbidden to enter. Yet here she was, standing before its heavy door, her breath shallow and nerves fraying.
Without a word, the Head Maid reached for the handle and opened the door-so quietly, it was almost as if the room itself had been expecting them.
Veralyn stepped inside.
The room looked almost haunted-its dark, heavy curtains swallowing what little moonlight could seep through. The walls and furniture, all painted and polished in deep, shadowy tones, gave the place a grim, oppressive air, as if horror itself were the theme.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood the Baroness.
She wore a light brown nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders, her expression unreadable-neither warm nor cold, neither welcoming nor hostile. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking... or feeling.
The Head Maid lingered only a moment, like Charon at the end of a journey, before retreating the way she had come. The door shut softly behind her, leaving Veralyn and the Baroness alone.
Their eyes met.
A cold shiver ran down Veralyn's spine.
"Come and sit," the Baroness commanded, her voice steady and sharp, already moving toward the side table with its chairs. Veralyn hesitated-just for a breath-but in the end, she obeyed. Like a habit of decades.
Veralyn sat without making a sound.
On the table before her lay a sheet of paper, an ink bottle, and a pen. She kept her gaze lowered, though she could feel the Baroness's eyes on her-sharp and unrelenting, like a predator locking onto its prey.
"I want you to write a letter," the Baroness said.
Slowly, Veralyn looked up.
The Baroness's eyes... they held the same familiar mix of disgust and anger. It was a look Veralyn had come to know too well-one she received whenever she dared to speak, to eat, to smile, or even to exist in the Baroness's presence.
She had never understood why the Baroness hated her so deeply, especially when Veralyn had done nothing to deserve it.
"Just like her mother..." the Baroness whispered, almost to herself.
Her eyes narrowed. "You're good with words, aren't you? I'll tell you the matter, and you will write it - in your words."
"I..." Veralyn struggled to piece together what was happening. "You want me to write a letter for you... at this hour?"
"You filt-" The Baroness's voice spiked, but she cut herself short, as though suddenly aware that no one else must hear what was happening.
She drew in a slow breath, her tone dropping to a pitch only Veralyn could hear.
"Do as you are told."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I want you to write about how grateful you are for the life I've given you. Write about how grateful you are to me. Tell how you once heard conversation of me and mother discussing your late mother. Say you feel indebted, and that you wish to go out into the world you've been kept hidden from all these years. Tell them you are leaving of your own free will, and that no one should come looking for you. Say you've been planning this for many years now. Write your last words so Mother will be convinced. Tell them that if you ever wish to return, you will, so no one needs to worry. Make it clear you believe you are old enough now."
The Baroness spoke as if she were ordering something ordinary at a restaurant-nothing unusual at all.
But Veralyn looked at her with the wide, uncertain eyes of a confused and frightened child. In just two minutes, her whole world had been shaken apart, torn into pieces.
Her hands trembled, and when she tried to speak, her voice broke. The words caught in her throat, as though invisible hands were choking her.
"M-M-M... Ma'am... why? W-What did I do so wrong? Please... I'll do anything you ask of me-anything!"
"Agh... I get so irritated just from the sound of your voice," the Baroness said, rolling her eyes.
"I-- I'll cut my tongue!" Veralyn blurted, her voice trembling with desperation.
"I... I don't understand why?" Veralyn's voice was small, brittle. Her thoughts spun in frantic circles, trying to grasp at the right words--the kind that might slip past the walls the Baroness had built around her heart. Every beat of silence felt like a verdict, each second stretching longer than the last. Her chest tightened, her breath shallow, as though speaking at all might shatter her. If I can just say the right thing... maybe she'll let me stay, she thought, clinging to that fragile hope like a lifeline.
After several minutes of heavy silence, Veralyn finally spoke.
"Okay… I will. But—" she hesitated, her voice trembling before she steadied it, trying to sound brave while burying the turmoil of her inner child—"I would like to know when I'm leaving."
The Baroness hummed softly, rising from her seat and moving toward the main study table. "You will be leaving tomorrow at noon, when Mother goes to the Church for her important business with the Priest," she said while pouring herself a glass of whiskey.
"What?!" Veralyn's voice rose. "Just tonight and tomorrow morning… that's all I have?" She paused, struggling to process the suddenness of it. "Can I write letters to Kirien and Alena?"
"No," the Baroness replied flatly, taking a slow sip of her drink.
Veralyn froze again, her mind carefully turning over each word before she spoke. "At least tell me what will happen to Kirien and Alena after I leave."
"Alena," the Baroness began, "was your maid—permitted to you by Mother. When the master is gone, what becomes of the servant? I have no use for her. I'll either sell her or throw her out of the mansion. As for Kirien—just as Mother suggested, I will send him to the Royal Academy. He'll reunite with his older brother and begin his studies earlier than his peers."
"What?! But you can't do that! You hate me—and if I leave, you'll have no reason to hurt anyone else." Veralyn stood abruptly, her voice trembling with outrage.
"Pfft… you really do have guts," the Baroness sneered. "Ever heard the phrase 'beggars can't be choosers'? I can do whatever I wish."
"I'll go straight to Grandmother and tell her everything you've done to me—my entire life—if you don't listen. Seems to me you should know better than anyone that beggars can't be choosers."
The Baroness tilted her head, intrigued. "Tell me your conditions."
"I'll leave… if you guarantee that Alena's job remains safe, and that Kirien won't be sent to the Academy until he's of the proper age. Tomorrow morning at breakfast, you will tell Grandmother you've decided not to send him early."
"Just like your mother," the Baroness muttered under her breath, "you will suffer for thinking of others before yourself." She took another sip of whiskey. "I'll agree. Now start writing—use your hand instead of your mouth."
It took Veralyn two hours to finish writing—two full pages, every line carefully weighed. She paused often, her pen hovering above the paper as she thought, erased, and thought again before committing each word to ink.
The Baroness sat across from her the entire time, watching without blinking, her gaze never once straying from Veralyn. When the writing was done, she took the pages and read them slowly, scrutinizing each line for any trace of rebellion—any hidden attempt to expose her deeds. She found none. The letter was exactly as she had ordered: full of praises, painting her as a benevolent mother figure and devoted guardian.
"Good," the Baroness said at last, her voice cool and dismissive. "Go, and have your last night here."
Without a word, Veralyn rose and left, her footsteps heavy and deliberate as she made her way back to her room.