The tea was to my liking. It was Earl Grey, the bergamot a familiar and comforting scent in a world that was anything but. Elias—I had to consciously remind myself to think of him as "the Duke," even in my own head—watched me for a moment longer before returning to his book. He was a puzzle, a series of locked boxes, and I was just now realizing I'd been given the keys to the first one: his interest was not predatory. It was intellectual. He saw me as a complex machine he had just acquired and was now disassembling with a methodical calm.
And I, the average girl from an average life, was now tasked with playing the part of a rare, fragile mechanism.
Over the next few weeks, I began to map out the contours of my new life. It was a life of opulent idleness. I ate meals in my suite, read from the Duke's vast library, and spent my days wandering the manicured gardens. The servants were kind, if a little distant. The head steward, a man named Bartholomew with the face of a wizened owl, treated me with a cautious respect that felt more like he was guarding a priceless artifact than attending to a person.
The Duke himself was a study in contradictions. He was always present, but never intrusive. He would often join me in the library, sitting across the room, reading his own books while I read mine. Sometimes, he'd ask a question, a pointed inquiry about my thoughts on a certain author or a historical event. I quickly learned that his conversations were not small talk; they were tests.
"What do you think of the politics of the Valerian court, given the civil war?" he asked one afternoon, his voice a low rumble across the silence of the library.
My mind raced. I'd read about the Valerians in one of the history books, a convoluted tale of succession and betrayal. My Earth-brain would have said, "I dunno, looks complicated." This body's brain, however, had to perform.
"Their fatal flaw was succession, my lord," I said, my voice soft but firm. "They should have chosen merit over bloodline. The resulting power vacuum was inevitable."
He didn't respond immediately. He simply looked at me, a flicker of something in his steel-gray eyes. "A bold assessment," he finally said. "Most would attribute it to the arrogance of the last king."
"Arrogance is a symptom," I countered, surprising myself with my confidence. "A weak foundation is the disease."
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, and he went back to his book. I'd passed the test. And in that moment, I realized my strategy was solid. I wasn't playing the part of a damsel in distress; I was playing the part of an interesting conversational partner.
One evening, he requested my presence in his study. He was at his desk, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The fire crackled softly. He gestured to the chair by the hearth.
"Drink?" he offered, holding up a small decanter.
"Thank you, my lord, but no," I said, remembering to keep the demure act up. "I'm afraid I have a weak constitution for spirits." My real reason was that I had no idea what the local equivalent of alcohol would do to this body, and my plan did not include passing out in the Duke's study.
He nodded, not seeming to mind. "Very well. Sit."
I sat, my hands clasped in my lap, feeling the warmth of the fire on my face. The silence stretched between us, comfortable now instead of tense.
"I am leaving for a fortnight," he said, finally breaking the silence. "A meeting with the other regional lords. Bartholomew will see to your needs. The estate is secure. Do not leave the grounds."
My heart gave a small, traitorous leap. A fortnight. Two weeks. That was plenty of time to explore, to learn more about the estate, and perhaps, to find a way to earn a little coin. Enough coin, perhaps, to get myself out of here.
"Yes, my lord," I said, lowering my gaze. "I will be here when you return."
"Good." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes thoughtful. "I've also arranged for a tutor. A Professor Elms. He will come twice a week to instruct you on the local customs, language, and history. It would do you well to learn."
A tutor. Another gift. Another piece of the gilded cage. I wanted to scoff, but I held it in. This was an opportunity. Knowledge was power, and Professor Elms could be an invaluable source of information.
"I would be honored," I said, giving him a small, grateful smile.
He finished his drink, then stood. "Good night, Lot Thirty-Four."
"My name is Ava," I blurted out, the words leaving my mouth before my brain could process the risk. "My name is Ava."
His movement froze. He turned to face me fully, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he just stared. My heart hammered against my ribs, convinced I had just made a terrible mistake, that I had broken the delicate balance of our dynamic.
Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Ava," he said, the name sounding foreign and yet, somehow right, on his tongue. "Very well, Ava. Good night."
And with that, he left the room.
---
The fortnight he was gone was a blur of activity. Professor Elms was a kind, bumbling man with a shock of white hair and a passion for ancient history. He was delighted to have an eager student, and I devoured every piece of information he gave me. The world I was in was called Eredar. It was a continent divided into several kingdoms, with the Rivenhall territory being a duchy of the powerful kingdom of Valerius. Magic was real, a rare and feared power, and the kingdom had a strict system for identifying and controlling it. The Duke himself, as I learned from the Professor's anecdotes, was a revered military strategist and a man of immense power and wealth. He was also, according to rumor, a bachelor who was not interested in marriage. This was a crucial piece of information. It meant I wasn't being groomed for a political marriage, which was a relief.
During my lessons, I also learned about the currency—gold and silver coins—and the social structure, which was as rigid and unforgiving as I had feared. Slavery was a part of this society, and a slave's life was a matter of luck and the whims of their owner. I, by some miracle, had a good lot. My lucky star was, apparently, the Duke's intellectual curiosity.
I also, with the Duke's absence, began to explore. The estate was massive, a network of wings, courtyards, and gardens. I found the kitchens, a bustling, warm space where the head cook, a portly woman named Mrs. Gable, was in charge. She was surprised to see me but didn't seem to mind my presence. I asked to help, and she, after a moment of stunned silence, put me to work chopping vegetables.
I had always been a decent cook, and the methodical work was a comfort. It was a piece of my old life, a tangible skill that had no place in this new, alien existence. I talked to the maids, to the stable hands, and to the groundskeepers. I learned the names of the flowers, the gossip of the household, and the rhythm of the estate. I learned that the Duke was feared, respected, but also… lonely. He had no family, no close friends, just his books and his estate.
One afternoon, I found a small, hidden door in the library. It led to a spiral staircase that descended into the dark. I hesitated for a moment, then, driven by a desire for discovery, I descended. The air grew colder, and the scent of damp earth filled my nose. The staircase ended in a small, stone-walled room, a workshop of sorts. There was a workbench, a forge, and a pile of what looked like strange, glowing crystals.
My heart pounded. This was not in my calculations. This was… secret.
I quickly retreated, my mind racing. The crystals, the forge, the hidden room. What was the Duke doing? Was this a source of his wealth? Was this a magical artifact? I had to find out.
When the Duke returned, the house seemed to sigh with a collective relief. His presence was a heavy, quiet weight, a gravity that held the entire estate in its orbit. He found me in the library, a book on the Valerian court open in my lap.
"I see you've been busy," he said, his voice as low and cool as I remembered.
I closed the book, my heart fluttering. "Professor Elms is an excellent teacher, my lord. I've learned much."
He nodded, a hint of something in his eyes. "Good. We will have dinner tonight in the main dining hall. You will wear the new dress I had made for you."
I swallowed, the pit of my stomach clenching. A new dress. A main dining hall. My gilded cage was getting a public unveiling. This was the next test. I had to look the part, be the perfect companion. I had to not only survive, but thrive.
The dress was a marvel. A deep emerald green silk that shimmered under the candlelight, with a neckline that was modest but flattering. It was a gown, not a simple dress, and it came with a corset. I had to swallow my pride and call for a maid to help me with the laces. As she cinched me in, I felt the familiar anxiety of my average self. The average girl who didn't belong in a gown of this magnificence, who would have been nervous about spilling wine or saying the wrong thing. But then I looked in the mirror.
The girl in the mirror was not average. She was a vision. Pale hair, luminous skin, and a dress that made her eyes look like two green jewels. This body, this girl, was a weapon. And I was going to wield it.
I walked down the grand staircase, my hand on the polished banister, my head held high. The dining hall was a cavern of a room, a long table set with silver and crystal. The Duke sat at the head of the table, his dark hair a sharp contrast to the white linen. He looked up as I entered, and his steel-gray eyes, for the first time, were not impersonal. They were… appreciative.
He stood as I approached, a small, courteous gesture that made the butterflies in my stomach do a cartwheel. He gestured to the chair beside him.
"You look… well," he said, and I almost laughed. Well? Was that the best he could do?
"Thank you, my lord," I said, sitting gracefully. "The dress is beautiful."
Dinner was an elaborate affair, with multiple courses and a small army of servants moving with practiced silence. He spoke little, but when he did, it was about his journey, the political landscape, and the other lords. I listened, absorbing every detail, asking questions that showed my interest without seeming like I was prying. I was a good audience, a clever parrot, and he seemed to enjoy the performance.
Later, in his study, he poured himself a drink and offered me a small glass of wine. This time, I accepted. The wine was sweet, and it warmed my chest.
"You performed well tonight," he said, taking a sip of his own drink. "You were attentive, polite, and not a wallflower. A rare combination."
"I am learning, my lord," I said, a small, shy smile on my face.
He nodded, his gaze lingering on my face. "I've been thinking about your name. Ava. It suits you."
My heart hammered again. Ava. He had said it. He had acknowledged me as a person, not a lot number.
"Thank you," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. "Thank you, Elias."
His glass stopped halfway to his lips. "You may call me my lord."
"Of course," I said, my heart sinking. I had pushed too far. I had broken a rule I didn't even know existed.
He set the glass down on his desk with a soft clink. "But I will admit," he said, and a shadow of a smile touched his lips, "it is a pleasant change. Perhaps, when we are alone, you may call me by my name. But never in the company of others. Do you understand?"
I nodded, a genuine smile spreading across my face. "I understand. Thank you, Elias."
He simply nodded back, and we sat in a comfortable silence, the fire crackling, the wine warming me from the inside out. My plan was working, not as a cold, logical calculation, but as a genuine connection. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about… a new life. A life where I was not just a piece of property, but a person. A person with a name, a beautiful dress, and a seat at the table.
And yet, as I watched him, his face illuminated by the firelight, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was still a puzzle, a series of locked boxes, and I was only now discovering the true complexity of the first lock.