The prime objective of the fanatic is to slavishly imitate his idol, and he is thus a ready-made actor.
— Eric Hoffer, The True Believer
———
The candle flame danced on my desk, casting shadows that twisted across the pages of my hastily scrawled notes.
Operation Save the Maid: Success.
Grundy: Arrested.
Lyra: Alive.
Status: One less death on my conscience.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. The adrenaline from this afternoon's performance had long since faded, leaving behind the familiar exhaustion that came with maintaining my pathetic facade for hours on end. Every stumble, every nervous stammer, every perfectly timed moment of incompetence—it all required more energy than any of these nobles could imagine.
Tomorrow I'll go back to being the family embarrassment. Lucius will make some snide comment about my 'helpful' contribution to the investigation. Father will pretend I don't exist. Lady Vivienne will look at me like I'm a stain on her expensive carpet.
The routine was getting old, but it was necessary. The moment anyone suspected that Kaelen Leone possessed even a fragment of intelligence, my carefully constructed survival strategy would crumble. Better to be dismissed as harmless than studied as a threat.
A soft scraping sound from the window made me freeze.
What the hell?
My room was on the second floor, facing the estate's inner courtyard. The only way to reach that window would be to scale the stone wall—a feat requiring considerable skill and even more reckless courage. I reached slowly for the letter opener on my desk. An assassin? A thief?
The window opened with barely a whisper of sound.
A figure slipped through the gap with the silent grace of flowing water. Dark clothing, slender build, and hair that caught the candlelight like polished obsidian. As she straightened, turning toward me, I felt my world tilt on its axis.
Lyra.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
She stood there in the center of my room, her red eyes reflecting the candle flame like twin embers. The frightened servant girl from this afternoon was gone.
Her eyes, those red embers, weren't pleading or afraid. They were fixed on me with an unnerving focus.
"You know," I said, forcing my voice into its usual weak register, "most people use doors. Revolutionary concept, I'm told."
She didn't respond to my attempted humor. Instead, she moved to the center of the room. Her hands reached up to the simple pins holding her hair in its servant's knot.
What is she doing?
One by one, the pins came free. Her hair tumbled down her back in a cascade of black silk. The candlelight caught the waves and curves of it, creating patterns of shadow and illumination that made my mouth go dry.
This is not good. This is very much not good.
She sank to her knees in the middle of my room, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Lyra, what are you—"
"I... my hands," she held them out, palms up, as if offering evidence. "They were for... for floors. For filth." Her gaze locked onto mine. "They're yours now. Tell them what to do. My eyes... they only saw what was beneath notice. Now..." Her voice hitched. "Now they only see you. Master. I'm... I'm empty. Please. Fill me."
"You're wrong," I started, but she continued as if I hadn't spoken.
"You saw the truth when no one else could. You moved the world itself to save me." Her hands pressed against her heart, fingers splaying across the simple fabric of her dress. "I understand now. I was never meant to serve them. I was meant to serve you."
Oh, shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit.
This was bad. This was exactly the kind of complication I'd been trying to avoid. I'd saved her because the alternative was watching an innocent person die for a crime she didn't commit. It was basic human decency, nothing more. But she thought I was some kind of mastermind. Some puppet master who'd orchestrated the entire day's events for her benefit.
Which, technically, I had. But not for the reasons she thinks.
"Lyra, listen to me—"
"Purpose," she whispered, the word a prayer. "Give me purpose. My hands... they don't know what to do. Guide them. This body..." Her breath hitched, the words catching in her throat. "It's just a vessel. Use it. Command me Master."
Master. Not Young Master Kaelen, the formal address she'd always used. Just Master, spoken with the reverence of someone who'd found their god.
I need to shut this down. Right now. Before it goes any further.
But even as the thought formed, another part of my mind—the coldly pragmatic part that had gotten me this far—was already calculating. Lyra had just demonstrated remarkable infiltration skills by scaling my wall and entering my room undetected. She'd shown loyalty that bordered on fanatical. And most importantly, she was completely off everyone's radar. The perfect servant girl, invisible to the noble families who barely considered servants human.
This is insane. I can't seriously be considering...
I stood slowly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. She didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched me with those burning red eyes as I began to circle her kneeling form. My shadow fell across her, and I saw her shiver—not from fear, but from something else entirely.
The college student still living in my skull screamed that this was wrong. Predatory. She was a traumatized girl, and I was about to exploit that trauma for my own survival.
The right thing to do—the human thing—was to send her away, get her help.
But my hand moved on its own, sinking into the silk of her hair as the colder, pragmatic voice of the survivor whispered, The world didn't reward the 'right' thing. It rewarded the useful thing.
The texture was incredibly soft, like running water made solid. She tilted her head slightly into my touch, a barely audible sigh escaping her lips.
"A blade announces itself," I murmured, my voice a low hum against the candlelight. "It screams its purpose. It's a tool for heroes and butchers, a character on the main stage. Loud. Obvious."
I gathered a handful of her hair, feeling its weight and warmth. She trembled beneath my touch, but held perfectly still.
"That's not what I need," I continued. "I need a whisper in a library. A shadow in a hallway. A secret that can be held and never spoken. A blade is seen. You, Lyra... you must be invisible."
I moved behind her, my fingers trailing from her hair to the nape of her neck. Her pulse thundered beneath my thumb.
What am I doing? This is madness. Complete, utter madness.
But the rational protests were growing quieter, overwhelmed by the intoxicating realization of what she was offering. Not just loyalty, but complete surrender. The kind of fanatical dedication that reshapes worlds and topples empires. The kind that gets people killed.
I leaned down, my lips nearly brushing her ear, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "They'll see a maid. Invisible. Beneath notice. But I'll see my hidden ace, the card that wins the game when everyone thinks they know my hand."
Her breathing had become shallow. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could smell the faint scent of kitchen herbs that clung to her hair—rosemary and thyme, humble reminders of the servant's life she'd known until this moment. A life I was about to transform irrevocably.
"Can you bear that weight? The burden of being my secret? Of knowing truths that would destroy you if spoken aloud?"
This is the point of no return. Whatever she says next will change everything. For both of us. Forever.
She turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing against my hand with a deliberate gentleness that belied the intensity in her eyes.
"Yes."