The corridors of the Eryndor estate stretched long and dim, lined with portraits of ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to watch every step. The house maid's slippers tapped softly against polished stone as she made her way alone, her duties complete for the night.
Her composure, so carefully worn before the boys, slipped the moment she was sure no one watched. A tired sigh escaped her lips.
"They're children," she whispered, voice barely more than breath. "Children, thrown into the wolves' den…"
She slowed as she passed a tall arched window. Moonlight spilled through, painting her plain dress in silver. Beyond the estate walls, far in the distance, the spires of the Upper Realm academy rose against the night — jagged, proud, like spears piercing the sky.
Her gaze lingered there, her reflection faintly staring back from the glass. "The mistress plays her game of power, but…" Her voice trembled, soft enough that even the silence seemed to strain to hear. "I only hope they can do what so many before them could not. I hope… they can restore the name of Eryndor."
For a heartbeat, her mask broke entirely. Weariness lined her eyes, the kind born not from labor but from years of watching hope wither. She pressed a hand briefly against the windowpane, as if the glass could bridge the distance between her and the future she longed for.
Then, footsteps echoed in the hall. She straightened at once, composure snapping back into place, her face once again the perfect mask of servitude.
She turned from the window, bowing her head as a fellow servant passed by. When she walked on, her whisper lingered, swallowed by the dark stone walls:
"…please, don't let this be another wasted gamble."