Arabella lay upon the narrow cot in the servants' quarters, the coarse straw mattress biting into her back. The thin quilt pressed close to her chest was no shield against the chill that clung to the air. She lifted a hand before her face, though the darkness swallowed it whole. For a time she remained motionless, listening to the faint breathing of the other servants in the room, until the heaviness of sleep pulled her under.
Her dream did not come gently.
She found herself descending a staircase of crumbling stone, each step echoing with the sound of iron striking iron. At the bottom awaited a cramped chamber, suffocated by shadows. A foul dampness clung to the walls, and the air tasted of rust. Against one wall rested an old wooden chest, covered with a blackened cloth. The violent thrashing from within made her pause, but curiosity overpowered fear.
With trembling fingers she pulled the cloth away. The chest gave a low groan as she lifted it open. Inside lay chains dozens of them, black and slick as though dipped in tar. The moment she leaned closer, the thrashing stilled, as if the chains themselves were holding their breath.
Arabella's heart hammered. She turned to leave, but from the chest leaked a creeping darkness, slithering like living smoke. It coiled across the floor, stretching toward her ankles. She stumbled back, desperate to flee, yet the shadows moved faster. They surged up her legs, curling around her waist, winding into her chest. By the time she screamed, the sound was swallowed whole.
When the last tendril disappeared into her body, the chains in the chest shimmered turning from black to their original silver, cleansed as though released.
Her eyes flew open. She was back in the servants' quarters, lying rigid beneath the quilt. Her breath came shallow and fast, her skin damp with sweat. Though her surroundings were unchanged, the terror remained sharp in her bones. Sleep abandoned her, and so she sat awake through the remainder of the night, staring into the darkness until dawn's pale light passed through the shutters.
---
The sky was bright and clear when she began her morning duty, yet the mansion's long corridors seemed immune to the sun. Shadows gathered in the corners like silent witnesses, stretching endlessly down the polished floors. Arabella held her mop tightly, sweeping the damp cloth across the stone tiles of the west wing.
She was glad she wa treated just like every other maid and not a slave. Dorian had freed her from the shackles. Yet the memory of the auction house, of the Crimson Dais, left her unsettled. Whenever she tried to recall how she had even arrived at such a place, her mind recoiled, her temples aching as though struck by needles.
She bent to rinse the mop when footsteps echoed behind her. One of the maids walked by, skirts swishing, stepping carelessly across the floor Arabella had just cleaned. The damp footprints marred her work.
Arabella straightened and forced civility into her voice. "Excuse me. You stepped on where I mopped."
The maid turned, her expression utterly void of apology. Her eyes were cold, her lips unmoving. She made no reply, only shifted as if to leave again.
A spark of frustration flared in Arabella's chest. Without intending to, she reached out and seized the maid's arm. Her grip was far tighter than she meant it to be, enough to make the girl flinch.
The maid slapped her hand away sharply. "For someone who only arrived yesterday, you speak far too much."
Arabella bristled. "I spent a long time cleaning this hall. And you would ruin it with your filthy—"
She cut herself short, realizing too late how her words sounded. The maid's eyes burned crimson for the briefest instant. She stepped closer, her tone low and cutting. "You had better learn your place here."
She turned to leave.
That was when something inside Arabella stirred a dark pulse that rushed through her veins, swift and merciless. Her lips curved into a smile that was not entirely her own. Her feet carried her forward, following the maid as though her body no longer obeyed her will.
The kitchen smelled of smoke and steel, the clatter of knives ringing through the air. Several servants were already preparing the morning meal when Arabella entered unbidden.
The head servant, Marguerite, looked up at once, frowning. "You were ordered to clean the west wing. Why are you here?"
Arabella's gaze slid to Marguerite, her darkened eyes chilling enough to make the older woman shiver within herself. Marguerite quickly looked away, her gaze faltering, she quickly left the kitchen to inform Dorian of the new slave's disobedience.
Arabella moved instead toward the maid she had quarreled with. The girl ignored her, scoffing softly before resuming her work. The dismissal carved deeper than words, and the darkness inside Arabella stirred again. Her hand reached out almost lazily, fingers brushing across a dagger laid upon the counter.
The scream that followed split the kitchen like thunder.
The blade buried itself deep into the maid's arm. Blood spurted across the table, staining the fresh bread and clean linens. Arabella twisted the dagger cruelly, her face alight with a smile that was both beautiful and sinister. The maid shrieked, collapsing to her knees, clutching at her mangled flesh.
The other servants froze in horror, paralyzed by the sight. Not one dared move nor utter a word.
Meanwhile, Marguerite ascended to the upper levels of the mansion, her steps quick yet quiet. She knew precisely where to find her master.
She reached the vast painting room, the scent of oil pigments heavy in the air. Canvases lined the walls portraits, landscapes, visions both strange and sublime. At the center sat Dorian upon a tall stool, brush in hand, golden eyes fixed on the canvas before him.
Marguerite rapped softly at the door before entering, bowing deeply. "Good morning, Master Dorian."
Without turning, he replied, his voice calm. "What is it?"
"It is the new slave you purchased yesterday," she began cautiously.
At once his brush stilled. He did not look at her, only resumed painting after a moment of silence. "And?"
"She… she is disobedient," Marguerite stammered. "She refuses orders, and when I confronted her, she gazed at me with eyes so dark, so unnatural, that I—"
Dorian's lips curved faintly. "Remembering those same eyes that silenced the collector at the Crimson Dais".
He dipped his brush once more, dismissive. "Then you need not worry. I will see her."
Marguerite bowed again and withdrew. She did not know that even as she descended the staircase, the kitchen below was already drowned in blood and screams as Arabella wrecked havoc there.