Dawn mist clung to the streets, dewdrops trembling on leaf-tips before kissing the cobblestones. Distant pigeons darted past the clock tower, while the Four Gods Banner fluttered atop the church roof. A pale sun glowed softly in the slate-blue sky, radiating faint warmth.

All this unfolded before Naytoli, head maid of the Slinadeep household.

She stood motionless at the attic window, the corridor behind her ending at young Master Saren’s door. Yesterday’s warning from the Church still echoed in her mind—a terrifying ultimatum. But handing the boy over to *them*? Their methods wouldn’t be gentle. Not like what they’d done to Count and Countess Slinadeep four years ago.

Memories surged: that sweltering summer, the stench-choked air, the reek of unwashed bodies—and two figures hanging mid-air by ropes.

"Naytoli?"

The voice startled her. Master Saren stood in the doorway, already taking the breakfast tray from her hands. She’d forgotten her purpose entirely, lost in the view and the Church’s shadow.

"My deepest apologies, young master," she murmured.

"No matter," he replied. "I’m not very hungry anyway." She knew it was true—his appetite had always been small.

"Then I’ll take my leave, young master." She turned toward the stone stairs, catching a glimpse of him carrying the tray back to his room.

At the stairwell’s bend, Naytoli paused by another window overlooking Mount Mace behind the estate. The mountainside blazed with maple trees, newly crimsoned by winter’s arrival—a cascade of red, as if some god had poured destruction itself over the slopes. Dark clouds gathered overhead. Rain threatened. Staring at that blood-hued vista, her gaze grew distant.

"Humans are born vessels of sin," she whispered, fingers brushing the pitted granite sill. Morning dew clung to its surface, damp and chill. "They enter this world blank, untouched by filth. Then, step by step, they tread into a filthy world—until corruption seeps in, spreads, stains them whole."

These thoughts lived only in her mind. Servants weren’t meant to ponder; they were meant to work.

Raindrops began to fall. Memories flooded back—her life in this household. Her parents had been Slinadeep servants too. Naytoli was born to serve.

She’d started as a lowly maid, days blurring into identical routines. Like her parents, her elders, their children—all servants lived this way. No questions asked. No objections raised. They were servants.

Yet Naytoli learned swiftly. Her parents marveled but couldn’t send her to school. They were servants—even in a count’s house.

She thought constantly. Alone. Never sharing with peers or parents. These thoughts circled her mind like vultures over barren earth—inescapable, with nowhere to land. So she found an outlet: the pond behind the house.

At fifteen, she’d gone there as usual, ready to whisper her thoughts to the water.

That day, she met Count Slinadeep.

"Child," he’d said, "tell me what’s in that head of yours."

At first, simple doubts: *Why are servants servants? Why do nobles have ranks? Why must vegetables grow in soil?* Then deeper questions surfaced—*Why do humans live? How does this world turn? What is life’s purpose?*

The Count was different. Stars shone in his eyes. Another world spun inside his mind.

The next day, she became young Master Saren’s personal maid. While tutors taught him, she learned too.

Within a year, Head Maid Naytoli accompanied the Count to noble gatherings. Her every gesture left an impression.

*"Who’d have thought a servant could reach such heights?"* became the whisper among aristocrats whenever she entered a room.

Everyone believed she’d shed her servant’s cloak—marry into minor nobility, become a lady.

Naytoli believed it too. Until that day.

*"The Countess Slinadeep... is a demon."*

The truth crashed upon them all.

Every servant fled—terrified of the Church and Holy Order. Even the gentlest mistress was still a demon: a killer, a flesh-eater. The night before her parents escaped, they begged Naytoli at the back gate. *"Your reputation, your skills—any noble would claim you. Leave this ruined house!"* But she stayed inside.

On execution day, she wore the Countess’s last untouched gown. She led Saren through the streets to the square—not just so he could see his parents one last time. So the world would know: the Slinadeeps still stood. Naytoli still stood. The last servant still guarded them.

Rain filled her vision now, mirroring the thoughts drowning her mind. She stood lost in the downpour.

A hand settled on her shoulder. She turned. Saren stood quietly behind her. Four years had stretched the boy into a youth whose height now matched hers.

"What is it, young master?" she asked.

"Nothing, Sister," he answered.

A soft rain fell—no thunder, only scattered drops shattering on the windowsill between them.