No matter how exhausted she was the night before, Evelia always rose on time to greet the sun before it fully climbed the horizon.
With practiced ease, she slipped into her black-and-white maid uniform and tied the bow at her chest before the floor-length mirror.
To her, anything unfamiliar had to be mastered within two days—whether this total transformation of her appearance, or the personal habits she’d kept for nearly twenty years. But it meant little to her. After all, as an assassin, swapping identities and “starting fresh” was routine.
Evelia opened her door and glided down the empty corridor, mimicking a noble lady’s posture. Dawn’s faint light let her scan every corner. Old instincts kicked in: her flat leather shoes made barely a sound on the hushed floor.
Most maids still slept off last night’s bonfire party, waiting till the last minute to rise—no doubt nursing hangover headaches.
Kitchen staff rose early. By the time Evelia reached the back, Arman’s breakfast sat neatly on a silver cart. The recipe note showed a simple meal: bread, fried egg, milk, a small piece of chicken—clearly tailored for his stomach, bland and light.
Pushing the cart through the quiet hall, she heard its wheels rumble softly. Then came light, quick footsteps. The once-silent corridor suddenly buzzed with morning activity.
Tap, tap, tap.
Evelia knocked gently. “Mr. Arman, your breakfast is ready.”
“Mm, come in.”
“Yes, sir.”
She entered, tray in hand. Technically, the manor master should dine in the hall—but that was for family meals. Arman lived alone. No need for ceremony. He ate in his room, free of strict etiquette.
Arman was already up. Sunlight warmed the room. His bed was neatly made; damp strands clung to his forehead from washing. Dressed in formal knight attire, he truly looked the part of a dependable, upright knight.
“How was your rest?” Arman tightened his tie and sat. “My knights are barely dragging themselves out of bed. Every Monday morning’s torture. Rotating rest days don’t matter—everyone must rise before 4 a.m., train on empty stomachs till 6, rest one hour, then report to the Knights Order at 7.”
Normally, he’d be out there too. But summoned by the Crown Prince today, he’d slipped back early.
“I wasn’t overworked yesterday, so I’m fine. I’ll clean your shawl and return it later,” Evelia replied precisely, slicing his small meat portion as she spoke.
This was pure nutrition—dry chicken, almost no fat. She’d heard of his stomach issues, but not this severe. He wasn’t enjoying a meal; he was just fueling up.
“That shawl’s nothing. Knights hunt in their spare time—we’ve got plenty of pelts.”
“I’ll return it promptly.”
“You’re stubborn.”
He ate slowly, yet finished fast. Wiping his mouth, he stood. The elderly butler waiting by the door stepped in, holding the formal coat for royal audiences.
“Anything else needed, Mr. Arman?” Evelia asked. She knew he was seeing the Crown Prince. She longed to plant a listening magic stone on him—but too obvious. Royal eyes would catch it. So she stayed quiet, hoping he’d slip something in casual talk.
“Just do your duties, Eve. I’m only reporting in. Back by lunch—I’ll need my meal ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
No point pressing further. She cleared the dishes silently, watched the butler adjust his coat, then slipped out, pushing the silver cart away.
Once she was gone, Arman faced the mirror, smoothing the cumbersome cape marked with the Royal Knights Order emblem.
“That girl walks without a sound. Stay sharp,” he said, pinning medals while catching the butler’s reflection.
“Understood. Extra guards for the palace trip?”
“No. They won’t ambush me in the capital. But guard the manor after I leave. As for Evelia…” He paused. Many options. All risky. She was the Second Prince’s agent—almost certainly from Nightingale House. Their training was brutal. Corner her, and you gain nothing.
Arman knew death could come anytime. Still, he dreamed of retiring someday. Only the Crown Prince’s kindness and duty to the Knights Order kept him going. Who else fights poisoned and half-dead on the front lines? Hell, he deserved a year-end commendation just for all that stomach medicine.
…Ugh. So annoying.
He wouldn’t move on Evelia without certainty. Right now, he and she were just two crickets in the royals’ hands—pitted by the Crown Prince and Second Prince. Or dogs: any moment, the Second Prince might bark, “Evelia, attack!” and the Crown Prince counter, “Can you take that? Arman, bite back!” In the end, the masters walk away clean. The dogs? Who survives?
“Don’t restrict her. Let her move—just don’t let her go too far. No startling the snake. Handle issues when I return.”
“Understood.”
Maybe he couldn’t act yet. Maybe two trapped dogs felt kinship. Arman chose inaction—the “wait-and-see” path leaders hate.
Ugh… so annoying.
He really, really wanted to retire…
