By the time the morning sun kissed the estate’s rooftops, the maids had emerged—ashen-faced, wrinkled uniforms, and stiff-backed—from their self-imposed fortress in the servant’s quarters.
Sir Richardson’s instructions had been clear the night before: “Lock the doors. Do not come out. No matter what you hear.”
And they didn’t.
Not for the screams.
Not for the explosions.
Not even for the sound of something (or someone) slamming into the second-floor chandelier and dislodging it entirely.
It wasn’t until the town sheriff himself came knocking at dawn—loud, impatient, and partially singed—that they unbolted the doors and peeked out.
Now, with breakfast trays assembled and blood mostly mopped up, the estate had fallen into that strange post-crisis calm where no one really knew what to do… so naturally, the gossip began.
And once it began—it never stopped.
“I’m telling you,” whispered Mara, the youngest of the scullery maids, dramatically polishing a teaspoon, “I heard Lady Vaelira caught all three of them robbers by sneezing. Just sneezed, and boom—they all froze!”
“That’s not even a little bit true,” scoffed Marlene, the head laundress, who had more authority than actual information.
“She used her mind. She’s got that noble psychic magic, you know? Picked it up from the Duchess of Redmere’s side. Don’t you read the family archives?”
“You made that up,” said Dora, who was elbow-deep in folded linens and clearly enjoying every minute.
“I heard it was Lady Thalia that scared them off. Woke up with a gun under her pillow and just chased them down the hallway in her slippers like some kind of pistol-wielding banshee.”
“That one might actually be true,” muttered an older maid.
“Didn’t she shoot one in the pants?” said another, eyes wide.
“She almost shot the chandelier,” chimed in Mara.
“Twice!”
“Anyway,” said Dora, carefully balancing a tea tray, “the real scandal is how Vaelira hasn’t left Master Lucien’s room since.”
All heads nodded at once.
It was a thing now.
Like clockwork.
“She’s been feeding him soup. Real gentle-like.”
“Did you see how she slapped Sir Wycliffe’s hand when he tried to touch the bandages? Slapped him.”
“I heard she threatened to turn his bones to mist if he gave Lucien the wrong dosage!”
“What did the doctor say anyway?”
“Oh, I overheard him on the stairs—said Lucien’s got bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder, minor blood loss, and a mild concussion. He’s bed-ridden, but—get this—apparently he took down three men before passing out.”
Gasps.
One dropped teacup.
“Three?! By himself?!”
“With a curtain and a fireplace poker, someone said.”
“The curtain was the real weapon,” someone whispered reverently.
“That boy’s always been strange. Quiet, but the dangerous kind, you know? I saw him lift a whole sack of potatoes last week with one arm.”
“Oh please,” Marlene rolled her eyes.
“He fainted when he saw a garden beetle last month. He’s just lucky Lady Vaelira’s been watching over him.”
That, at least, got no argument.
As the kitchen filled with more tea kettles, clinking dishes, and heated theories about whether or not Vaelira and Lucien were engaged in secret (they weren’t), or whether Thalia slept with one eye open and her gun loaded (she did), the collective consensus began to settle.
Whatever had happened last night, it was over.
No one had died.
Lucien was (mostly) fine.
And the estate was still standing—if a bit singed.
“Praise be to the Stars,” one of them sighed dramatically.
“We lived through a real siege. A siege!”
“I’m writing a letter to my cousin in Farbridge,” another declared, “She won’t believe I was part of history.”
Dora nodded.
“Me neither. But first, I’m bringing Master Lucien more soup. Lady Vaelira said he’s not eating enough.”
The rest leaned in like she’d been chosen for sainthood.
And so, as the estate continued to process the aftermath of blood, blades, and midnight intrusions, the heart of it all—the help—just kept spinning tales, clinking china, and feeding soup to a boy who, for all they knew, fought off assassins with nothing but curtains and righteous fury.
***
The world outside had finally calmed.
The chaos of the night had receded into memory, and the golden rays of morning filtered gently through the lace curtains, casting long beams across the polished floor.
Lucien lay in bed, propped up slightly on pillows, bandages tight across his chest and upper arm.
The sharp edge of pain dulled now to a throbbing ache that pulsed with his breath.
And at his side—exactly where she’d been since last night—was Vaelira.
She hadn’t slept.
Not properly, anyway.
She hadn’t changed clothes either, her silk blouse wrinkled from leaning too long on the mattress’s edge.
There was a faint scuff on her cheek where she’d likely been nicked, and a lock of her hair had come loose, falling into her eyes.
She hadn’t bothered to tuck it back.
Not when he’d been laid out like that—unconscious, bloody, pale.
She had cleaned the dried blood from his face herself, whispering under her breath all the things she hadn’t dared say aloud.
And now that he was awake, she remained there, elbow on the mattress, chin in her hand, watching him like he might disappear if she so much as blinked.
“You know,” Lucien said softly, “I’d say I look worse than I feel, but even breathing stings like hell, so…”
Vaelira raised an eyebrow.
“That’s because you were stabbed, Lucien.”
“Well, technically, I was slashed and not stabbed.” he corrected with a lopsided smile.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked downward to the bandages.
“You nearly died.”
“And yet, here I am.”
He gave a weak shrug.
“Thanks to you. Again.”
Vaelira narrowed her eyes.
“You’re not allowed to deflect by being charming when you’re full of cuts.”
“I’m not charming, I’m concussed.”
She exhaled through her nose—half laugh, half sigh.
“Lucien.”
“Vaelira,” he echoed.
There was a pause.
Not an awkward one.
Just… full.
Charged.
She glanced at the pitcher of water beside the bed and reached for it, pouring a small cup.
Her movements were quiet and practiced—softer than usual.
She handed him the cup and waited as he took a slow sip.
“You haven’t left since last night,” he murmured, setting it down.
She didn’t meet his eyes.
“I didn’t want to,” she said simply.
He smiled again—smaller this time.
“I figured. You even yelled at the doctor. Twice.”
“He was being too casual,” she defended. “Like you hadn’t bled through half the carpet.”
“Hey,” he grinned faintly.
“I bled on the wallpaper, too. Let’s be fair.”
Vaelira groaned, half-serious.
“You absolute menace.”
Lucien’s grin faded slowly, and he leaned his head back against the pillows.
“…They got me when I left the room,” he said finally, voice low.
Her posture tensed.
“I’d taken out the ones who broke in,” he continued.
“One’s nose is probably still stuck in the chimney flue. The other… well. He tried to use the curtain as a weapon, so I used it better.”
Vaelira stared, waiting.
“But after it was done, I stepped into the hallway, and I didn’t even hear him.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened.
He winced.
“He was just… there. Waiting. Like he knew I’d come out eventually. Dagger already out, pressed to my side before I even got a word out.”
He looked away.
“I think he didn’t want to kill me. Not then, at least. Just hold me. As a… chip.”
Vaelira’s nails dug lightly into her own palm.
‘That one.’
The one that escaped her room.
The one who got away.
She cursed herself again.
“Then,” Lucien muttered, “next thing I know, Sir Richardson’s about to explode, Thalia’s yelling something about ‘flank formation’ with a gun the size of a dog, and you’re there.”
“…I’m glad you were the one to catch me.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel appreciated,” Vaelira murmured, folding her arms.
She blinked.
“Why?”
“I think if it’d been Thalia, she might’ve shot me out of spite. Just to be sure.”
Lucien looked over at her, studying the way her mouth tugged downward, even as she tried to tease.
Vaelira snorted despite herself.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re exhausted,” he said, more gently.
“You haven’t slept.”
“I don’t sleep when you’re bleeding, Lucien.”
A beat.
“I’m glad you didn’t die,” she said.
He reached out, slowly, fingers brushing hers atop the blanket.
“Me too.”
Another pause.
In their minds, questions remained.
‘Was it the Aetherveils?’
Vaelira thought, ‘Was this their move? Calculated, political, cruel… it fits. And if it was them, then this was only a warning shot. Probably to derail the advancements we are making ’
‘Was it Leonardo?’ Lucien wondered.
‘I wouldn’t put this past him. Maybe not directly, but he has the means. The connections.’
Neither of them voiced their suspicions.
Not yet.
But the storm that had passed was just the beginning—and both of them knew, somewhere deep in their blood, that more was coming.
Still, for now, they let the silence settle.
Two hands touching.
Two hearts steadier than the night before.
Alive.
Together.
For now.
***
Dew clung to the grass, now stained in places with footprints and traces of blood.
A pair of covered bodies lay near the perimeter, respectfully veiled and flanked by armed guards.
Bound and bruised, the surviving attackers were lined up against the stone wall, silent as the town sheriff’s men conducted the final sweep.
Amid the activity, Terrin—the estate’s elderly gardener—moved briskly among the town guards and barked instructions with surprising authority.
“Watch your step by that rose hedge! There’s a pressure-root under there—trip that and you’ll be eating petals for weeks!”
The actual Sheriff, a younger man with a stiff posture and dark circles under his eyes, gave him a sideways glance but said nothing.
Terrin had seen more action in a night than most of them had in a year, and it showed.
A short distance from the main courtyard, beneath the charred archway that once held climbing ivy, stood Sir Richardson—silent, tense, his arms crossed behind his back as he stared at the field of subdued chaos.
Thalia stood beside him.
Her coat was buttoned high, her posture confident but casual.
Her silver dragon-head pin gleamed at her collar once again, returned to its original, unassuming form—its earlier transformation now just a memory.
“I reviewed the reports,” she said, scanning a folded document she’d just received.
“The attack was surgically timed. Coordinated across multiple points of entry. Someone paid good coin for a layout of your estate and better coin for men reckless enough to use it.”
“We were lucky the arcane barrier triggered when it did. I doubt we would be able to handle these thugs if they had back up.”
Sir Richardson sighed.
“Truly. But, there is the matter that the first batch of intruders seem to have walked in without the barrier triggering. Something is not right about that. There was no mage amongst them who could have pulled such a thing.”
Thalia said as she looked at captured convicts.
“You don’t suppose this was about the deal?”
Richardson shook his head slightly.
“It’s possible. But the attack was too broadly targeted. They stormed every wing. They could’ve gone for our safes, our archives. They went for our people.”
Thalia clicked her tongue.
“Messy politics, maybe. Or old grudges. Gods know you nobles attract both.”
He winced slightly, but said nothing.
She added after a beat, more carefully this time, “Of course, this kind of thing can shake confidence in formal negotiations. The Everwinds… prefer stability when sealing partnerships. Clean ledgers. Clean reputations. Safety for all parties involved.”
She didn’t say more than that.
But the way she paused, the weight behind her words, and the small glance she gave him—it was enough.
An undercurrent.
Richardson caught the implication.
Her phrasing was careful, unofficial.
But she was trying, in her own way, to say that all was not lost.
That despite this… incident, she’d do what she could.
He inclined his head, grateful.
“You have my thanks, Lady Thalia.”
She gave a short laugh.
“Just Thalia. I work under the Everwinds—I didn’t marry into them.”
There was an unexpected softness to the moment.
One soldier to another.
No pomp.
No pretense.
Still, he bowed.
“All the same. Your help is deeply appreciated.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replied, adjusting her coat.
“Well, not in writing anyway. The paper work would be bloodsucking.”
They stood in silence for a beat longer, watching as the last of the injured were loaded into a transport cart.
The quiet between them wasn’t strained—more… mutual understanding.
At last, Thalia exhaled.
“I’ll return to headquarters and report the incident myself. We’ll have to delay the Orchid Contract. Officially.”
Richardson nodded solemnly.
“Unofficially…” she glanced toward Lucien’s window, where the drapes had been drawn slightly.
“…I think your young master made an impression. Once he’s recovered, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in the Everwinds thinks he’s worth scouting.”
Sir Richardson’s eyes flickered, a mix of surprise and pride flashing through them.
“I will… relay the possibility,” he said carefully.
Thalia smirked faintly.
“You don’t need to. He is sharper than most. Let him draw his own conclusions when the letter comes.”
Then, with a crisp movement, she turned to her waiting horse.
As she mounted, the silver dragon pin caught the sunlight again—gleaming faintly as if winking before vanishing into the folds of her coat.
She turned back once before leaving.
“You’ve got a good house here,” she said. “Bit bruised. Bit bloody. But good. I’ll be back when things settle. And when Lucien can stand.”
And with that, Thalia rode off into the misty morning, hooves clapping softly against the cobbled drive, leaving behind a battered estate slowly stitching itself back together.
Sir Richardson stood motionless for a while, watching the road.
And then, wordlessly, he turned and began walking toward the manor.
There was still much to do.
***
Author’s Note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
Hey, thanks so much for reading!
Seriously, it means a lot to know that you’re sticking with this story.
Just a quick note—Thalia’s heading off for a bit, but don’t worry, she’ll be back before long. ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
So if you like her gun-slinging chaos, hang tight. ╭( ๐_๐)╮