A wave of relief washed through Oryen the moment she spotted the red-haired girl with dark skin standing a short distance away. The tension she had carried since dawn loosened in her chest, replaced by cautious hope. Perhaps the girl had lost her way the night before and managed to find shelter somewhere, Oryen reasoned, clinging to the thought as though it were fragile glass. Without drawing attention, she set aside the vegetables she had been slicing and moved quietly toward the young witch. Her ocean-blue eyes swept the surroundings with sharp vigilance, tracking every movement, every shadow, ensuring no one was watching too closely. When she was near enough, she reached out and clasped Dydra's arm firmly. Before the girl could react, Oryen pulled her swiftly into a secluded corner, away from prying eyes.
Dydra startled at the sudden grip, her body tensing on instinct, but when she recognized the raven-black hair and pale, almost unnaturally white skin of the older witch, some of the tension drained from her shoulders. The brief calm did not last. The memories of the previous night surged forward without mercy, sharp and suffocating. Her jaw tightened as she allowed herself to be led aside without resistance, her lips pressing into a thin line as she struggled to restrain the fury boiling inside her chest. The anger clawed at her ribs, threatening to burst free, but she swallowed it down, forcing control where none felt natural.
Oryen noticed none of this. After ensuring they were truly alone, she turned fully toward Dydra and, without hesitation, pulled the younger witch into a tight embrace. The gesture was sudden, sincere, and completely unexpected. Dydra froze, confusion flickering across her features as she stood stiffly in Oryen's arms, unsure whether to pull away or remain still. After a few seconds, Oryen released her and held her hands instead, her grip warm and grounding.
"What happened last night, Dydra?" Oryen asked, her voice low but laced with worry. "Madam Sandra called for me, and I stepped away for only a few minutes. When I returned, neither of you were there. And this morning, Mr. Leavston never showed up at the registering building. You had me worried sick, dear." She pulled Dydra into another embrace, and this time, something in the gesture cracked the wall Dydra had built around herself. The rage that had been simmering dulled, pushed aside by confusion and the unexpected comfort.
Dydra's thoughts tangled. Had she misjudged everything? Had Oryen truly not known? Doubt crept in, gnawing at her certainty. Before she could stop herself, the words slipped from her lips, raw and unfiltered. "He tried to rape me." The moment the sentence left her mouth, she bit down on her tongue, panic flaring. Why had she said it so plainly? Why now?
Oryen stiffened. She pulled back sharply, her eyes locking onto Dydra's face as though searching for confirmation that she had misheard. "What?" Her voice trembled, more with fury than disbelief. "He tried to do what?" Her lips twitched as anger flooded her features, dark and immediate. She believed it without hesitation. She always had. There had been something foul about that man, something rotten beneath his forced politeness, and it was precisely why she had never trusted him. "Where is that son of a bitch?" she demanded, rage blazing in her eyes. Her thoughts spiraled violently, already imagining what she would do when she found him. No wonder he had insisted on meeting them in such a place. Filth like him always sought shadows. If she laid hands on him, she would make certain he never touched another woman again.
"He was taken away," Dydra said quietly. The memory of his breath against her skin, his tongue, sent a violent shudder through her body. Tears welled in her eyes despite her effort to suppress them. "By the elite from two nights ago. He works here. He's the one who saved me."
A faint spark lit Dydra's eyes as she spoke of the nobleman. Gratitude softened her expression, a fragile warmth blooming where terror had lived. If he had not appeared when he did, she knew exactly how the night would have ended. The thought alone made her stomach churn.
Oryen's expression shifted from fury to surprise. An elite, here, intervening again? The implications were impossible to ignore. For someone of his standing to involve himself twice could only mean one thing. Interest. A small, knowing smile curved her lips, unnoticed by Dydra as she continued speaking.
"He took me to a room where I spent the night," Dydra said, carefully omitting that it had been his. "And this morning, he registered me himself—"
"What are you two doing standing idle in a corner?!" Madam Sandra's voice sliced through the moment like a whip. Both women turned sharply. The larger woman stood glaring at them, her plump face twisted in disapproval as she heaved forward, breathing hard like an irritated bull. Without another word, Oryen and Dydra separated and returned to their duties, silence falling between them like a curtain.
Later that afternoon, as Dydra and Oryen sat together for their brief meal, Madam Sandra approached with heavy steps. "You. Red-head. Come with me."
Dydra's heart leapt painfully into her throat. She shot a panicked look toward Oryen. In this palace, such summons rarely ended well. Oryen immediately spoke up, her tone respectful but firm. "She's new here, Madam Sandra. I don't believe she would be of much help—"
"And how would you know that?" Sandra snapped, cutting her off with a sharp glare. Oryen faltered, lowering her gaze and bowing slightly, swallowing whatever protest she had intended. Sandra turned and barked at Dydra to follow her, already walking away. With a deep frown and dread pooling in her stomach, Dydra obeyed.
Earlier that day, a guard bearing the mark of the Crown Prince had approached Madam Sandra with an unexpected message. The prince wished to speak with her privately in the palace maze. Never in her years of service had she been summoned by royalty, let alone the rumored cursed prince. Fear had seized her immediately. As the towering hedges of the maze loomed closer, her heart pounded violently in her chest. She clasped her thick hands together, praying under her breath as the guard led her to the entrance before stepping inside. After a moment's hesitation, she followed.
The guard moved with certainty, taking sharp turns without pause, as though the twisting paths were etched into his memory. They reached what seemed to be the maze's heart, where he bowed deeply and turned away, disappearing without another word. Sandra stood alone, disoriented and trembling. A sudden, violent gust of wind tore through the clearing, and before she could scream, a figure materialized in front of her.
His eyes burned crimson, locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. His voice was calm, commanding, absolute. "You will give the red-head maid lesser work than the others. She will serve only my chambers. She will prepare my meals and deliver them herself. She will reside within the palace walls. You will forget this conversation ever took place."
Before Sandra could even gasp, the figure vanished. In the same instant, the guard reappeared and gestured for her to follow. She obeyed in a daze, her thoughts scattered and her limbs heavy. Though she was a vampire herself, she knew the truth with chilling clarity—she was nothing compared to the Crown Prince.