Aika only realized how silent the palace became at night when their footsteps echoed far too clearly along the marble corridors.
There were no other servants.
No guards dared to turn their heads.
Only tall torches burned with small, wavering flames, as if afraid to draw the attention of the woman walking ahead.
Elowen did not look back. She did not check whether Aika was following. She walked with the certainty of someone who knew the world would bend to accommodate her.
Aika gathered the hem of her servant's skirt, trying to match Elowen's pace. Her ankles still throbbed where the chains had once bitten into her skin, but she did not dare complain. Every door they passed looked more lavish than the last—golden carvings, noble crests, heavy curtains dyed in deep, somber colors.
The east wing of the palace.
Aika's heart beat faster.
In the novel, this wing was mentioned only in passing—as Elowen's territory. Few scenes ever took place here, as if the author had deliberately left it blank, a space too dangerous for the narrative to linger in.
Elowen stopped before a tall door layered in black metal. She touched the handle, and a faint magical seal shimmered briefly before fading away.
"Go on," she said shortly.
The room beyond was vast, yet it held no warmth. Tall windows were veiled with dark curtains, allowing only thin strands of moonlight to slice across the floor. Bookshelves filled one wall, while a massive desk lay buried beneath documents and maps.
This was not a bedroom.
This was a command room.
Aika stepped inside carefully.
The door closed behind her with a soft sound that felt final.
"Sit," Elowen ordered, gesturing to the chair before the desk.
The tone was not angry. Not harsh. And yet it left no room for negotiation.
Aika obeyed.
Elowen stood across from her and removed her black gloves one by one. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though granting Aika time to fully understand her position.
"Now," Elowen said, "tell me why two palace assassins were ordered to erase you."
Aika opened her mouth—then closed it again.
She could not tell the truth. Not about the novel. Not about fate. Not about the fact that her death was supposed to be nothing more than a footnote.
"I… don't know for certain," she said at last. "I work in the kitchen. Sometimes I clean the archive rooms. Perhaps I saw something I wasn't meant to."
Elowen studied her for a long moment.
The gaze made Aika feel like a document under review—scrutinized for a single flaw hidden among neat lines.
"You're lying," Elowen said lightly.
Aika flinched.
"But not about your intentions," Elowen continued. "You lie out of fear, not cunning."
She walked around the desk and stopped beside Aika. Too close. Aika caught the faint scent of metal and something bitter—medicine? old blood?
"How long have you worked in the palace?" Elowen asked.
"Six months," Aika replied automatically.
"And in those six months," Elowen asked again, "you never cried?"
The question silenced her.
In the novel, servants were often treated as scenery. Emotionless backdrops. But this body—or perhaps this soul—remembered long nights, blistered hands, and hunger swallowed in silence.
"…I have," she said quietly.
Elowen gave a small nod, as if the answer confirmed something.
"You're different," she said. "Not because you're brave. But because you're not completely broken yet."
Aika turned toward her without thinking. "That's not a compliment."
"It isn't meant to be."
Silence fell between them.
Elowen returned to the desk and picked up a thin document, then tossed it toward Aika.
"Starting tonight," she said, "you are no longer listed as a kitchen servant."
Aika stared at the document. The black seal of House Elvaris was unmistakable.
"What does this mean?"
"You work for me," Elowen replied. "Personally."
Aika's heart dropped.
In the novel, working directly under Elowen meant one of two things: rise quickly… or die quickly.
"I don't have any skills," Aika said honestly. "I can't fight. I don't have magic."
"I don't need a soldier," Elowen answered flatly. "I need someone without affiliations."
Aika stiffened. "I'm a pawn."
"We're all pawns," Elowen said. "The difference is that some of us know the chessboard exists."
She leaned against the desk, her gaze sharpening. "I saved you tonight. That wasn't mercy."
Aika lifted her head.
"It was an investment."
The word felt colder than the dagger from earlier.
"In return," Elowen continued, "you will be loyal to me. You will hear what you hear. See what you see. And speak to no one except me."
Aika clenched her fingers. "And if I refuse?"
Elowen smiled faintly.
"Then the lower corridors of the palace will collect what is overdue."
There was no anger in her voice. Only certainty.
Aika lowered her gaze, her breathing heavy. In her mind, the plot raced forward. Working for Elowen meant leaving the safe path—but that path had never truly existed for a background character like her.
"I don't want to die," she said at last.
"Honesty again," Elowen remarked. "I'm starting to like it."
That word—like—made Aika uneasy. Not because it was sweet, but because it sounded like a claim.
"…Alright," Aika said softly. "I'll work for you."
Elowen straightened.
"Good," she said. "From now on, your life falls within my sphere of influence."
The sentence should have sounded terrifying. And yet, strangely, Aika felt something more dangerous than fear.
Safe.
Elowen walked toward a side door and opened it. Beyond lay a small room—simple, but clean. A single bed. A small desk. A narrow window.
"You'll stay here," Elowen said. "Close to me."
"Why?" Aika asked without thinking.
Elowen paused, then turned back. Her expression was difficult to read.
"Because the ones who want you dead may not give up," she said. "And because I want to know who you truly are."
She closed the door gently, leaving Aika standing alone.
Several minutes passed before Aika dared sit on the edge of the bed. Her hands trembled slightly. She stared at the bare wall, trying to process everything.
This wasn't part of the story.
In the novel, once the servant died, the focus shifted to the heroine. The world moved on without disruption.
But now, this world had made space for her—a narrow, fragile space, but real.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Aika turned.
Elowen entered again, carrying a small cup. She set it on the table.
"Drink," she said. "For the shock."
Aika took the cup with both hands. The liquid was bitter, warm.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Elowen did not reply. She stood for a moment, watching Aika the way one might watch a small flame—judging whether it would fade or grow.
"Aika," she said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"Don't fall to me..."
There was no hint of humor in her voice.
Aika froze. "I—I wouldn't—"
"Good," Elowen cut in. "Because I won't be fair."
She turned and walked away.
The door closed.
Aika stared at the cup in her hands long after the sound of footsteps disappeared.
In her mind, a slow, undeniable realization took root, she hadn't merely survived. She had entered the villainess's territory.
And Elowen—cold, dangerous, and acutely aware of her own influence—had just placed Aika at the very center of her inner circle.