Stripping off the wet, lye-soaked dress inside the cramped maid quarters of the East Wing felt exactly like peeling off a second layer of skin.
The only spare uniform available in my rusted locker smelled strongly of mildew, stale sweat, and cheap despair.
Coarse, unrefined wool scratched my raw skin like industrial sandpaper with every single movement.
Rolling up the heavy skirt revealed knees completely covered in ugly, dark purple bruises. Kneeling on solid marble for three hours had done massive structural damage to my joints.
'Infection and death before the main plot even begins. A fitting end for an author who wrote a feudal setting with zero basic healthcare or labor rights.'
Tying the stiff linen apron around my waist did nothing to stop my stomach from cramping violently.
Zero calories were currently powering this overworked body. Starvation was a very real, very imminent threat.
Leaving the depressing quarters behind, the long, grueling trek to the Central Tower officially began.
Valdris Castle was massive. Ridiculously, unnecessarily, obnoxiously massive.
'Writing the castle layout as a confusing, sprawling maze seemed like a fantastic way to add a "sense of mystery" to the setting last year.'
'Right now, that brilliant "mystery" translates to a three-mile hike up hundreds of steep stone stairs with battered knees.'
Lactic acid burned fiercely through my thighs by the time the imposing base of the Central Tower finally came into view.
The air temperature dropped noticeably in this sector.
Guards stationed heavily along the stone corridors resembled lifeless, armored statues, not blinking once as a limping, filthy maid passed by their posts.
Heavy oak double doors marking the Prince's private study finally appeared at the end of the hall.
Zane, the terrifying captain of the guard, stood right in front of the entrance. One thick, armored hand rested casually on the pommel of his broadsword.
Pure, unfiltered hostility radiated from his glare.
'Zane was explicitly designed to be Killian's fiercely loyal, brain-dead lapdog. He is doing an absolutely fantastic job at being a one-dimensional menace.'
"State your business, servant," Zane spat. His deep voice carried zero warmth.
"His Highness ordered my presence here," the reply came out completely flat.
Breathing heavily from the brutal stairs made adding polite, submissive honorifics completely impossible.
Zane's square jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar. Drawing his sword and ending my miserable existence right then and there clearly crossed his mind.
Instead, his heavily armored arm pushed the massive oak doors open with a loud creak.
"Enter. Keep your eyes glued to the floor. Do not speak unless spoken to."
Stepping over the threshold felt like walking directly into a mausoleum.
The smell of old parchment, expensive black ink, and a faint, metallic hint of rusted iron hit my nose immediately.
The heavy doors slammed shut with a loud thud, instantly cutting off all outside noise. The silence inside was deafening.
The study looked exactly as described in the original manuscript drafts.
Dark mahogany wood paneling lined the walls. Heavy crimson curtains blocked out the morning sunlight, leaving the room submerged in moody shadows. A massive desk dominated the far end of the room.
'My gothic architectural phase was an absolute mistake. This room is a logistical nightmare for anyone who needs actual lighting to read administrative documents.'
Killian sat rigidly behind the desk, casually flipping through a thick stack of parchment reports.
No upward glance accompanied my entry. Not a single word was spoken to acknowledge my presence.
Silence simply stretched to uncomfortable, agonizing lengths.
'Classic interrogation tactic. Breaking the silence first is what he expects. Making the lowly suspect squirm under the pressure is the ultimate goal.'
Giving him that satisfaction was completely out of the question. Standing perfectly still near the entrance became my sole focus.
Scratchy wool dug into the folded hands resting on my apron.
The dark wooden floorboards suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the entire room. Counting the iron nails holding them together passed the time effectively.
One minute turned into five. Five minutes felt like an hour.
Bruised knees started shaking uncontrollably from the immense strain of standing absolutely still.
Suddenly, the air pressure in the room plummeted.
That same suffocating feeling from the hallway returned, multiplied by ten inside this enclosed space.
Killian was leaking his Tone Six Resonance on purpose.
Lungs seized completely. Inhaling felt exactly like trying to breathe in solid water.
A sharp, blinding pain spiked right behind my eyes. Knees buckled slightly toward the floor, but sheer, idiotic stubbornness forced my legs to lock firmly in place.
'Dropping to the floor and begging for mercy is what he wants. Establishing absolute dominance is his default setting.'
'Screw you. My keyboard created you. Kneeling is not happening twice in one day.'
Biting the inside of my cheek until warm copper flooded my tastebuds grounded my senses.
The sharp physical pain kept the encroaching darkness at the edge of my vision from completely taking over.
"Resilience is a very rare trait for someone possessing an Empty Tone."
A low, rumbling voice finally shattered the silence. The crushing atmospheric pressure vanished instantly, leaving the room feeling normal again.
Quiet, desperate gasps for oxygen filled the study. My chest heaved up and down as air rushed back into my lungs.
Looking up was finally possible.
Leaning back in a large leather chair, those calculating, dark red eyes watched my every single move with predatory interest.
"Holding my breath while cleaning the castle latrines built up an excellent tolerance, Your Highness," the deadpan answer slipped out entirely too naturally.
Killian's eyes narrowed dangerously. Long, pale fingers began tapping a slow, steady rhythm on the mahogany desk.
"Fear is completely absent from your demeanor," the statement hung heavily in the air, requiring no confirmation.
'Absolute, mind-numbing terror is currently running through my veins. But starvation, exhaustion, and extreme annoyance at my own writing are severely overriding it right now.'
"Expressing fear properly requires physical energy, Your Highness. A twelve-hour shift yesterday drained whatever was left in my system."
The tapping fingers stopped abruptly. Standing up slowly, that ridiculously tall frame moved around the massive desk.
'Another stupid trope forced into his character design. Why did every male lead need to be built like a towering walking monolith?'
Stopping just a few feet away, broad shoulders blocked the meager light coming from the desk candles.
"A maid who refuses to beg. A maid who talks back. A maid who maintains direct eye contact with the Crown Prince."
Listing these infractions sounded exactly like a royal judge reading an execution sentence.
"An assassin sent by House Mourne? Or perhaps a sleeper agent placed by Arsel?"
Suppressing a massive eye roll took an unbelievable amount of effort.
'Of course, his paranoid brain jumps straight to complex political espionage. Trusting absolutely no one is his entire personality.'
"Just a maid from the East Wing, Your Highness. Assassinating a royal with a dirty scrub brush seems highly inefficient."
No amusement showed on his perfectly sculpted face. One step closer eradicated the remaining personal space between us.
Freezing cold fingers suddenly clamped down hard on my chin.
My head was jerked upward roughly, forcing direct eye contact with those crimson irises. The grip was tight enough to definitely leave dark bruises on my jawline by tomorrow.
"People lie with their words. Resonance never lies." The voice dropped to a lethal, quiet whisper.
"Yet, absolutely nothing radiates from you. Completely empty. Reading your emotions or intent is biologically impossible."
The grip tightened just a fraction, sending a spike of pain through my jaw. "Things I cannot read are things I usually destroy."
'Just wait until this "Empty Tone" randomly mutates into a Foreign Resonance later in the plot. The urge to destroy me is going to skyrocket exponentially.'
Keeping my facial expression completely blank was the only defense mechanism left. Breathing remained slow, shallow, and even.
"Nothing exists to be read, Your Highness. What you see is exactly what you get."
Piercing red eyes searched my face for several more agonizing seconds, hunting aggressively for any micro-expression of deception.
Finally, the freezing fingers released my chin.
A pristine white handkerchief appeared magically from his coat pocket. He slowly, deliberately wiped his fingers clean.
'Did he seriously just sanitize his hand after touching a peasant? What an overly dramatic, obnoxious germophobe.'
Walking back to the desk, a thick parchment report was picked up from the organized stack.
"The dust in the north hallway," the topic shifted without any warning. "You complained about its unusual thickness."
Confusion momentarily broke my blank facade. "Yes. The dirt was unusually thick."
"My highly trained intelligence network failed to notice an entire squad of Umber mercenaries slipping into the capital last night," Killian stated coldly, tossing the report down onto the wood.
"Yet, a lowly, uneducated maid noticed the exact trail of foreign soil their boots left inside my highly secured castle."
Ice water instantly replaced the blood in my veins.
'Oh my god. Chapter 4's mercenary plotline. They snuck in through the north wing to raid the armory tonight.'
'The dirt on that marble floor wasn't regular dust. It was dried red clay exclusively found at the Umber Border.'
My big mouth had inadvertently proven that highly classified military knowledge was sitting inside a maid's head.
"Floors are my only area of expertise, Your Highness. Analyzing dirt composition is way above my pay grade," the excuse tumbled out entirely too fast.
Sitting back down, a sharp quill was dipped into a glass inkwell.
"Lying to me twice in one day is a very bold choice."
'It wasn't a lie! Remembering a massive plot hole written two years ago just ruined my life!'
"Trust is not something you have earned, Lia." The quill scratched harshly against a blank piece of parchment.
"Anomalies left unsupervised tend to cause massive explosions. Keeping you within arm's reach is the only logical solution."
The scratching stopped. A heavy royal seal slammed down violently onto hot red wax.
"Effective immediately, your transfer from the East Wing to the Central Tower is permanent."
Pure horror threatened to completely shatter my composure.
'No. Absolutely not. The Central Tower is the epicenter of every single assassination attempt, political betrayal, and psychotic drama in this entire novel.'
"Cleaning this study, managing my classified documents, and tasting my meals for poison will be your new daily routine."
Tasting for poison? That wasn't even written in the original draft!
"Reporting directly to Zane is mandatory. Any attempt to flee the castle grounds will result in the immediate amputation of your legs."
Red eyes locked onto mine, completely devoid of human empathy. "You are dismissed."
Brain functions flatlined.
Avoiding a simple bullying scene was the only goal this morning. Saving ten fingers from getting crushed was the only priority on the agenda.
Instead, a massive promotion from a background NPC to the primary target of the kingdom's most paranoid tyrant had just occurred.
A stiff, mechanical bow was the only physical action my body could muster. "Yes, Your Highness."
Turning around, the long walk back to the heavy oak doors felt exactly like a death march.
Reaching the cold brass handles, I pushed the heavy doors open, desperate to escape the suffocating, tense air of the study.
The doors swung outward into the freezing corridor.
Zane was no longer standing guard alone.
A woman stood right outside the threshold, her gloved hand raised as if she was just about to knock.
Elaborate silk gowns, perfectly styled blonde hair, and an undeniable aura of absolute aristocratic arrogance.
Morgana Caldris.
The Male Lead's fiancée. The primary villainess of the first five arcs. The woman whose entire existence revolved around securing her political power through this arranged marriage.
Her beautiful, sharp eyes slowly scanned the filthy, lye-stained apron.
Then, her gaze shifted upwards, locking dead onto the dark, fresh bruises blooming on my jaw—the exact shape of Killian's fingers.
A cruel, razor-sharp smile slowly stretched across Morgana's perfect red lips.
"Well, well," Morgana's voice dripped with poisonous sweetness, loud enough for Killian to hear clearly from his desk inside. "It seems my dear fiancé has finally found himself a new... plaything."
My stomach completely dropped into the abyss.
'She wasn't supposed to visit the Central Tower until next week.'
The plot wasn't just deviating anymore. It was actively hunting me down.