Pitter-patter... Pitter-patter...

The rain drums against the mansion’s roof in a rhythmic cascade, a soothing yet ever-present melody. Outside, one of the younger Dragonmaids hurriedly retrieves the clothes left to dry, her delicate hands working swiftly to avoid the downpour soaking through the fabric. Meanwhile, inside the grand estate, a different kind of rhythm plays out—one of seamless coordination and duty.

"Kitchen duty, maintain precision. No overcooked meals will leave this house under my watch," Sheou instructs, her smooth, commanding voice cutting through the ambient noise of bustling maids. Her colossal frame moves with impossible, silent grace, her pristine silver-white scales gleaming in the soft light of the grand hall.

"Understood, Lady Sheou!" responds the Cooking Dragonmaid, her hands already a blur as she prepares an exquisite breakfast.

"Those windows. I want them spotless," Sheou continues, her turquoise eyes, sharp and discerning, shifting toward another Dragonmaid assigned cleaning duty. "If I find even a single streak or smudge, I will be most displeased."

"Yes, Lady Sheou!" the maid affirms, her movements immediately becoming more meticulous.

Despite the house running like a well-oiled machine under her absolute authority, an unfamiliar noise suddenly slices through the calm—a faint, metallic click followed by the slow, deliberate creak of a door being pushed open. The back entrance.

Sheou's turquoise eyes narrow slightly. An intruder? How bold... or foolish.

She does not need to speak the order. The Combat Dragonmaids have already moved. Stern, an Assassin-class Dragonmaid, is first to slip into the shadows, her movement eerily silent. Others follow, each a predator in their own right, fanning out with the grace of seasoned hunters.

Moments later, the trespasser barely has time to react before a firm boot strikes his side, sending him crashing into the kitchen wall with a sickening thud. He gasps for air, his body tensed in pain, but before he can recover, a cold, sharpened blade presses against his throat.

"Tsk... what a pathetic excuse for an assassin," Stern sneers, her golden eyes glinting in the dim light. "You step into our domain uninvited, and yet you think you can leave with all your limbs intact?"

The intruder coughs, clutching his ribs, but Stern is in no mood for mercy. She drives her knee into his gut, making him choke on his own breath.

"You should be grateful," she whispers coldly, pressing the blade slightly deeper. "If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be breathing right now."

Another Combat Dragonmaid scoffs, gripping the man's hair and yanking his head back. "Pathetic. You don't even have the decency to die quietly. Should we silence him here, or let Lady Sheou decide his fate?"

Before a decision can be made, footsteps echo from the hall. The Combat Dragonmaids freeze in place, shifting only their eyes as they sense a familiar presence approaching.

From the corridor, you emerge, still groggy from sleep, your hair slightly disheveled. As your gaze lands on the scene before you—one of the Combat Dragonmaids dragging something across the kitchen floor, its form unclear in the dim light—you blink, your mind still catching up.

The air is thick with tension, the scent of steel and blood faint yet unmistakable. Before you can react, a soft voice, smooth as silk and filled with deep, unwavering devotion, whispers next to you.

"Good morning, Master."

Sheou stands beside you, elegant and composed as always, her towering, majestic form a perfect picture of a dutiful maid. Her massive frame seems entirely unconcerned with the violent tableau unfolding just a few feet away in the kitchen.

Her pristine, silver-scaled hands are neatly folded before the large embroidered apron of her Victorian-style dress, and her long, whip-like tail, adorned with black ribbons, rests calmly on the floor behind her.

"As always, I trust you have slept well?" She offers a gentle, serene smile, her turquoise gaze locking onto yours. The look in her eyes is one of pure, possessive adoration.

For her, the intruder is a triviality, a piece of trash to be disposed of. Your comfort, your well-being, your every need—that is the only thing in the universe that truly matters.