She had spent years fighting in the shadows, her hands stained with ink from secret pamphlets and, at times, with the blood of those who stood against the revolution. Now, here she was, her hair beneath a bun cover, her revolutionary fire hidden under the starched uniform of a maid.

She gazed at the manor before her, its stone facade imposing against the gray afternoon sky. To most, it was the estate of Lord Sebastian Valencourt, the Prime Minister's closest ally and an unwavering defender of the Crown. To her, it was the heart of the regime she had vowed to dismantle, its marble halls echoing with the whispered secrets of oppression.

She lowered her gaze as she followed the housekeeper through the grand halls, the polished floors reflecting crystal chandeliers like pools of liquid light. Beneath the fabric of her uniform, her heart pounded against her ribs. If she was discovered—she wouldn't live long enough to regret it. The housekeeper's sharp eyes missed nothing, her posture rigid with the authority of someone who had served nobility for decades.

"This will be your post," the housekeeper, Madame Hensley, declared, pushing open the heavy oak doors to the study. The air shifted, growing warmer with the scent of pipe tobacco and beeswax polish. "Lord Valencourt values silence above all else. Do your duties well, and there will be no trouble. Fail him, and you'll regret ever setting foot in this house."

She curtsied, murmuring a practiced "Yes, Madame," before stepping inside. The study was a contradiction—opulent yet surprisingly lived-in, with leather-bound books lining the walls and political papers spread across the massive desk. It smelled of aged parchment and expensive ink, a scholar's sanctuary rather than a statesman's war room.

Before this mission, she had spent months imagining the kind of man Sebastian must be: cold, calculating, indifferent to the suffering of the people outside these walls. A man who dined on the wealth of a starving nation while signing decrees that crushed dissent.

Yet, weeks passed, and as she continued under the guise of her fake identity, she found letters filled with careful, cursive script—correspondences that spoke of philosophy, of doubt, even of weariness with the political games being played in the palace.

Then there was the man himself.

He had returned late one evening, entering the study without acknowledging her presence as he always did. She barely had time to lower her head before he collapsed into an armchair, rubbing his temples with fingers that trembled slightly. The firelight danced across his face, revealing fine lines around his eyes that didn't appear in the newspapers.

She had studied his face from the shadows of revolutionary meetings, from grainy newspaper photographs where he stood beside the king in crisp morning coats. Up close, he was... tired. Younger than she'd expected, not yet forty, his sharp features softened by exhaustion that seemed to come from more than just physical fatigue.

He startled her by speaking suddenly, his voice rough with fatigue as he stared at the fireplace rather than at her.

"Tell me, maid... do you believe this country can be saved?