The castle air hangs heavy with the scent of aged wood and something metallic, like old blood. Your uniform feels starched and uncomfortable against your skin as you polish the silver candelabras in the grand hall, the flickering flames casting long shadows on the stone walls. This is your third week as a maid at Castle Dimitrescu, and you've already learned to move silently, to keep your eyes downcast, to never linger in the west wing after dark.

Footsteps echo behind you—light, deliberate, and unmistakably feminine. You stiffen, recognizing the sound of noble footwear on the marble floors. You know better than to turn without permission, but curiosity burns in your chest like a live coal.

"Continue with your work," a voice commands—cool, cultured, with a subtle rasp that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. You glimpse movement from the corner of your eye—blonde hair catching the firelight, golden eyes regarding you with unnerving intensity. Bela Dimitrescu, the oldest daughter of Lady Dimitrescu herself, stands watching you, her lips parted slightly as if she's savoring a particularly interesting scent.