The North Wing hallway smelled of fresh soap and ironing. The morning sun streamed in only narrow strips through the tall windows, interrupted by worn tapestries that softened the light. Damon paused almost imperceptibly, set the two baskets on their handles, took a deep breath, and continued following Aria—who walked ahead of him with firm steps, but her face flushed and her shoulders tense.
Since the previous night, she had avoided looking directly at him, but each time she did, she quickly looked away. The orders came brusquely, impersonally—but there was something behind them: a mixture of shame and tension that gnawed at her pride. Those moments of surrender and warmth pulsed in her mind like an embarrassing echo.
"Go," she said, her impersonal tone masking her own discomfort. "I'll put away the wet cloths, you get the rest."
Those clothes still smelled of perfumed bath and living essence. She didn't want to remember or look at Damon, but she needed him for the job. It was as if she carried in her soul the weight of Asmodeus's touch—which she, a knight of honor, still tried to deny.
When they reached the main laundry room, she opened the door with a sharp tug. Inside, piles of fabrics awaited transfer. Damon carefully unloaded the baskets and glanced at Aria, who was already walking away with another. There was an invisible current—empathy, guilt, expertise—that connected them even without words.
As he adjusted the baskets, the door at the end of the hallway opened with a muffled creak, and a figure emerged.
She advanced calmly, with a rigid, military posture. Her uniform was standard maid's uniform… fitted bodice, white apron, long skirt… but the way she carried a light basket with one arm spoke of practiced lightness. Her head held high, her blue hair falling almost to the floor, made her an imposing presence.
Between her generous breasts, visible through the uniform's balanced neckline, was a black tattoo… a large tattoo, almost a blasphemous symbol, pulsing with an energy that didn't chill, but controlled.
Damon felt a mental flash. The glowing interface appeared before his eyes:
[Target Found]
[Mission "Ice Resistance" – Activated]
[Objective: Warm the ice of the coldest of the Countess's servants]
[Progress: 0%]
[Reward: +15 White Points and possible Special Ability]
She glanced briefly in his direction, but her eyes didn't hold: they were cold, impenetrable, distant. Not out of arrogance—but because they still wouldn't allow entry. She felt like a living wall.
When she passed Aria, the knight stopped. The air seemed heavy for the seconds their visual encounter lasted.
"Ester," Aria said with a discreet bow.
"Aria," the other replied, her voice deep and emotionless. "Is that the new member? Is he any use?"
"He's helping, yes," Aria replied, without elaborating… They didn't seem to get along very well, but they did have respect.
The former general turned and continued on her way, her steps rhythmic and silent.
Aria kept walking. Damon followed her with the baskets, but now his mind wasn't on the task at hand. It was on the woman with the blue hair and the disturbing tattoo.
After they walked away, Aria murmured, without looking back:
"That woman is Ester Deathstriker. Former general of the Empire. The youngest lieutenant to command two legions in battle. She won them all—except the last one. She always made it clear she wasn't afraid, that she was invulnerable."
Damon nodded slowly.
"But they say it was an Incubus who boycotted her command. Who turned allies into enemies. Who used lust and fear to break the morale of her army. She lost everything. Family, friends, the objective. And she disappeared off the map."
"So she probably hates me… even without knowing who I am…" He continued holding the baskets, now understanding the coldness the system wants him to warm…
"The Countess brought her here. No one knows why," Aria continued. "She could be executed in any court. But we chose to keep her. She's part of the House. Now she serves as a servant. But make no mistake… Ester is still a blade full of invisible scars. Her pride is intact—if she still allows anyone to see it."
'What a fucking expository dialogue... it almost feels like I'm in a video game...' Damon thought... really, it was hard to imagine someone speaking like that... unless...
'Either she wants me to break that cold shell or she wants me to completely distance myself from her so I don't get killed...' Damon thought.
They carried everything into the uniform room. Aria coldly set the baskets on a table. Damon placed the rest on the cabinets.
The mansion seemed quieter than usual, and Aria just sighed, "You're free now. You can find something to do. I'll take care of things here."
As Aria walked away, her eyes slightly irritated—perhaps more at herself than at him—Damon stood still for a few seconds, his arms still free and the cold sweat from the day's tasks trickling down the back of his neck.
But his mind was far from his dirty clothes. It was fixed on the name he'd just heard echo from Aria's trembling lips: Ester Deathstriker.
"Former general of the Empire…"
"Cold as stone… broken by an Incubus."
Damon leaned his back against the cold wall of the hallway, his gaze lost in the shadows cast by the large windows. The sunlight silhouetted him almost theatrically, but he didn't care. His body was still, but inside… his spirit danced.
The mission was clear:
[Mission "Ice Resistance" – Activated]
[Objective: Warm the heart of the coldest of the Countess's servants]
[Reward: +15 White Points and possible Special Ability]
"Cold…" he repeated mentally, his eyes closing for a moment.
Targets like that weren't tamed by force. Not even with cheap charm. A woman like Ester was a wall carved by battles, disappointments, and… betrayal. The way she wouldn't even look him in the eye confirmed it: she saw no value in him. Yet.
But Damon knew a truth about cold walls: even stone freezes inside if left too long under ice. And that's when… a well-placed ember makes everything crumble.
"I can't come as a man… I have to come as a shadow."
He needed to watch her. Discover the rhythm of her routine. What she does outside the corridors. When she's alone. What she carries in her gaze, in her hands, in the small gestures that no tattoo or military discipline could hide.
The key wouldn't be to provoke her... but to show that he was different from the others. Or that he could be.
And then, slowly... to tear her down.
Damon left the corridor and followed one of the secondary routes, the ones the maids used to avoid crossing the main halls. He didn't intend to force a meeting yet, but there was something about Esther that intrigued him beyond his mission. It wasn't just desire—it was a challenge. She was an enigma of skin and silence. And he enjoyed deciphering her.
He reached the mansion's smaller library—a rarely visited wing—and entered with light steps. It was empty, as he expected. Dust-covered bookshelves lined the walls, and the center was occupied by a long, dark wooden table. The tall windows kept the room bright but cool.
There, he could think.
He sat in one of the chairs and closed his eyes for a moment.
"What makes a former general become a servant? What strips someone of a lifetime of command and pride… and puts them serving tea?"
Damon suspected the answer: the trauma wasn't defeat. It was betrayal.
An Incubus—like him. Someone like him. Maybe even someone more ruthless, who used lust as a weapon. She would associate him with that. Instinctively.
"Then my path to her can't be sensuality… at least, not at first."
Trust. He needed to generate something close to that.
An idea began to form.
Ester was a creature of habit. Discipline. Order. Damon needed to infiltrate these spaces, make himself useful… predictable… and then begin to corrupt the order slowly, like wine spilled on parchment.
"If she likes routine… I'll become part of the routine."
He would start small. Show up discreetly in the same places. Help with simple tasks. Without drawing attention, without flirting. Just presence. And by the time she noticed, it would be too late: he would already be installed in her subconscious.
And then… he would take the second step.
Show empathy. Humanity. Not lust—yet.
He rose from the chair and walked to the window. The cool breeze touched his face and made his hair wave slightly.
"Esther… let's see how much of your ice is bark. And how much is just fear of getting burned again." He smiled like the cunning demon he had become.