Damon was patient. Cunning. Persistent.
In the days following their first meeting, he began to subtly infiltrate the routine of the North Wing. Never abruptly. Just presence. Observation. A touch here, a helping hand there. Simple tasks that no one noticed—except him.
And her.
Or so he thought.
Ester Deathstriker was a rock. She left no room for slip-ups, no sign of recognition. Damon would appear in the hallways as she passed with baskets of laundry, and upon noticing his approach, she would simply turn away. In the servants' mess, she sat as far away as possible—not out of fear, but out of pure, meticulous contempt. Her gaze never met his.
Twice Damon tried to help her with heavy boxes. Without a word, she looked him up and down, turned away, and continued alone. No gratitude. No irritation. Just… coldness. Genuine. Cutting.
On the third attempt—while changing towels in the upper rooms—Damon discreetly folded a few items and placed them neatly in Ester's cart. She stopped. She looked. She moved a single towel… and removed all the others he'd folded. As if the mere idea that he'd touched her utensils was a silent insult.
She didn't even show anger. It was worse than that. It was as if he didn't exist.
And the system, cruel as ever, kept the mission marker frozen:
[Progress: 0%]
He didn't know what was more frustrating: the objective failure or the complete lack of response.
One morning, Damon risked something bolder. He waited for the moment when she was alone cleaning the mansion's side entrance and "coincidentally" passed by carrying maintenance tools. He stopped nearby, pretending to check a faulty light fixture. He was just a few steps away.
Nothing.
Ester didn't even turn her head. She ignored him with military precision. Impeccable. And it was starting to boil under his skin.
Damon, an Incubus—a race designed to seduce, provoke, and unbalance—had been completely… nullified.
He began to feel something that wasn't just frustration. It was wounded pride. Pride that ached deeply, even more than the loss of his voice, which hadn't yet returned. Aria, at least, had reacted. Elizabeth recognized his nature. Esther? Esther seemed immune.
In the library, at the end of the fourth day, he punched the table harder than he should have. A dry crack echoed among the silent books, and he slumped in his chair. His fist still trembled.
"It's like she's made of stone," he thought, his jaw clenched. "As if... there wasn't even desire there. Nothing. No anger. No curiosity."
He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to calm the heat rising up his spine. The silence of the mansion in that wing was suffocating.
"What if she really is broken?" He hated to think about it. "What if she has nothing left to corrupt?"
That… terrified him. Because it meant failure. It meant that maybe, just maybe, there were limits he couldn't cross.
And worse: that maybe the System had set him an impossible mission.
"Or…" he thought, looking up, "I haven't chosen the right key yet."
He remembered the tattoo between her breasts. The way she walked as if she were still on a battlefield. Her eyes that never looked straight ahead—not out of weakness, but out of an inner ice that protected something more.
There was a core inside. A heart that still beat—he refused to accept otherwise.
But maybe… the mission wasn't about seduction in the traditional sense. Maybe… he needed to change his approach completely.
"If she sees lust as a weapon… then maybe what breaks the ice is… something even more dangerous."
He stood, taking a deep breath.
Trust. Loyalty. Silent surrender. Something she hadn't expected from an Incubus.
And that, he thought, might be the initial crack.
But at that moment, sitting amidst the shadows and dust of ancient books, Damon was merely a frustrated predator staring at the one target that seemed unattainable.
And nothing... made him more determined.
[…Later]
The marble floor reflected the pale dawn light like a cold mirror. The mansion was silent, still breathing sluggishly after the early hours. The heavy curtains had already been drawn back, and the main hall slowly filled with the aroma of tea, sweet fruits, and freshly baked buttered breads.
Damon walked silently beside Elizabeth, as he had every day since he began serving the Countess directly. As soon as she woke, he accompanied her to the dining table, his steps smooth, his posture impeccable. It wasn't just protocol. It was routine. Presence. Observation.
And, secretly, study.
Elizabeth always sat at the head of the long table, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but with that quiet glow that came with morning hunger and an ever-active mind. Her long black hair fell to her shoulders, barely covered by a crimson silk robe. She served herself slowly and elegantly, while Damon stood beside her like a polite shadow.
She listened. She observed. She absorbed.
It was as if that moment of stillness were more valuable than hours of training. Elizabeth, when she didn't speak, taught with gestures. When she spoke… she never wasted words.
Today, however, the routine was broken.
Elizabeth looked up from her teacup and stared at him over the porcelain rim. There was something shrewd in the way she watched him—as if she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask.
"You've been going to the North Wing often," she said, her voice soft but inquisitive. "I'm curious."
Damon didn't answer, of course. He still couldn't. His voice remained sealed. But he was no longer helpless. Silently, he slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the small notebook he carried with him. Plain paper, precise writing. Black pen.
He wrote a few words, quickly, with a steady hand:
"I want to know more about Ester."
Elizabeth blinked slowly as she read the sentence. A second of suppressed surprise. And then a light laugh escaped her lips. She set down her cup, leaning her elbows on the table with an almost maternal glint in her eyes.
"It was a good idea to teach you to write. You learn so quickly," she said, smiling sideways.
Damon only nodded once, but kept his gaze fixed on her. He wasn't smiling. He wanted answers.
Elizabeth ran her finger around the rim of her cup, distracted for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she responded in a different tone—more serious, more firm.
"Be stronger."
Damon frowned slightly. Was that all?
She looked at him again and added, without looking away:
"That's the only thing I can say."
The silence between them was broken only by the soft clink of the spoon hitting the cup. Damon looked back at his notebook, but didn't write anything. He just thought. Strength. That word seemed to carry more weight than usual. Strength wasn't just physical—it was also presence, power, influence.
"Ester isn't moved by words," Elizabeth said finally. "Or by charm. You can hover around her for years and still be invisible. But becoming stronger… more relevant within this house… that's what she notices. What she respects is individual strength."
Damon kept his eyes on her. His head swiveled slowly with the answer.
"And if that's your goal…" Elizabeth continued, now rising from her chair, "…then you'll need more than courage. You'll need to break the way she sees you."
She began walking toward the balcony, her robe dragging softly on the floor. Damon followed her.
"You're an Incubus…" she murmured, with a mysterious smile. "She hates what you are. Not you, specifically. But the essence. What you represent. You'll have to show that you're more than that. More than what destroyed her."
Damon closed the notebook, tucking it into his pocket. The answer, though vague, was clear. Grow stronger. In power. In importance. In… significance.
Elizabeth turned on the balcony, the morning wind blowing her hair back like a living black flag.
"And if you can…" she continued, her gaze now more intense, almost prophetic, "…if you can break this ice… Esther will be yours. Not physically. Not at first. But truly."
Damon took a slow breath. This was more than a challenge. It was almost a ritual.
"But be careful," she said finally. "Melting the ice can release what's trapped beneath. And it's not always… gentle."
The wind blew between them.
Damon nodded silently once more. He understood. There was no easy path. Esther was no ordinary challenge—she was an ancient ruin, made of memories and pride.
And if he wanted to break through her walls… he would have to become worthy.