Despite my pitiful stats, I was fairly certain Knight Commander Rose was trying to kill me.
We'd been running. And running. And running. My lungs burned like I'd swallowed a forge, every breath clawing at my throat. My borrowed legs pumped uselessly, chains clinking with every jolt, while the sun above baked me in heat. Endurance stat? Sure—I had it. Eighteen, to be exact. But apparently all that meant was my body could suffer longer before collapsing.
Great. I wasn't a superhuman athlete. I was just built to die slower.
"Not yet," the System chimed in cheerfully, its voice as clear as a ringtone in my skull. "Given enough exposure, however, pain thresholds can rewire the brain. When pleasure becomes insufficient stimulus, even agony—"
"Shut. Up," I snarled, each word punctuated by a wheeze. My arms were cuffed to a wooden pole I was using like a walking stick—Commander Rose's idea of rest.
Fantastic.
Rose had disappeared for a moment, probably to refill her water skin or polish her sword or—more likely—just stand in the shade looking cool while I suffered. I leaned against the pole like a dying scarecrow, gasping like a fish on land. Sweat stung my eyes. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
When she finally reappeared, she looked composed, immaculate. Black wolfcut tied neatly back, armor gleaming, not a drop of sweat to betray effort. She didn't even look flushed. I hated how cool she looked.
Without a word, she unchained me. The shackles dropped away with a heavy clank, leaving angry red rings on my wrists. I flexed my fingers and glared, but her expression didn't shift an inch.
She simply gestured. Follow.
I would've flipped her off if I didn't think she'd break my fingers in half.
We walked. This time not to the training yard, but to a quieter wing of the manor. The noise of soldiers drilling faded into the distance, replaced by the hush of running water, the faint shuffle of slippers on polished stone, and the soft scent of lavender soap. Here, maids in crisp uniforms darted about like ants in perfect formation—dusting shelves, balancing trays, carrying baskets of linens.
Rose stopped in front of a stern, elderly woman whose posture alone screamed, I have survived worse than you, and I will bury you without blinking.
"This is Esther," Rose said. "Head maid. She'll handle you from here."
Esther's eyes scanned me once, slow and deliberate, like a jeweler appraising a counterfeit gem. Her mouth tightened. She didn't bother hiding her disdain.
"You'll serve the Lady Regina," she said, her voice dry as parchment left too long in the sun. "Follow me."
I barely had time to protest before she whisked me away.
---
My "initiation" into maidhood began with Esther dragging me into a washroom that could've doubled as a miniature bathhouse. Marble tiles gleamed, silver faucets trickled water fragrant with rose oil, and the steam fogged the mirrors. The air smelled expensive.
The bath itself? Less "spa retreat" and more "public execution."
Esther dunked me like a heretic and scrubbed me raw, wielding her sponge with all the mercy of a prison warden sanding down rusted bars. I yelped, sputtered, tried to cover myself, but modesty wasn't on the schedule.
"Consent is a luxury, dear," the System offered, tone dripping with faux sympathy.
"Shut up," I muttered through a mouthful of bubbles.
By the time Esther was done, I was pink, raw, and trembling like a plucked chicken. She didn't even let me dry myself—just snapped her fingers, and two younger maids patted me down with towels like I was a prized show dog.
Then came the uniform.
A French maid outfit, straight out of a bad anime convention. Black dress, white apron, frills on frills on frills, as though someone thought lace could substitute for dignity. The skirt brushed just above the knees, and the stockings hugged my thighs uncomfortably tight. They even shoved my feet into boots with enough laces to anchor a ship.
Humiliation? Check.
Finally, Esther spun me toward the mirror.
Silver-white hair, scraped into a tight bun. Porcelain-pale skin. A modest bust—C-cup, maybe, if I was being generous. My cheeks flushed with lingering heat, making me look like a doll painted by someone drunk on brandy.
I stared at the reflection. A maid. Me. A maid.
Somewhere in another life, my corpse was probably laughing.
---
Esther didn't give me time to wallow. She marched me through the manor's inner halls, rattling off duties like a general dictating a campaign plan.
"Wake the Lady at dawn. Dress her. Clean her rooms. Prepare her meals if ordered. Manage her moods. Respond swiftly. Never contradict her."
I tried to keep up, mentally scribbling notes like a student cramming for finals.
Fun.
We finally stopped before a pair of carved double doors, their polished wood inlaid with silver filigree. Esther rapped once, then opened them without ceremony.
The first thing I noticed was the chaos.
Clothes strewn across the floor. Bed sheets half-hanging off the mattress. Books open-faced on the carpet, ribbons tangled with ink-stained parchment. Crumbs of what looked like sugared pastries ground into the rug. A painter's nightmare exploded across the room.
And there—on the balcony—sat Regina.
She perched on a stool before an easel, brush in hand, delicate nightwear draped over her slight frame. Her hair—a wild tangle of blonde and black streaks—spilled down her shoulders in chaotic waves, half-brushed, half-forgotten. The canvas before her held the image of a raven mid-flight over a twilight forest, its wings a blur of blue, violet, and black. Paint flecked her wrists, smudged across her cheeks.
She looked ethereal. A dream. An artist-princess captured in the half-light.
And vaguely homicidal.
Her mismatched eyes—one sapphire, one amethyst—finally turned from the painting to me. They glimmered with something unreadable: boredom, curiosity, and an edge of danger.
Esther's introduction was curt. "Your maid."
Then she left. No instructions. No ceremony. Just abandoned me to my new fate.
Regina blinked once. Then, in a voice soft and imperious, she said:
"Maid. Clean this mess. I'm finished."
I stood frozen, chains of disbelief rattling louder than the ones I'd just shed.
"The nerve of this child," I muttered under my breath.
"But it is your job," the System quipped, smug as always.
"Jobs come with pay," I hissed back, quiet enough that only the System heard.
"Responsibilities come with the ability to keep your head," it replied sweetly. "B-plus response. You're improving."
Meanwhile, Regina slid off her stool with the casual grace of someone who knew the world bent around her whims. She flopped onto her bed, arms spread, and with one careless sweep shoved the pile of books, ribbons, and half-empty ink vials onto the floor. Pages fluttered, glass clinked, ribbons tangled like strangled snakes.
She didn't even look at me as she said, "Don't just stand there. Work."
I stared at her.
Then at the mess.
Then back at her.
Mouth dry. Hands twitching.
"What a bratty munchkin," I muttered.
"You're the same height," the System chimed in, cruelly accurate.