Regina's room looked less like a noble chamber and more like a creative crime scene. I'd just finished clearing away the last of it: charcoal-stained brushes left to fossilize, ribbons tangled like battlefield entrails, half-finished sketches bleeding across her desk like soldiers who hadn't made it off the field. Books leaned against each other in precarious towers, ready to topple with the first whisper of gravity.
The only thing left was the bed. And in it—buried in blankets, breathing slow and steady—was the dragon of this hoard. Regina. Not the fire-breathing kind, but the rarer species: the one that hoards ennui, sighs at existence, and sleeps like the universe inconvenienced her.
Not knowing what else to do, I collapsed into the chair she'd been using earlier. Paint smudges still clung to the armrest, staining my sleeve like war paint. My eyes fell on the canvas she'd abandoned.
A raven, wings outstretched, frozen mid-flight against a sunset forest. The sky burned orange and violet, a color scheme too precise to be accidental, too emotional to be purely technical. It was haunting. It was beautiful. It was far too good for someone who had threatened to demote me to "fired" with nothing more than eye contact.
For a moment—rare, fragile, dangerous—I thought. Thinking was a luxury I hadn't indulged in much lately, mostly because every time I did, I realized I hated my life. But sitting there, staring at that raven, I realized something: I didn't have a name.
No one had asked. No one cared. I was "you." If they were feeling generous, "maid." And if it was the drill sergeant with Satan's megaphone lodged in his throat, "maggot."
I'd been screamed into submission so often that my body could now execute orders before my brain had time to panic. Muscle memory was just trauma with rhythm.
Progress? The jury was still out.
Regina stirred, and I snapped upright like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. She made a noise—half groan, half existential complaint—that suggested waking up was a personal insult.
The head maid had warned me about this.
"She gets grumpy after naps. Or if she's hungry. Or if Mercury is in retrograde. Or if her wine is one degree off."
Now those mismatched eyes—sapphire and amethyst, sharp enough to cut glass—cracked open and locked onto me. There was no recognition in them, only assessment. She looked at me like I was an ingredient. And she was deciding if I went better with a dry red or a rare white.
I didn't wait for the verdict. I bolted.
---
The kitchen should've been alive. Shouting chefs, clanging pans, the sacred smoke of roasted meat filling the air. Instead, I was greeted by silence. Cold hearth. Empty tables. No cooks, no cutlery, nothing. It was the quiet of a church after the service had ended, when all the hymns are gone but the ghosts of them still linger.
Which, of course, meant one thing: the head maid had left me to fail.
"You were supposed to notify the cook if Regina was to eat," her ghost whispered in my head. "Idiot."
The System, ever helpful, chose that moment to chime in.
"Maybe you're not cut out for this. Why not settle for having your head cut off instead?"
"Cut it out and help me!" I hissed, eyes darting across shelves stacked with jars and sacks.
No idea what Regina liked. No idea how to cook. And apparently, no bread despite there being eighteen different varieties of flour.
"Cut your coat according to your size," the System droned. "Or in this case—prepare some cup noodles."
"This is a medieval kitchen," I snarled under my breath. "Where am I supposed to find noodles? Or cups?"
"Oh look," it said with faux surprise. "Marinated lamb. Shawarma mode engaged."
I froze. Sure enough, tucked in a clay dish like contraband waiting for smugglers, were thin cuts of lamb soaking in herbs. It felt less like divine providence and more like someone had rolled dice and I'd actually won, for once.
The System took over like a smug cooking instructor. Under its direction, I seared the lamb in an iron pan, the sizzle sharp as applause. The smell of herbs rose with the steam, filling the kitchen like salvation. I roasted root vegetables, plated them with a shaky hand, even managed to fan-cut them so it looked intentional.
It wasn't a banquet, but it wasn't peasant gruel either.
"How do you even know how to cook like this?" I muttered, suspicious.
"Player memory access enabled," the System said, dripping smugness. "Turns out you watched a lot of late-night cooking shorts."
I stared at the plate. This was my life now. Fantasy world maid, guided by an AI Gordon Ramsay knockoff, serving lamb shawarma to a bratty noble girl.
---
Back at Regina's room, the dragon had woken. She sat on the edge of the bed now, golden-black hair tied into a lazy knot that still managed to look expensive. She was waiting. Watching. And when I placed the plate in front of her, her eyes narrowed.
"You made me wait."
Not a question. Not even an accusation. Just a fact delivered like a blade sliding between ribs.
I winced. She picked up a fork, speared a piece of lamb, and tasted it.
Silence. Chewing. Swallowing.
Then a sigh.
"…Acceptable."
That single word dropped into the room like a royal decree. My shoulders sagged with the kind of relief you feel after realizing the guillotine blade jammed halfway down.
She took another bite. And another. Then, with aristocratic indifference: "Clean up after yourself."
"…Yes, mistress," I muttered, bowing my head and gathering the dishes like a criminal gathering evidence.
As I turned, the System hummed in my skull like it was sipping digital tea.
"You're improving."
"I still want to die," I whispered back.
"Character growth," it replied smugly.
And so the day ended. Not with glory, not with triumph. But with me, the nameless maid, realizing my crowning achievement was keeping a spoiled noble girl fed and alive for another hour.
Progress? Maybe.
Shame? Definitely.
Hope? Not a chance.
But at least the lamb was good.