Elric carried her in his arms through the dim halls of the mansion, her head resting lazily against his chest. Half-asleep, Seraphine stirred and mumbled something about wanting dinner, her voice soft but oddly demanding.
Instead of answering, Elric kept walking, pushing open the grand doors to her room. The candlelight spilled over the silken sheets as he gently laid her onto the bed.
Before he could straighten up, her slender fingers wrapped around his arm, her sleepy eyes locking on him.
"Where are you going… leaving me without permission?" she murmured, her voice low, almost accusing.
"I'll tell the maids to prepare your food," he replied calmly.
Her grip tightened ever so slightly, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "Be back instantly. I don't like waiting long."
He gave a silent nod, pulling away before stepping out, the heavy door closing behind him.
As Elric made his way toward the servants' quarters, the low murmur of voices reached his ears. It wasn't the usual idle chatter it was hushed, frantic, and trembling.
When he stepped into view, the maids froze. Eyes widened, hands stilled, and the color drained from their faces as if they'd seen a ghost. No one greeted him. Instead, they exchanged quick, fearful glances.
From the corner, a young maid whispered, her voice shaking.
"Where's… where's the other one? The one from yesterday?"
Another, barely holding back tears, answered in a quivering tone, "She… she must have been killed. A new one again…"
A third maid's voice broke in, panicked. "Then we should just leave! Before it's any of us next. Torture… or worse"
The words hung in the air like a curse.
"No…" another maid said, her tone hollow, almost defeated. "What are we going to do outside anyway? We're women… no family, no coin. We'd starve in a week. Or be sold to the brothels to survive."
In the corner, a maid suddenly burst into tears, her sobs raw and unrestrained. Elric's eyes flicked to her arms purple bruises in different stages of healing painted her skin like a map of suffering.
An older maid stepped forward, her face drawn but steady, the weight of years of survival in her gaze. "Enough," she said quietly but firmly. "Don't let fear carry you away. Outside is hell just the same. Here… you survive by not making mistakes. Don't anger her. Don't be seen when she's in a mood. And above all…" She paused, her eyes darting to Elric for a heartbeat before looking away. "…never talk to her butler. Don't even touch a strand of his hair. If you want to live longer, you stay invisible."
Elric stood there, silent. The heaviness of their words pressed on his chest.
He could have stepped forward. Could have ordered them to prepare dinner.
Instead, he turned away without a word, his footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving their whispers and quiet sobs behind.
He returned to the duchess's chamber in silence.
Seraphine was sprawled across the bed, her breathing deep and even, lost in the gentle grasp of sleep.
Elric didn't approach her. Instead, he lowered himself onto the velvet sofa in the corner of the room, sinking into its cushions like a man too tired to stand. His gaze drifted to the tall, arched window where the moonlight poured in like cold silver.
It had been six years.
Six years since the night Seraphine painted the halls in red his family's blood staining the floors alongside her own parents'. The cries, the pleading, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground… all of it still clung to him like a second skin he could never shed. And then… the smallest of them her baby brother lifeless in her arms, Seraphine's expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight.
Six years… and still, the scent of blood never left him.
He let out a slow, steady exhale, his breath fogging faintly against the cool glass of memory.
His eyes fell to his arms. Almost without thinking, he rolled his sleeves up. The pale skin there was marred with dozens of thin, faded lines scars that told the story of his most private battles. Cuts upon cuts, some older, some newer, a desperate map of attempts to end it all.
The memories returned unbidden.
The first time he tried… she had found him before the blood could even pool on the floor. The knife clattered from his hand, her scream sharp enough to split his skull. She grabbed him so tightly his bones ached, her tears wet against his neck. That night, for the first time, he saw Seraphine cry.
The second time… her tears turned to rage.
"If you ever do this again," she'd said, her voice trembling with something beyond fury, "I will kill every soul in this mansion. Every maid, every servant… every child in the village. I will make their screams your lullaby. And it will be your fault."
The third time, he didn't even make it to the blade she had been watching him. Always watching.
He stopped after that.
Not because he wanted to live, but because the cost of his death would be too much for others to bear.
She told him she loved blood, loved the thrill of it the way it ran warm and red over her hands. But his blood? No. She despised the sight of it. She would touch corpses with a smile, but his scars made her recoil in disgust… then glare at him with a possessiveness that burned like fire.
"Cover them," she'd say, every time. "I don't want to see them."
His sleeves fell back down, hiding the history they held.
Elric leaned his head against the sofa, eyes drifting back to the moon.
He exhaled heavily. The sound filled the quiet like a small surrender.
----
Far from the duchess's lands, in a place where the wind carried the scent of damp earth and rot, a small, forgotten stone house stood at the edge of a barren hill.
Inside, a single candle burned weakly on a table, its flame swaying with every faint draft that crept through the cracks in the walls. Two figures sat across from each other.
One was an old man with a long, snow-white beard, his eyes sharp despite his age. He wore a dark robe with a priest's tattered collar though his hands and voice betrayed nothing holy. This was Oron, once called a man of faith, now whispered about as the shadow behind one of the largest human trafficking networks in the eastern territories.
Across from him sat a middle-aged man dressed like a weary peasant, his hands rough, his nails blackened with dirt. His voice was low, hesitant, as if speaking to Oron carried a weight he wasn't ready to bear.
Oron slammed his fist on the table, the candle's flame jumping.
"Tell me, why,why in the depths of the Abyss would the duchess ruin my business?"
The peasant flinched but kept his gaze steady. "Why would she not? A woman like her… she doesn't think of coin the way we do."
Oron's lips curled in frustration. "She is my best customer. Always has been. Every week she'd send word order a man, a woman, a child, even an elder… and I delivered. And she paid more than anyone else. I don't understand why she'd want to see my network burn."
The peasant leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "What would she even want with them? You… you're not selling them to her for labor, are you?"
Oron's expression darkened. His voice dropped to a low, venomous growl.
"She's not interested in keeping them. Two days two days after I send them, my men cleans her work for extra pay and finds them dead. Not just dead ruined. Skin peeled from their bodies. Eyes gouged out. Mouths forced open, jaws hanging loose like a broken doll… Sometimes, they're found in pieces, scattered like meat for carrion."
The peasant's jaw went slack, horror creeping into his face. "Two days…? That means she"
"Tortures them," Oron finished, his voice cold, almost bored, as if describing the weather. "Draws it out. The screams must be her favorite music."
The peasant swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "So the rumors are true. The Duchess of Blood…"
Oron's eyes glinted in the candlelight. "Yes. And yet she dares to crush my trade, the very veins through which she got her toys." He slammed the table again. "Tell me, does that make any sense?"
The peasant shifted in his seat. "I've heard… rumors. That you've been visiting her mansion. People say you confront her actions, some say you act like a hero, everytime a people cam from the Ducchess mansion especially a maid comes to you for help."
Oron snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Confront her? No. That's how she and I communicate. My visits are orders in disguise. She sends for me when she wants something… and I deliver."
The peasant frowned, thinking. "Then if she no longer needs you, she must have found… another way. A new source of people to play with."
Oron's eyes narrowed. "If that's true, I will find it. And I will take it from her. She may have power, but she is not untouchable. She forgets… the knife cuts both ways."
For a moment, neither spoke. The candle hissed as its wax dripped onto the table.
Then the peasant finally murmured, "Careful, old man. Playing against the duchess… that's a gamble most don't survive."
Oron only smiled faintly, the kind of smile that promised blood. "Survival is not my concern. Revenge is."
The candle flickered, and the room seemed darker still.