The heavy oak doors of the Everhart Mansion shattered inward, splinters flying across the marble floor like shrapnel. The guards of Clamptous poured in, a tidal wave of steel and malice, their torches casting wild, dancing shadows against the walls. They expected a sleeping household. They expected easy prey.
Instead, they met silence. And then, they met the storm.
Gladis stood at the top of the grand staircase, her torn dress fluttering, flanked by a dozen women in white aprons. But these weren't the cowering servants the soldiers were used to. These women stood with their feet planted, their eyes sharp, holding meat cleavers, carving knives, and heavy iron skillets with the ease of seasoned warriors.
Arthur stepped out of the shadows behind Isabelle, watching the scene unfold. He glanced at the Queen Mother, who was watching the invaders with a serene, chilling smile on her face.
"Why are you smiling?" Arthur asked, his voice low. "We are outnumbered."
Isabelle didn't take her eyes off the guards. "Well, they shouldn't have come here. Not tonight. You see, Arthur, the maids of Everhart Mansion are not just maids. They are build-ups. Weapons of explosions waiting for a spark."
Down on the floor, the head guard laughed, raising his sword. "Surrender, wretches! Or burn with the house!"
Gladis didn't flinch. She watched the maids around her roll up their sleeves, revealing scarred knuckles and muscular arms. She thought of the woman who had once walked these halls like a shadow—Carmine. *She must have trained them,* Gladis realized. *She turned the staff into an army.*
Isabelle leaned against the doorframe, her voice carrying over the tension. "The maids didn't always work here to clean, Arthur. They have always protected this place. And they are ready for anything."
With a unified scream that shook the rafters, the maids charged.
It was a slaughter. The guards, weighed down by heavy armor and expecting no resistance, were slow. The maids were fast, ruthless, and precise. They moved like a whirlwind of steel and iron. A skillet cracked a helmet; a cleaver severed a tendon. The clanging of metal against metal mixed with the screams of the invaders. The "helpless" servants were cutting through the elite guard of Alteria like a hot knife through butter.
Miles away, the wheels of the royal carriage crunched over the gravel of the Velloria estate. Night had fallen fully, wrapping the world in darkness.
Colden stepped out of the carriage, his heart heavy with the day's events. He looked up and saw Francis sitting on the bench outside the manor, his head in his hands.
Colden walked over, concerned. "Francis? What happened? Did Charles... did he hurt you?"
Francis looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his expression was hard. "Nothing," he said, his voice hoarse. "Nothing that hasn't already happened."
Just then, the heavy doors of the manor opened. Arthur stepped out into the torchlight.
Francis stood up abruptly. "Arthur?"
Arthur turned. He looked exhausted, covered in the grime of the basement, but he was standing.
Francis exclaimed, rushing forward. He didn't bow; he didn't stand on ceremony. He pulled the big knight into a tight hug. Arthur, surprised, hugged him back. They pulled away, both men's faces dusted with a faint, embarrassed blush, a rare crack in their stoic armor.
"I'm glad you're safe," Francis murmured.
"Thanks to the chaos," Arthur replied.
They all turned and went inside the manor. The tension was thick. Charles stood by the fireplace, swirling a glass of wine. As Francis entered, he looked at Charles with a deadly, cold stare—a promise of violence if he stepped out of line.
Charles, however, didn't flinch. He saw the protective way Francis stood near Arthur. He saw the new fixation in the butler's eyes. Charles smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast.
"Well," Charles said, his voice smooth. "King of Windmere. The task is done. But perhaps you should know... my sources tell me they attacked your manor tonight."
Colden froze. "What?"
"The guards," Charles said casually. "Clamptous sent a battalion. They meant to burn it down with you inside."
Colden's face went white. "Marco is there."
Panic seized him. He turned to Arthur and Francis. "We have to go back. Now. I ran away with you two, and I left him there!"
Before anyone could respond, the heavy doors burst open behind them.
A messenger stumbled in, panting, his clothes singed.
"Your Majesty!" the messenger gasped. "The Mansion... it's under attack! But... the maids... they are holding the line! But the fire has started in the east wing!"
Colden didn't wait for another word. He drew his sword, his fear turning into a roar.
"We ride back! Now!"
To be continued.