***
My heart wasn't just hammering; it had stopped. It was a cold, dead stone in my chest.
I was flattened against the wall of the alcove, the rough stone biting into my back, my hand clamped over my own mouth so hard my teeth ached. I was trying to stifle the ragged, panicked breaths that were fogging the air in front of my face. The tapestry I was hiding behind was a thin, wool veil, smelling of dust, old wool, and something vaguely metallic, like old, dried blood. It was the only thing separating me from him.
The System was screaming.
[FATAL ERROR!] [FATAL ERROR!] [MAIN CHARACTER 'ZANDER VORONOFF' ARRIVAL (3) DAYS EARLY!] [PLOT DEVIATION 99.7% - ALL 'SURVIVAL' SCENARIOS CANCELED!] [NEW MAIN SCENARIO - INITIATED!]
[SURVIVE. RIGHT. NOW.] [PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL: 1.4%]
"You're not helping!" I wanted to scream at the flashing red windows, but I couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
"M-My Lord! We—we were not expecting you! You weren't due for another three days...!"
That was the Head Butler, Thorne. His voice, which I'd only heard in my head from the original Elara's memories, was usually so smooth, so controlled, so oily. Now, it trembled, thin and reedy with pure, absolute panic.
"I am aware of my schedule, Thorne," the Duke's voice rumbled. It was so deep, so cold, it seemed to vibrate in the stones, right into my bones. "That does not answer my question. Why was I informed by the kitchen staff of a 'disturbance' involving the new governess? And why,"—his voice dropped, becoming a quiet, deadly menace that cut right through the stone—"do I smell smoke coming from the East Tower?"
A beat of pure, terrifying silence. I could hear my own blood roaring in my ears.
"My Lord... I... I assure you, it is being handled," Thorne stammered, his words tripping over themselves. "The new governess, Elara... she is a... a difficult girl. Uncouth. I was just informed she was caught stealing from the kitchens, and now this... this smoke... My Lord, I will have her flogged and dismissed at once. We will have a proper replacement by the time of your scheduled arrival."
My blood ran cold. Flogged and dismissed. That was a new death, one the System hadn't even warned me about—a slow, agonizing, boring death from infection and starvation, outside the castle walls.
I heard the clack of a single, measured, booted heel on the stone.
"You will do no such thing," Zander said, his voice flat. "You will not dismiss her. I will."
My stomach dropped to the floor. He's going to execute me himself. I remembered the manhwa illustrations: the high-definition, jagged spikes of ice.
"I am going to the East Tower," the Duke stated, not as a plan, but as an impending fact, like an avalanche. "Now."
"My Lord, no! It's... It's filthy!" Thorne yelped, his panic rising to a squeak. "The child is—"
"With his new governess. The one who steals, and the one who lights fires."
This was it. This was the moment.
My mind, which had been frozen in a state of pure, animal terror, suddenly kicked into overdrive. The 1.4% survival chance flashed in my vision: Logic, Elara. Think.
I had ten seconds.
He was going to go to that room. What would he see? He would not know a child. He would not see a governess's job done. He would see a crime scene. He would see a broken lock, a lit fire, a cowering boy, and remnants of a "stolen" meal. Kaelen was still mute, still too terrified to speak.
Thorne would be at the Duke's side, spinning the story. He'd say I lit the fire maliciously. He'd say I stole the food for myself and only gave the "filthy" leftovers to the child. He'd say I broke the lock to escape. I would be dragged from my attic cell, and I would never get a chance to speak.
My execution date hadn't just been moved up. It was now.
Unless...
[Choice '3: Improvise'] The thought, the core of my being in this new world, screamed in my head.
Scenario A: I stay hidden. He goes to the tower. Thorne spins his lies. I am found, gagged, and executed. [PROBABILITY OF DEATH: 100%]
Scenario B: I step out. I'm a mess. I look insane. I'm covered in soot and gruel-scum. I'm holding a six-foot iron pole. He might kill me on the spot as a threat. [PROBABILITY OF DEATH: 98.6%]
My mind latched onto the numbers. 98.6% was not 100%. That 1.4% was the only path.
I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. The only option left was to face the avalanche head-on. To control the narrative.
My heart was beating so fast I thought I would black out. I clutched the iron pole I still held, my knuckles white, the cold, rusted metal my only anchor.
"Now, Thorne," the Duke commanded. "Lead the way."
"My Lord, I truly must insist—"
"I am not insisting."
That was it. My chance was closing. "Now or never, Elara!"
My body moved before my brain could stop it.
I pushed aside the heavy, dust-smelling tapestry and stepped out of the alcove, into the vast, freezing, torch-lit expanse of the main hall.
The sound I made—the scrape of my bare feet on the stone, the soft shush of the tapestry—was tiny, but in the tense silence, it was like a gunshot.
Thorne, the Head Butler, who had been bowing and wringing his hands, spun around.
His jaw dropped.
His face, a mask of professional servitude, just... collapsed. His eyes bugged out. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. He was looking at a ghost. He was looking at the problem that was supposed to be upstairs.
"G-G-Governess... E-Elara...!" he stammered, his face draining of all blood. "What... What in the seven hells... are you doing?! Get back! Get back to your quarters!"
He looked, for one second, like he was about to physically lunge at me, to shove me back into the shadows.
But it was too late.
The Duke had stopped. He hadn't turned.
Slowly, with an utterly inhuman, terrifying control, Zander Voronoff turned his entire body to face me.
My breath left my body.
The illustrations in the manhwa, the descriptions in the novel... they had done nothing to prepare me for the real thing.
He wasn't a man; he was a monument. He was a creature of ice and shadow, a god of the frozen north. He was impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a severe black, silver-embroidered coat that made him look like a king in exile. His face was so beautiful it was terrifying—all sharp, aristocratic planes and a strong jaw, a masterpiece carved from a glacier.
And his eyes.
His eyes were as black as the midnight sky, and just as cold. There was no anger in them. No shock. No emotion at all. It was like being stared at by the void itself.
He just... looked.
His gaze traveled, with a slow, insulting, methodical precision. He started at the top of my head, with my matted, wild hair. He traveled down to my soot-stained, thin grey shift, dampened and filthy at the hem from where I'd knelt. His gaze lingered on the rusty, 6-foot iron pole I was clutching like a weapon. His eyes then traveled all the way down... to my dirty, bare, blue-with-cold feet on his pristine, black marble floor.
I felt... I felt like an insect. A piece of vermin he was examining before he crushed it.
The silence stretched. It was so quiet I could hear the crackle of the torches, the drip of my own terrified sweat.
[FATAL ERROR! FATAL ERROR!] The system blared, its red windows filling my entire field of vision. I mentally screamed at it to shut up.
Thorne, having recovered, was practically vibrating with apoplectic rage. "My Lord Duke... this is what I was speaking of! This... this creature! She is clearly insane, a half-wit! I will have the guards remove her at once—"
"Thorne."
The Duke's voice was deathly soft.
The Head Butler shut his mouth so fast I heard his teeth click.
The Duke's obsidian eyes moved from my feet to my face. His gaze was so heavy, so piercing, that I felt physically pinned to the spot.
"You," he said. His voice was not a rumble; it was a blade. "You are the source of the smoke."
It was not a question. It was a statement. He had already judged me.
I swallowed, my throat sandpaper. My entire life, in this world and the last, had just been compressed into this one, single second.
This was it.
My voice was a reedy, pathetic squeak. I cleared my throat, clutched the iron pole, and tried again.
"Yes, Your Grace," I said, my voice shaking, but clear.
The Duke's head tilted, just a fraction of an inch, his eyes narrowing slightly. It was the first sign of anything—curiosity? Annoyance?
"I lit the fire," I said, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest.
Thorne let out a sound like a dying kettle. "You admit it?! My Lord, she's a vandal, an arsonist!"
The Duke ignored him. His black eyes were locked on mine. "Why?"
One word.
It was the entire trial. It was the question, the accusation, and the sentencing, all in one.
My mind raced. [Plead]. [Lie]. [Blame others]. The System was flashing, but it was all wrong. This was a man of logic. He didn't want an excuse. He wanted a reason.
The truth. The truth was the only [Improvise] option I had left.
"Because," I said, my voice shaking, but cold with its own desperate, ragged logic, "the child was freezing to death."
The silence that followed was so profound, I thought the world had stopped.
Zander Voronoff did not move. He did not blink. He just stared at me, his carved, beautiful face an unreadable mask of ice.
[... ... ...] [... ... ...] [SYSTEM RECALCULATING... PATH... UNKNOWN.]
Thorne's face was chalk-white. He knew what I'd just done. I'd just turned the accusation back on him.
And at the end of the hall, the heavy main doors of the castle boomed open. "My Lord Duke!" a new, panicked voice yelled, a guard in the full Voronoff silver-and-black armor. "We've just received an urgent message from the capital! The..."
My stomach dropped. No! Not now! He was... he was listening! An interruption...
The Duke didn't look away from me. He didn't turn. He just held up one black-gloved hand.
The messenger, who had been sprinting, skidded to a halt, choking on his words.
Zander Voronoff's entire focus... was still... on me. He had just silenced an urgent message from the capital... to finish this.
He took one, slow, measured step toward me.
"Thorne," he said, his voice a lethal purr, his eyes never leaving mine. "You will not have her flogged."
Thorne, who looked like he was about to pass out, breathed a sigh of relief. "My Lord, yes, thank you, of course—"
"I will deal with her myself."
(End of Chapter 4)
***
(Author's Note)
I held my breath for this entire chapter. 💀
Elara actually stepped out! She faced the Ice Duke looking like a chimney sweep with a rusty pole... and somehow, she didn't freeze instantly.
But that last line... "I will deal with her myself." Is that a promise or a threat? (Knowing Zander, it's probably both.)
See you next #TickyTockThursday!
👉 SCENARIO POLL! (Tap the paragraph to vote):
"I will deal with her myself." WHAT DOES HE MEAN?! What is your gut reaction to that line?
A) She's dead. 100% dead. (The "Elara-sicle" route)
B) He's... intrigued? (The "Interesting" route)
C) He's taking her to Kaelen. (The "Show Me the Proof" route)
D) He's taking her to the dungeon. (The "Interrogation" route)
E) I'M JUST SCREAMING. (The "Reader Panic" route)