***
"Governess," he said, his voice a low, dangerous, velvet purr. "...You... are... fascinating."
The word hung in the air, a thousand times more terrifying than any threat.
My mouth, which had been open in a silent, hysterical scream, snapped shut. I was still clutching the bedpost, my body shaking, my knuckles white. The world had stopped its violent tilt, but my heart was still hammering a panicked, frantic rhythm against my ribs.
[...SYSTEM ALERT: 'HOSTILITY' (ZANDER VORONOFF) ... NOT DETECTED.]
['INTEREST' (ZANDER VORONOFF): ...RISING...???]
[...This is a non-standard outcome. System recommends caution. Proceed with Extreme caution.]
The System was as baffled as I was. According to the "plot" I was supposed to be following, Zander Voronoff didn't find the Governess fascinating. He found her repulsive. He was supposed to look at me with the same disgust one reserves for a stain on a priceless rug.
But here he was, standing near the fireplace of this cathedral-sized bedroom, his arms crossed over a crisp white shirt. His coat was gone—must've been burned, I realized, along with my dignity. That ghost of a smirk was gone, replaced by a cold, analytical, impassive mask. He was a scientist, and I was the frog he'd just dissected, only to find it was full of angry, screaming wasps.
Was he fascinated? He must've been mad. This whole world was mad.
But my adrenaline—my rage on Kaelen's behalf—hadn't faded. It was still thrumming under my skin, stronger than my weakness. It was the only thing keeping me from collapsing back into the silk pillows.
"That is not an answer, Your Grace," I said, my voice trembling but low. "You can call me fascinating, or you can call me a corpse, but it doesn't change the fact that the heir to this house is currently rotting in a tower while you're here playing word games in the dark."
I hated how weak I sounded; my voice sounded confident despite how it cracked, how I was still a prisoner, even in this soft, velvet-draped bed. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, intent on standing up and walking out of here myself. It was a mistake.
The second my bare feet hit the thick, priceless wool rug, my head swam. The room, with its tall, dragon-carved tapestries and vaulted ceiling, spun like a carousel. My body, which had been running on nothing but terror and a 16% stamina bar hovering over my face, finally hit its limit.
[STAMINA: 16%. Nice try, champ. Stay down.]
My knees buckled. I pitched forward, my hands shooting out, and I just barely caught myself on the massive, carved bedpost. My head hung, my vision a swirl of black spots. I was a pathetic, tangled mess of white cotton nightgown and matted, silvery hair.
"I would not recommend moving."
The Duke's voice was still a cold, bored monotone, as if he were commenting on the weather. He hadn't moved to help me. He was just watching, his obsidian eyes tracking the way my arms shook under my own weight.
"I have to," I panted, the silk of the bedpost slick under my palms. "I have to go to him. You don't understand... the staff... they don't see him as a child. They see him as a monster to be avoided, and I'm sure, you've left him alone."
"You are in no condition to go anywhere, Governess," he stated in sort of a hurry, as a simple fact. "You are 'medically compromised,' as I stated. You will remediate. To do otherwise is... inefficient."
"And him?" I hissed, pulling myself up an inch. "What about his compromise? He has no food. The fire... I felt the hearth before I was led away. It's almost out, Z-" I briefly paused when I almost called him by the name. "Sir, it's winter, and the East Tower is a stone refrigerator."
The Duke was silent. His face remained a mask of cold, unreadable ice, but I saw the slight tension in his jaw. For a man who obsessed over efficiency, he had overlooked a glaring variable: a child needs heat to survive. He had dealt with the staff, the "logic" problem of my theft, and then he had simply moved on to the next task on his mental ledger. My heart ached—a new, sharp, painful ache that sat right next to the physical hunger. Then I heard him, his voice a low murmur. "Refri—" He stopped, his brow arching in a regal sort of bafflement at what he just heard. "A what?"
"I am going," I said, my teeth gritted, trying to force my legs to lock, avoiding his eyes, ignoring his absurdness.
"You," he said, his voice flat, "are not dressed."
I froze. I looked down. The realization hit me like a physical blow. I was in a thin, cotton nightgown. And nothing else. In a room alone with the most powerful man in the North.
My face, which had been pale with weakness, exploded in a hot, painful, scarlet flush. It was so hot it actually hurt. My hands, which had been clutching the bedpost, flew to the collar of the nightgown, pulling the fabric tight.
"I d-don't," I stammered, my rage momentarily eclipsed by pure, hot mortification. "I don't have any clothes! You... your men... they took everything!"
"Yes," the Duke said, his voice still a perfectly flat monotone. "I am aware. I incinerated them. They were... unhygienic."
He said it so casually. Like he'd disposed of a piece of trash. But for a split second, he looked away—his eyes shifting to the flickering fire.
[SYSTEM... 'AWKWARDNESS' (ZANDER VORONOFF)... DETECTED.]
[RECALIBRATING DATA... ERROR: UNKNOWN SOCIAL VARIABLE DETECTED.]
"This," the Duke said, standing up and smoothing his waistcoat, "is an inefficient state of affairs."
He strode to the wall by the fireplace and pulled a thick, velvet rope. The sound of the servant bell echoed somewhere far below.
I flinched, pulling the duvet off the bed and wrapping it around my shoulders like a shield. "Who are you calling? Is there anyone left who isn't in a dungeon?"
"There are," he said, his back to me, "approximately one hundred and twelve staff members who are not currently being interrogated. And who are, I assume, terrified. We will see if 'terror' has improved their 'efficiency' in fulfilling a simple order."
A few moments later, there was a tiny, terrified scratch-scratch-scratch at the massive door.
"Enter," Zander commanded.
The door creaked open, and a young maid—no older than me—scuttled in. She was trembling so hard her white apron was a blur. She didn't even look at the Duke. She just stared at the floor, her face ashen.
"Y-Y-Your... G-Grace...?" she whispered.
"You," Zander said, "will 'acquire' food. Broth. Bread. Cheese. Water, whatever. Now. And you will send for 'apparel' for the Governess. Something... functional."
He said 'apparel' as if the word 'clothes' was too intimate for his tongue.
"Y-yes, Your Grace! At once, Your Grace!" the maid squeaked, and she ran. She literally fled the room, the door slamming behind her.
The Duke sighed. It was that same 3-AM-server-failure sigh I used to hear in my old life when a project was falling apart. And then, as if the silence of the room had been waiting for it, my stomach let out a sound.
It wasn't a growl. It was a loud, hollow, vulgar, agonized roar. It echoed in the silent cathedral of a room like a cannon blast.
I wanted to hide or perish away. I had survived the East Tower, survived the Duke's interrogation, and I was going to fail because of a loud stomach.
I looked at him. I couldn't help it. Zander Voronoff was staring at me. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't frowning. He just raised one perfect, black eyebrow.
"It appears," he said, his voice impossibly dry, "that the 'remediation' is urgent."
I hated him. I hated this world.
The door burst open again. The maid was back, carrying a massive silver tray. She looked like she had run a marathon. She slammed the tray onto a small table, curtsied so fast she nearly fell over, and fled again.
And then we were alone. Again. With the food.
[SYSTEM: FOOD DETECTED. PLAYER, EAT. EAT. EAT.]
The smell of warm bread and steam from the broth filled the air, and my "Mad like a Dog" instincts took over. I didn't care about the Duke or anything anymore. I didn't care about this transparent nightgown I'm wearing. I slid off the bed, clutching the duvet around me, and stumbled to the table. I grabbed the bread—real, white bread—and tore a piece off. I shoved it in my mouth, and for a second, I actually sobbed, my eyes stinging from my own salty tears. It was soft. It was warm. It wasn't anything like the grey gruel. I paused and was reminded of Kaelen.
I pursed my lips and continued to eat like an animal. I drank the broth straight from the bowl, the heat burning my throat, but it felt like life pouring back into my veins.
['STAMINA' +20] ['STAMINA' +25]
['MALNUTRITION' ...REDUCING.]
['STATE: EUPHORIC' ...DETECTED.]
I finished the bowl. I finished the bread. I gasped, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand like a feral child, and then I realized he was still standing there. He hadn't moved. He had just been... watching me eat.
His eyebrow was still raised, was then lowered the moment I looked over at him.
"Better?" he asked.
"Y-yes..." I whispered, the bliss of the food fading into the cold reality of the situation.
"Good," he said. He walked toward the door, his movements graceful and efficient. "You testified, Governess, that you were 'governing.' A governess who starves to death is of no use to me. You will remain here until the apparel arrives."
"Wait!" I cried, the broth giving me enough strength to stand without the bedpost. "What about Kaelen? You said—"
He stopped. His hand was on the heavy brass doorknob. He didn't turn around, but I saw the way his shoulders squared.
"Your concerns regarding the East Tower were... logical," he said, his voice regaining that cold, final edge. "The facility is compromised. It is a symbol of my predecessors' failures. It is, as you said, inefficient."
He turned his head just enough for me to see the glint of his obsidian eyes.
"I am going to go get him," he said. "You will wait here-" He glanced away briefly, then continued, "You will dress, and you will prepare to 'remediation' the child's state once he is moved. Do not leave this room until you are decent."
He stepped out, and the door clicked shut.
I stood in the center of the room, clutching the duvet, my heart thrumming. The Ice Duke was going to the East Tower. He was going to get the boy.
[SCENARIO BRANCH: 'THE MAD DOG'S FIRST BITE' - SUCCESS.]
I looked at the empty tray. I had done it well. But as I heard the Duke's footsteps fade down the hall, I realized the real battle was just beginning.
I had to prepare. I had to be ready. I have to figure out how I was going to manage a traumatized child who was about to be dropped into a strange room—and I had to do it perfectly, or we'd both be back somewhere more sinister than that room, probably in the dungeons by morning, or worst, the guillotine for me.
I gulped as I tried to swallow a hard lump starting to form in my throat, as I nervously waited for the inevitable storm to finally break.
(End of Chapter 12)
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