I sent Katherine off the following morning, standing in the courtyard of the mansion as final preparations were made for her departure. The early morning light was soft and golden, painting everything in warm tones that seemed almost cruelly beautiful given the sadness of the occasion.
She had dressed herself in traditional northern attire for the journey home—a lovely blue dress in the style favored in Draga, practical for travel but still elegant enough to reflect her position as someone who had served a queen. The fabric was of good quality, and the color complemented her complexion beautifully. Her blonde hair had been carefully combed and fixed in an elaborate updo that must have taken her considerable time to achieve, each strand positioned with meticulous care. It was a style I recognized as one she particularly favored for formal occasions.
Her blue eyes glistened with barely contained tears that threatened to spill over at any moment, though she was clearly fighting to maintain her composure and dignity. She held herself with rigid control, as though afraid that any relaxation of that strict posture would cause her to completely break down. A single suitcase sat beside her—a modest amount of luggage that seemed somehow inadequate to represent months of shared experiences and the ending of our close association.
Katherine looked at me for a long time before finally executing a deep, formal bow—the kind of bow that servants gave to royalty they might never see again, carrying finality in every inch of its execution. Then she turned and climbed into the carriage I had arranged for her journey, settling herself on the cushioned seat inside and arranging her skirts with automatic, practiced movements.
I watched intently, trying to savor one last clear look at her face, committing the details to memory. A friend was departing, returning to the home we had both once shared, and I wanted to remember this moment always—not just the sadness of it, but also the genuine affection and gratitude I felt for everything she had been to me during our time together.
The carriage driver took up the reins, and the horses began moving forward at his command. I stood perfectly still and watched the vehicle roll away, carrying Katherine further and further from me with each rotation of its wheels. I maintained my position even when the carriage became small in the distance, refusing to look away or return inside until it had completely disappeared from my field of vision, finally turning a corner that placed buildings between us and ending even that tenuous visual connection.
An involuntary tear escaped from my eye, sliding down my cheek unchecked. I didn't bother to wipe it away. Let it fall. This moment deserved tears, deserved acknowledgment of the genuine loss it represented.
"Why did you send her away?" Arvid's voice came from beside me. I hadn't heard him approach, but he was suddenly standing close, also watching the now-empty road where the carriage had taken a sharp turn to the left before disappearing completely from our field of vision.
"She greatly missed home," I replied simply, offering the explanation I had prepared—one that was technically true, even if it wasn't the complete truth. "I could see how much she longed for Draga, for familiar places and people. So I thought it would be kinder to send her back rather than asking her to continue adapting to foreign lands and customs. She deserves to be where she's truly comfortable and happy."
The lie of omission tasted bitter on my tongue, but I couldn't bring myself to reveal Katherine's confession or the real reason for her departure. That was her private pain, and she deserved to have it remain private.
"I see," Arvid said, seemingly accepting my explanation without questioning it further. "Then we'll need to find you a replacement maid as soon as possible. You can't be expected to manage everything yourself, and having proper assistance is important both practically and symbolically. An empress without attendants sends the wrong message."
He stated this matter-of-factly, as though it were simply a logistical problem to be solved efficiently, which I suppose from his perspective it was.
I nodded in agreement, recognizing the practical necessity even though the thought of replacing Katherine so quickly felt somehow disloyal.
Arvid immediately called General Rohan over and began giving him specific instructions about finding suitable candidates for me to interview. I listened with half my attention, the other half still focused on the empty road where Katherine's carriage had vanished.
"Get this arranged and completed before noon today," Arvid instructed firmly. "We need to depart tomorrow morning at first light, and I want this matter settled before then so we're not dealing with it during travel preparations."
"I've troubled you," I said quietly after General Rohan had departed to carry out his assigned task. "Adding another responsibility to your already considerable burden."
"It's no trouble at all," Arvid assured me, reaching out to take my hand and give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "But I'll have significantly greater peace of mind if you have a familiar maid attending you—someone whose presence and assistance you can rely on in unfamiliar situations. It's not necessarily a bad thing to find someone from the South for this role, actually. Southern maids will know all the intricate details about traditional southern clothing and cultural expectations. They'll be invaluable in helping you navigate social situations in Arpa and teaching you the unspoken rules that govern court life in the South."
He paused, his expression becoming more serious, almost stern.
"However," he continued, his voice taking on a cautionary tone, "I must advise you not to trust them too completely or too quickly. We may technically be their employers, the people who pay their wages and provide their positions, but that doesn't necessarily mean we know who their real employers are—who they're truly loyal to, who might be paying them additional money for information or influence. We can't read minds, after all, and loyalty is unfortunately something that can be purchased or manipulated. Be kind, be fair, but maintain appropriate boundaries and don't share anything truly sensitive or private until you're absolutely certain of their trustworthiness."
His warning was sobering but undoubtedly wise. I filed it away carefully, resolving to remember this advice when interacting with whoever I eventually selected.
---
By noon, as Arvid had instructed, I was presented with a selection of potential maids to choose from. General Rohan had worked efficiently, gathering five candidates and bringing them to the mansion's drawing room where I waited.
The five women stood in a nervous line before me, each one distinctly different from the others but all sharing certain characteristics common to southern regions. They each possessed different shades of skin in various earthen tones—from lighter browns that suggested mixed heritage to deeper, richer tones that spoke of generations under the southern sun. Their hair was uniformly dark, ranging from pure black to various shades of brown, worn in styles that seemed to reflect both personal preference and practical considerations.
What struck me immediately was that none of them met my eyes. They all kept their gazes directed downward in what was apparently the expected posture for servants being inspected by potential employers. It made it impossible for me to see their eyes properly, which frustrated me since I placed considerable importance on being able to read people through their expressions and eye contact.
"Lift your heads," I commanded, my voice firm but not unkind. "Look at me directly."
They complied with my instruction, though not without a moment of visible hesitation—clearly, they had been trained that looking directly at nobility was presumptuous or disrespectful. But they raised their eyes anyway, allowing me to finally see their faces properly.
As I had observed before, they all had either brown or black hair. But their eyes showed more variation—most had dark brown or black eyes that matched their hair, but one stood out with a notably lighter shade of brown that caught and held the sunlight streaming through the windows, creating an almost amber effect that was quite striking.
"Should I read their names and list their particular specialties for you, Your Majesty?" the soldier who had accompanied them asked, glancing down at a paper he held that presumably contained their credentials and backgrounds. "I have detailed information about each candidate's training and experience."
"No, that won't be necessary," I answered, waving away the offer. I had no interest in hearing a recitation of skills and qualifications that could easily be exaggerated or fabricated.
Instead, I walked around the small table positioned in the drawing room and settled myself into the chair behind it, taking a moment to arrange my skirts and compose myself before addressing the assembled women directly.
"What I want—what I require above all other considerations—is a loyal maid," I told them, speaking clearly so there could be no misunderstanding. "Not someone with impressive specialties or an extensive list of skills. Even if you're remarkably good at a thousand different things, even if you're the most talented servant in the entire South, none of that matters to me if you ultimately choose to betray my trust. Skills can be learned. Loyalty cannot be taught or purchased—it must be freely given and genuinely felt."
I reached out and picked up the goblet that had been prepared and positioned on the table before their arrival. The liquid inside was dark red, unmistakably blood, and I saw several of the women's eyes widen slightly as they recognized what they were seeing.
"In this goblet is my blood," I explained, holding it up so the light shone through it. "I come from a long royal line that carries dragon blood in our veins—genuine draconic heritage passed down through generations. I'm offering this to you to drink. Before you react with alarm, understand that dragon blood possesses remarkable healing properties. Consuming it will strengthen your constitution, protect you from many common illnesses, and potentially extend your natural lifespan considerably. So you're not being asked to accept something that's entirely detrimental to you personally. There are significant benefits to this arrangement."
I paused, making sure I had their complete attention before continuing with the more serious implications.
"However," I said, my voice taking on a harder edge, "you must also be fully aware of what you're agreeing to. After this goblet of blood passes through your throat and enters your system, I will be able to control it at will. The blood will recognize me as its source and master, and it will obey my commands absolutely. If you choose to betray me—if you sell information about me, if you work against my interests, if you prove disloyal in any way—I can use that blood to kill you. I can command it to suffocate you from within, cutting off your air until you die. It would be neither quick nor pleasant."
I let that sink in for a moment before adding the final piece of information.
"Additionally, the blood bond will create a connection between us. I will be able to see through your eyes when I choose to, essentially experiencing what you're seeing. I will be able to hear through your ears, listening to conversations you're part of. This isn't something I would do casually or constantly—I have no interest in invading your privacy unnecessarily. But the capability exists, and you should know about it before making your decision."
I carefully set the goblet back on the table, positioning it in the exact center.
"So here is my offer: If you choose to drink this, you become my personal maid. It's first come, first served—I only need one, so whoever steps forward first and accepts these terms will receive the position. The choice is entirely yours. I'm not going to force anyone or try to persuade you. Either you're willing to accept these conditions in exchange for the benefits and the position, or you're not. Take a moment to think it over."
After I finished speaking, heavy silence settled over the room like a physical weight. The five women looked at each other, clearly trying to gauge what the others were thinking, perhaps hoping someone else would make a decision first so they could follow that lead or deliberately choose differently. I could see the internal calculations happening—weighing the considerable benefits against the equally considerable risks, trying to determine whether they trusted me to use this power responsibly or whether they believed I would abuse it.
The silence stretched on long enough that I began to genuinely wonder if perhaps none of them would accept. I had mentally prepared myself for that possibility. If no one chose to drink the blood willingly, I would simply make do without a maid. It would be inconvenient and perhaps slightly inappropriate by court standards, but I could manage my own affairs if necessary.
But then, to my genuine surprise, one of the women stepped forward decisively.
I hadn't actually expected anyone to accept, at least not this quickly and with such apparent conviction. The speed of her decision caught me slightly off guard, though I was careful not to let that surprise show on my face.
The young maid who had stepped forward was the one with the lighter brown eyes—that unusual amber-tinted shade that had caught my attention earlier. What struck me now was her hair, which was cut notably short, falling just barely to her shoulders. This was genuinely odd for a southern woman. Almost every woman I had encountered in southern territories wore their hair long, often elaborately styled. Short hair on women was considered unusual at best, potentially scandalous at worst, depending on the specific regional culture.
She walked forward with steady steps and picked up the goblet, her hands remarkably steady despite what must have been considerable nervousness about what she was about to do.
"Remember," I felt compelled to say, giving her one final opportunity to reconsider, "once you drink this, there's no reversing it. The bond will be permanent. You'll be tied to me for the rest of your natural life. Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?"
I was genuinely a bit worried for her now. She looked quite young to be making such a momentous, irrevocable decision—probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, barely an adult by any reasonable standard.
But she showed no hesitation whatsoever. She raised the goblet to her lips and drank the entire contents in several long swallows, not pausing or slowing until the vessel was completely empty. Then she carefully set the goblet back down on the table with a soft click of metal against wood.
And immediately fainted, her eyes rolling back as her knees buckled and she collapsed toward the floor.
Everyone in the room immediately stirred into action, worry evident on all their faces. The other potential maids gasped and moved forward as if to catch her, though they were too far away to actually prevent her fall. The soldier who had brought them looked genuinely alarmed, clearly concerned that he had somehow facilitated this girl's death and would be held responsible.
"She isn't dead," I said quickly, raising my voice to be heard over the commotion and hopefully prevent anyone from panicking further. "This is a completely normal reaction. The blood is spreading through her entire body right now, integrating itself into her system and establishing the bond. It's an intense process, and losing consciousness is a common response. She'll wake up shortly, and she'll be perfectly fine. Actually, she'll probably feel better than she ever has in her life once the initial adjustment period is complete."
I turned to address the soldier directly. "Please carefully lift her and set her in that chair over there," I instructed, pointing to a comfortable armchair positioned near the window. "Make sure her head is supported and she's in a stable position. Then she just needs time to process what's happening in her body."
He moved to comply immediately, lifting the unconscious girl with surprising gentleness and carrying her to the designated chair, arranging her as comfortably as possible.
"The rest of you may leave," I said to the remaining four women who hadn't been selected. "Thank you for your time and for considering the position. You'll be compensated for coming here today."
They filed out quietly, most of them casting backward glances at their unconscious companion, clearly curious about what would happen to her but not bold enough to ask if they could stay and observe.
---
It took the young maid almost a full hour to regain consciousness—considerably longer than I had anticipated. I occupied myself with reading while I waited, settling into a comfortable position with a book I had selected somewhat at random from the residence's modest library.
"Why is this taking so unusually long for her body to fully settle and adjust?" I asked Aiona mentally, beginning to feel slight concern about the extended duration of unconsciousness.
"Well, it's because you yourself have fundamentally changed," Aiona explained. "Your blood has transformed along with the rest of you. It's considerably more potent now, much closer in nature and power to genuine, pure dragon blood than the diluted version that runs through most people with draconic heritage. That increased potency means the integration process is more intense and takes more time for a human body to fully accommodate. She's essentially trying to absorb and bond with something that's nearly as powerful as drinking blood directly from an actual dragon. Give her body time to adapt."
That explanation made sense, though it did nothing to reduce the waiting time. So I simply settled in and decided to be patient, turning my attention to the book I had grabbed.
The volume was called *When The Stars Shine Without The Moon*, and it appeared to be a collection of poetry written by someone named Yersha. I flipped it open to a random page and began reading:
*When I saw your eyes filled with tears,*
*I didn't know what to do.*
*When you showed me your beautiful smile,*
*I didn't know what to do.*
*When you spoke so sweetly to me,*
*I didn't know what to do.*
*But when you finally left me,*
*I did know exactly what to do.*
*I would chase after you, forever and ever,*
*My love,*
*Please don't hide from me.*
I read the poem once, then read it again more slowly, and felt my irritation growing with each line.
What an absolute asshole of a narrator, I thought with considerable annoyance. Why would you fail to appreciate and properly respond to love when you were actively receiving it, when someone was offering you their tears and smiles and sweet words? But then suddenly you know exactly what to do and want to chase after them once they've decided to leave, once they've given up on you and moved on? That's not romantic—that's selfish and foolish.
I huffed audibly in annoyance at the fictional speaker. You don't deserve them, I thought severely. You had your chance and you squandered it through indecision and taking their affection for granted. They were right to leave you.
While I was mentally criticizing the poet's narrator and their poor romantic choices, the maid finally stirred awake. I immediately set the infuriating book aside, making a mental note to potentially throw it out a window later, and turned my full attention to the young woman who was groggily opening her eyes.
"You're awake," I said with a warm smile, genuinely pleased to see her conscious and apparently unharmed by the process. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"
It took her several long moments to orient herself properly, her eyes moving around the unfamiliar room as her brain tried to piece together where she was and what had happened. I could practically see her mind working through her last clear memories—stepping forward, drinking from the goblet, and then... nothing until now.
When she finally registered my presence and realized she was in the company of the person who was now her employer and the source of the blood bond, she quickly scrambled to her feet despite obvious lingering weakness and executed a deep, respectful bow.
"This maid is named Rora, Your Majesty," she said, her voice still slightly hoarse but clear enough. "I am honored to serve you."
I smiled at her formality and the obvious effort she was making to be proper despite having just regained consciousness after a traumatic magical experience.
"It's a pleasure to meet you properly, Rora," I said warmly. "I think we're going to work well together. Now, let's discuss what your duties will actually entail, and I'll answer any questions you might have about what you've just agreed to."