The sun was about to set.
The vineyard was silent now, stripped of its heavy bounty, the vines left neat and expectant in the cooling twilight. My dress, once a modest and practical cotton, was ruined…darkened by splashes of crushed grape juice and stained with the vivid, violet-streaked pulp of the harvest. It was a messy, exhausting, and utterly satisfying sight.
I let out a long, ragged breath, the adrenaline of the blood-sword fading as the blade dissolved into a mist, flowing back into the jagged, unhealed canyon of my palm. I felt the familiar sting of the skin closing, or trying to,as I reclaimed my own essence. I turned to the workers, who stood in a semi-circle, still reeling from the display of raw, visceral power.
"Thank you, You've done the heavy lifting today. I just… accelerated the process." I said, my voice raspy but sincere. "
Alice stood nearby, her face a mask of mounting dread. She kept glancing toward the farmhouse, her fingers twisting the fabric of her apron.
"The manager, When he sees the state of your dress… when he realizes the protocol of the estate has been broken…" she whispered, her voice tight with panic.
"He won't blame you, Alice, I'm the one who pulled the sword. I'm the one who took the lead. If there's a price to be paid, it's mine to settle. Do you have anything I can change into? I can't exactly walk into the farmhouse looking like I've been trampled in a wine press." I interrupted, stepping into her line of sight.
Alice blinked, her eyes wide as she stammered,
"I—I have spares, my Lady, but they are… they are only maid uniforms. I have nothing that would fit a woman of your station, only the standard attire for the house staff."
"A dress is a dress, get me one. Anything is better than these stained rags." I dismissed, shrugging off the worry.
We slipped into the farmhouse through the side service entrance, keeping low to avoid the prying eyes of the estate stewards. I tucked myself into a small, shadowed storage shed near the laundry room, heart beating in a rhythm that felt far more human than the cold, mechanical pace of the battlefield. After what gods know how long, the door creaked open, and Alice stepped in, her breath hitched.
She held out a Victorian-style maid's dress, the fabric crisp, black, and immaculately clean, contrasted with a pristine white apron. She looked at me, then at the ruins of my current clothes, her eyes filled with a mixture of reverence and lingering, protective anxiety.
She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper against the quiet hum of the house.
"My Lady, the manager is preparing for the evening report. He expects a hero to be resting, not… not cleaning his fields. Please, put this on. If we move quickly, no one will know you spent your afternoon doing the work of ten men. I will take your dress to the incinerator myself." she began, hesitating as she looked at the raw, pulsating wound on my palm before meeting my eyes.
She handed me the uniform, her touch soft.
"You shouldn't have to hide your kindness, Roxy. It isn't a crime to work. But in this house… for your own safety… let us keep this our secret."
I took the black fabric, the weight of it feeling oddly grounding.
"A maid's dress. I've worn heavier things. Thank you, Alice. For everything." I murmured, a faint, tired smile touching my lips.
The air inside the small, weathered shed was thick with the scent of dried hay and old timber. I worked quickly, my right hand steadying the fastenings while my gaze kept darting to the sliver of light at the door. Every second felt like an eternity, the phantom ache of my missing arm demanding extra care as I navigated the intricate buttons of the Victorian-style outfit.
When I finally smoothed the black fabric over my hips and tied the crisp white apron, the fit was surprisingly impeccable. It was a strange sensation…donning the uniform of a servant after having been heralded as a kingdom's savior. I caught a glimpse of myself in a cracked shard of mirror hanging by the tool rack. The contrast between the stark, refined maid's attire and the raw, unhealed wound on my palm, coupled with the faint purple stains still lingering on my skin, gave me a look that was both fragile and lethal. It was, in its own way, quite cute…a far cry from the utilitarian armor that had defined my life for so long.
I stepped out of the shed, the hem of the dress rustling against the dry grass. Alice was positioned near the farmhouse entrance, her eyes darting like a trapped bird's, but when she saw me, her posture relaxed, her shoulders dropping in a visible wave of relief.
She gave a small, approving nod, her eyes scanning the area for any sign of the estate manager or the manor's patrols.
"It fits you perfectly," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the evening wind.
Without another word, she beckoned me forward, and we slipped into the farmhouse through the kitchen door.
Inside, the warm, low light of the hearth greeted us. I kept my head slightly bowed, falling into the natural gait of the staff, moving with a quiet, practiced elegance. My heart hammered against my ribs… not from the fear of the manager or the potential punishment, but from the mention of the name Alice had dropped earlier.
White Flower.
The daughter of the woman currently sitting in the parlor, the friend I had been so desperately worried about. If she was arriving soon, it meant the front lines in Caria had shifted, or perhaps, for the first time in weeks, there was a reprieve in the carnage.
Alice squeezed my arm, a brief, grounding touch before she resumed her role as a professional maid.
"Stay near the back, if she sees you in this attire, she might recognize the problem, but she will never expect to find the savior of Town Allure scrubbing floors or harvesting vines."
I followed her lead, the floorboards soft beneath my boots. As we passed the grand foyer, I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of horses pulling up to the main gate and the sharp, military click of boots hitting the stone. My breath hitched. The front doors creaked open, and the scent of rain and cold, distant iron washed into the warm foyer. A figure stood there, wrapped in a traveling cloak, the silver hair unmistakable even in the dim light of the evening.
White Flower had arrived.