Kestervale, Sliverbrook Street – 6:43 PM

  The chill of evening began to settle across the city, painting the streets in hues of purple and deep blue. Leiger's boots clicked against the cobblestone, the steady rhythm of her steps echoing in the growing silence. The two-story houses around her were neatly aligned, their facades humble yet undeniably dignified. Each was meticulously cared for, suggesting the quiet stability of an old, well-established neighborhood. It was the kind of place that held a certain restraint—neither grand nor destitute, but a middle ground where appearances mattered.

  She had arrived at House 031, a building she had once called home by circumstance. Her pulse quickened ever so slightly as the doorbell rang, the sound reverberating in her chest with a weight she couldn’t ignore. As she waited, she felt a mix of anticipation and the unsettling feeling that comes with familiarity—a kind of distance, as if time had placed a thin veil between her and the life she left behind.

  The door opened a moment later. Standing before her was Isabelle “Izzy” Arlen, the Rosewood family’s loyal maid.

  Izzy had been a fixture in the Rosewood household for as long as Leiger could remember. Her dark brown hair, perpetually tied back in a neat bun, framed a face of quiet authority. She wasn’t the type to speak much, but when she did, her words were always thoughtful and deliberate. Her brown eyes, keen and observant, betrayed a deep sense of care and loyalty. Though her appearance was functional—a simple maid’s uniform, worn but clean—the little touches of personality she allowed, like the blue ribbon in her hair, made her seem more human than mechanical.

  "Lady Leiger," she greeted with a respectful nod, her voice as steady and composed as ever. She stepped aside, opening the door wider to let Leiger enter. "Please, come in."

  As Leiger walked in, the smell of the old house—wood, tea, and something faintly floral—hit her, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like she was stepping into the past. The house, though still kept with care, felt like it had lost something vital over the years. Izzy followed her inside, deftly unfastening the clasp of Leiger’s Sentinel coat and helping her slip it off.

  "Would you like a warm bath, Lady Leiger?" Izzy asked, ever the attentive servant. "It would be ready shortly."

  Leiger smiled faintly, her voice soft with gratitude. "That would be lovely. It's been some time since I've had the chance."

  Izzy gave a brief bow, before stepping away to carry out the task.

  Leiger’s steps led her into the living room, a space that had been a familiar gathering place for the Rosewoods. The long, comfortable couch, the large fireplace with its polished mantle, and the coffee table littered with business letters and papers—all of it looked as it had when she was younger.

  Seated at the couch was Isolde Rosewood, Leiger’s mother. Her silvery-white hair cascaded over her shoulders, a sharp contrast to the exhaustion that marred her once-vibrant appearance. The refined, delicate features of her face seemed subdued, and her eyes—faded gray—stared absently at the pile of letters before her. She sipped her tea, though her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she picked up one letter after another, the effort of it clearly wearing on her. There was a coldness to her now that hadn't existed in her youth, a quiet resignation that filled the room with a sense of loss.

  When she noticed Leiger, she tried, albeit weakly, to form a smile. "Leiger… I wasn't aware of your visit dear," she said, her voice soft, but there was a faint tremor beneath the calm. "Are you here to rest for a few days?"

  Leiger nodded as she moved toward her mother. "Yes, I was dismissed for the day—my Sentinel gadget is undergoing repairs." Her tone was factual, but her gaze lingered on Isolde for a beat longer, as though she was searching for something in her mother’s face.

  Isolde’s smile faltered, and she let out a small sigh, the kind that spoke of years of exhaustion. "I see," she replied, her gaze flickering briefly to the papers on the coffee table. "Well, I’m glad to have you here. It's been far too long."

  Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Leiger turned, her sharp eyes quickly catching sight of Nolan—her younger brother. He descended the stairs with a quiet grace, his figure almost ethereal in its softness. His mother alike platinum-white hair, which cascaded like fine silk, was slightly askew as if he’d been trying to conceal something. He greeted her with a warm, albeit hesitant, smile.

  "Nolan," Leiger greeted with a raised brow. "It’s good to see you."

  Nolan was a stark contrast to Leiger. While she was all sharp angles and intensity, Nolan possessed an almost ethereal quality to him. His soft, porcelain skin and gentle features—long lashes and pale blue eyes—made him appear fragile, like a delicate flower. His slender frame, graceful posture, and the flowing maroon and silver clothing he wore only accentuated the feminine aura he carried. He was a striking figure, but where Leiger radiated strength and purpose, Nolan gave off an air of quiet politeness, a softness that often led to him being overlooked.

  There was something off about him, though. As he came closer, Leiger noticed how he carefully kept his left eye hidden behind a lock of hair, something he’d never done before. His smile seemed strained, as though he was trying to maintain a normal fa?ade.

  She narrowed her eyes slightly but said nothing—for the moment.

  Isolde, ever the concerned mother, spoke up before Leiger could press further. "Will you be joining us for dinner, Dear?" Her voice was light, but there was an underlying desperation to fill the silence between them.

  Leiger nodded. "Yes, I’ll stay. It’s been a while since we all sat down together."

  Just as she said that, Izzy reappeared at the doorway, her bow a reminder of her disciplined service. "Lady Leiger," she said, "the bath is ready."

  Leiger gave a faint smile. "Thank you, Izzy. I’ll be there shortly."

  With that, she turned to her family. "I’ll leave you two to your business, but I’ll be around later," she said, her voice more tired than she let on.

  As she made her way toward the bathroom, she couldn’t help but feel a strange pull in her chest—a pull between the need to reconnect with her family, and the knowing that the distance between them had only grown, despite her best efforts.

  As Leiger stepped into the bathroom, she couldn’t help but compare it to the opulence of her childhood home—the Rosewood estate with its marbled tiles, golden taps, and the scent of imported lilies. This one, though modest, still held grace. The mirror was framed with aged brass, the sink and shower were clean but unadorned, and the porcelain bathtub was already filled with gently steaming water—prepared thoughtfully by Izzy.

  She closed the door behind her with a soft click and, for the first time that day, allowed herself to breathe out fully.

  Her fingers unfastened the top button of her white shirt, then the leather corset around her waist, releasing a tightness she hadn’t realized she’d grown used to. Each layer fell away in turn—sleeves rolled, shirt discarded, skirt slipping soundlessly to the floor. Standing in front of the mirror, she wiped a streak across the misted surface and stared at the reflection that met her.

  The face staring back wasn’t what it should have been. Leiger was only twenty, but the fine shadows under her eyes, the hardened line of her jaw, and the quiet exhaustion in her gaze made her appear far older. There was no softness to her expression—only discipline forged through conflict.

  She tilted her head slightly and traced her fingers along the scar that curved near the base of her neck and shoulder. A gift from a mission gone wrong—a close call in her first year as a Sentinel. The memory made her jaw tighten. There were too many like it now to count.

  As she brushed some of her crimson hair with golden-brown tints out of her face, her eyes fell on the mark above her chest. She paused. The oddly shaped star-like sigil was faint but unmistakable—etched into her skin since the pact with Folgren. Even now, the presence of it made her surroundings feel subtly off, like the air was heavier or the space around her had a second echo. As if someone—something—was always watching.

  With a quiet sigh, she slipped off her bra, stockings, and underwear, folding them neatly into the laundry basket Izzy had left. The chill of the air gave way to the sudden shock of the cool shower water that she let run over her first. She washed her hair, fingers running through strands hardened by wind, sweat, and ash. Every so often, a soft breath escaped her lips—something between relief and exhaustion.

  When she finally eased into the warm bathtub, it welcomed her like an embrace. She let her body relax, her muscles sinking as though gravity had finally claimed her. A small lavender candle flickered at the edge, casting soft shadows against the white walls. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture—one of many Izzy made without asking.

  Leiger's gaze drifted to her hands. Her nails were cut short—functional. No polish, no embellishments. A Sentinel’s hands weren’t meant for vanity. She turn it around and her once fragile palm now look rigid with calluses that doesn't belong on the hand of a young lady.

  She looked at her forearms, noticing the subtle difference in skin tone. Compared to her mother’s and Nolan’s—hers had lost that soft noble hue. Hers bore callouses, dullness, faint remnants of combat. Traces of a life spent on duty.

  Once again, her fingers found their way to the sigil over her chest. It pulsed faintly—not physically, but perceptibly. Her mind wandered to Folgren. What was he doing now? Plotting something? Watching her? That tether between them, forged by survival and necessity, was still something she didn't fully understand.

  A sudden throb in her left eye made her flinch. The pain was dull, yet piercing, and with it came a momentary vision—a fragmented blur of dark surroundings. It was like looking through a fractured lens into a place she couldn’t quite see. She blinked, and it faded just as quickly as it came.

  Then—knock knock.

  “Lady Leiger?” Izzy’s voice came through the door, polite as always.

  “You may enter,” Leiger replied, her voice smooth but low.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The door opened gently, and Izzy stepped in with composed grace. She was holding the laundry basket. “Dinner will be ready shortly,” she said with a slight bow. As she turned to leave, she added, “I’ve prepared two outfits for you—one formal, and one for the evening. They’re waiting in your room.”

  “Thank you,” Leiger replied, her voice softening with sincerity.

  Izzy nodded, then slipped back out with the door closing gently behind her.

  Leiger lingered a few minutes longer in the bath, letting the warmth coax out the last bits of tension from her limbs. Eventually, she rose, water gliding down her frame, and reached for a clean towel. She dried off with practiced care, wrapping the towel around herself before stepping out.

  It was time to dress, and to face her family once more.

  Without much care, a towel wrapped loosely around her body, Leiger walked down the hallway toward her room. As she passed the familiar yet unfamiliar interior—chairs with slightly faded cushions, framed portraits now gathering dust, the warm but dull lighting—she couldn’t help but compare every little detail to the grandeur of the Rosewood mansion they once lived in.

  The house now was moderate, well-kept thanks to Izzy's tireless effort… but it never felt right. Every subtle downgrade gnawed at her pride. The creak of the floor, the plain wood of the doors—each reminded her of a fall from something untouchable.

  She entered her room. Clean bed. Standing wardrobe. A mirror placed neatly by the side. Everything essential. Everything untouched. This room was more museum than home—a space she had barely returned to since becoming a Sentinel.

  Memories bled in like a quiet poison. This was where she lived after the fall. After the disgrace. The plainness of it all—the restraint, the smallness—fueled a bitter kind of anger in her chest. It wasn’t poverty. It was punishment.

  Her gaze fell on the bed, where two neatly folded outfits awaited. One: a formal linen Victorian blouse paired with a yoke-waisted skirt—modest but noble in its own right. The other: a simple white set of pajamas.

  Leiger sighed.

  She pushed the thoughts down. All the mental elephants stomping around her skull—ignored for now.

  She began to dress.

  The mirror caught her reflection again as she fastened the buttons. Her eyes drifted downward—there it was. The mark. The strangely-shaped star just above her chest. A reminder of the pact with Folgren, the moment she bound herself to something ancient and monstrous.

  She stared.

  Was it still her face looking back? Or the face of a girl who fused with something not meant to be understood?

  A chill rippled along her back. She felt it again. That eerie sensation—like someone watching from the corners of the room. Always just beyond the light.

  She shook the feeling off with a quiet breath, straightened her collar, and stepped out.

  Time to have dinner with her family.

  Time to pretend she belonged in this life again.

  Leiger stepped out of her room and down the hallway once more. This time, her gaze stayed forward, refusing to glance at the modest décor and furniture that only reminded her of what had been lost. She descended the stairs and found the dining room. The room was proper—but not grand. Not like what they used to have.

  Her mother and Nolan were already seated. Lizzy stood silently in the corner.

  Though the chandelier lights glowed warmly, the atmosphere was anything but. Isolde wore a practiced expression—tired eyes behind a mask of faint warmth. Nolan glanced up at Leiger, then quickly turned his face, his hair brushing over the left side like a curtain.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” Isolde said gently, folding her hands on the table. She tried to sound inviting. It didn’t quite land.

  Leiger approached her seat across from Nolan and aligned with her mother. Izzy moved to help her pull the chair out, her touch always quiet, always professional. Then, she filled each glass from a glass kettle with deliberate care.

  “Let’s eat,” Isolde said.

  The food was simple: roasted pork in modest slices, boiled carrots, baked beans, and thick white bread. Each plate already served. The silence that followed was broken only by the clink of silverware.

  Leiger tasted the pork first. To her surprise, it was good. Maybe even better than she remembered. It had flavor—unlike the food back at West Station, which always tasted like chalk and duty, no matter how much salt she sprinkled. But she didn’t comment.

  Nolan finally broke the silence. “So, uh… how’s being a Sentinel?” His tone was tentative, awkward.

  Leiger didn’t even look up. “I won’t sugarcoat it. It’s far more dangerous than you get to know in a textbook. Every mission is life-threatening like it's its bread and butter.”

  Nolan blinked. “Oh… really? That’s… wow. That’s kinda—brutal. You must’ve trained like crazy just to keep your spot.”

  Leiger finally looked at him. “I did.” Then, with a dry smirk, “Maybe you should try growing a spine. Could do you some good.”

  It wasn’t cruel—it was the kind of roast meant to sting just enough to light a fire. But Nolan flinched anyway.

  Isolde interjected before tension could rise. “Leiger… after dinner, I’d like your help with some business letters. They’ve been piling up.”

  Leiger gave a simple nod. “Okay.”

  Silence again.

  Then her eyes narrowed, landing on Nolan. “Why are you hiding your face?”

  Nolan stiffened. “I—it’s nothing.”

  Leiger didn’t wait. She stood and walked over, pushing his hair aside. The bruise was ugly—dark, swollen, undeniable.

  Isolde gasped. Izzy tensed, her gaze flickering but unreadable.

  Leiger’s voice dropped cold. “Who did this?”

  Nolan tried to brush it off. “It’s fine, really. Just… an accident—”

  “Cut the crap,” Leiger snapped.

  Nolan hesitated, then muttered, “One of the other students. Said I was a disgrace to nobility. That I shouldn’t even be in the program.”

  Leiger’s fist clenched, knuckles whitening.

  “Why would you let that happen?” Her voice cracked like glass under pressure. “We burned the last of our resources so you could attend diplomacy school—and this is what you bring back? Bruises? Cowardice?”

  Isolde tried to interject, “Leiger, please—”

  “No!” Leiger grabbed Nolan by the collar and pulled him upright. Her voice rose, sharp and bitter. “While I’m risking my life dragging the Rosewood name back into relevance, you’re getting beat down and hiding like a RAT. Do you THINK this world has mercy for the weak?”

  Nolan didn’t speak. His head hung low.

  “I swear,” she hissed, “if you can’t grow a damn spine, I’ll put one in you. Maybe you need a matching bruise to remember that the world DOES NOT care about softness—IT DEVOURS IT.”

  Her fist rose—

  “Leiger!” Isolde’s voice broke through—cracked, teary, fragile. “That’s enough.”

  Leiger froze. Her eyes met her mother’s, and something in her finally cracked. The anger drained into silence.

  She let go. Nolan fell back into his seat, and Isolde rushed to embrace him, holding him like he was still a child.

  Leiger’s voice was cold again, controlled. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  She turned toward the door. “I’ll be in the living room. Bring the business letters.”

  Then, over her shoulder to Izzy, “Lemon tea. Extra sugar.”

  And just like that, she walked away—leaving behind food, family, and the weight of her name.

  The Rosewood living room once held grand banquets, now it was dimmed by modest lamps and worn furniture. Leiger sat on a cushioned armchair, hunched slightly forward over the coffee table now buried under a stack of thick parchment letters, stamped envelopes, and a half-broken ledger.

  Her sharp eyes scanned each document with methodical precision. Her handwriting danced in swift, assertive strokes as she drafted responses—negotiating Rosewood's remaining trade shares, rejecting thinly veiled exploitation disguised as offers, and confirming partial ownership claims that still lingered in old contracts. Every line she wrote cut through vague flattery and hollow sympathy like a blade. She’d been raised on how to smell nobility’s rot behind a polite signature.

  No one was going to pick Rosewood clean. Not while she still drew breath.

  The ticking of the old wall clock matched her rhythm—decisive, unwavering. Just as she began penning a particularly brutal clause revision, a soft knock on the open door preceded Izzy’s quiet entrance.

  She held a silver tray with a porcelain cup and saucer. The scent of lemon and sugar curled into the air like a promise of calm.

  “I brought your tea, Lady Leiger,” Izzy said softly, setting it down at the edge of the papers.

  Leiger nodded without looking up. “Thank you.”

  Izzy lingered.

  Leiger raised an eyebrow at her, finally leaning back from the table. “Speak.”

  Izzy straightened her apron, her voice gentle but firm. “If I may, Lady Leiger… I’d like to speak my mind. Just for a moment.”

  A pause. Then a nod. “Go ahead.”

  Izzy clasped her hands together, choosing her words carefully. “I know it’s not my place to interfere. But… about Young Master Nolan.”

  Leiger’s expression didn’t shift, but her attention sharpened.

  “I believe he’s more like me,” Izzy said softly. “And more like Lady Isolde than you realize—appearance, temperament… heart.” She paused, steadying herself. “He may not carry your fire, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t burn. He’s just quieter about it. He’s… trying. I see it every day, even when others don’t.”

  Leiger leaned back further, arms crossed. She said nothing, but her gaze stayed locked.

  “I’m not excusing weakness,” Izzy continued. “But I don’t believe Nolan is weak. He’s carrying weight in a way that’s different than yours. I only ask, respectfully, if you might… go a little easier on your brother. He doesn’t need the same path to be strong.”

  Silence settled, heavy but not hostile.

  Then Leiger exhaled, slowly.

  “You’ve served this family through its collapse,” she said, her voice quiet but unwavering. “You could have left like the others. But you didn’t.”

  She turned to face Izzy fully, her tone sincere now. “And for that loyalty, I’ll consider your words. Dearly.”

  Izzy gave a small bow, relieved. “Thank you, Lady Leiger.”

  Leiger picked up the cup of lemon tea, sipping quietly, letting the citrus and sweetness soothe what her rage had left raw.

  The letters could wait a moment longer.

  After some moments, Leiger’s gaze lingered on the final letter for only a second before she sealed it with practiced precision. The ink had long since dried on her resolve—no loopholes, no second chances. Those who wanted favors would have to earn them.

  The clock read well past ten when she finally finished, the stack of sorted correspondence lined in perfect rows like soldiers awaiting deployment. With a low exhale, she stretched her arms overhead, spine cracking faintly. "Done," she muttered, more to the silence than herself.

  She stood, the stiffness of routine clinging to her limbs, and turned toward her room. The hallway was dim, the estate breathing in low nocturnal stillness. Her room greeted her with the same modest dullness it always had—walls too pale, space too quiet. She paused at the doorway, letting out a sigh. Not now, she told herself. No overthinking. Not tonight.

  On the bed sat a folded set of plain, comfortable pajamas—left by Izzy, previously. Leiger slipped out of her formal attire with efficient motions and into the soft fabric. Her fingers brushed against the hem absently as she moved toward the mirror. She stopped, stared.

  For a moment, she just looked.

  Once again, she saw the hard lines beneath her eyes. The way her jaw set now—not in vanity, but in defiance. Years ago, her expression had been softer, her posture less guarded. She could still remember the girl who once wore silk and smiled without strategy.

  Half of that face was gone.

  She pulled open a drawer and retrieved an old brush—silver inlay dulled, but still elegant. An artifact of a different life. She sat, ran the brush through her crimson hair with slow strokes. Not for anyone else. Just for herself. To feel, even for a flicker, that she was still a woman beneath the armor.

  A knock broke the silence.

  Gentle, but loud in the hush of the night.

  “Come in,” she said without turning.

  The door creaked open, and her mother stepped inside, barefoot and quiet. Isolde wore a similar set of pajamas, her silver-white hair no longer pinned, now cascading down her back like snowfall.

  “Hello, dear,” she said softly.

  Leiger turned her head. “Mother?”

  Her voice was the same, calm and measured, but her eyes betrayed the slightest lift of surprise. Isolde smiled—tired, yes. But in this moment, it's warmer than it had been in years.

  Without asking, Isolde stepped behind her. Her hand reached for the brush, hovering near Leiger’s own. No words were exchanged. Leiger simply let go.

  And then her mother began to brush her hair, slowly, carefully—humming an old lullaby without lyrics, the kind meant to comfort a child after a nightmare. It wrapped around the air like silk.

  “You’ve always had your father’s hair,” Isolde said, eyes fixed on the reflection. “And his eyes. That fierce expression of his. The way he spoke—like every sentence was a vow.”

  She paused, amused. “I used to worry you’d end up too much like him. I wondered if you’d ever turn out to be a proper lady with all that fire. But… I suppose it happened in the best way.”

  Leiger didn’t speak. But she watched.

  “I’m grateful for you, Leiger. I truly am,” her mother continued. “I wasn’t strong enough to keep standing like you. Not after everything fell apart. But you… you kept going.”

  A long silence passed.

  Leiger reached up and gently held her mother’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror.

  “I know I’m not the mother I used to be,” Isolde said, voice thickening. “But I’ll always try to give you what warmth I can. As long as I have breath. Because I couldn’t bear to lose someone I love again. Not you. Never you.”

  Her voice trembled.

  But Leiger stood and embraced her mother. No words. Just strength offered as a shield.

  “You won’t,” Leiger finally murmured, her voice low and steady. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Isolde pulled back just enough to meet her daughter’s gaze. She touched her forehead to Leiger’s, her breath shaky but full of quiet relief.

  “You must be tired,” she said gently, letting the moment soften. “You should rest, dear.”

  She turned to go, but paused at the doorway.

  “And… if you can, I’d like you to stay for breakfast tomorrow,” she said. “ Although I have doubts that you would need to go back as soon a possible.”

  Leiger gave a faint nod. Isolde smiled and disappeared into the hall.

  Silence returned—but this time, it carried warmth. Not loud, not sharp. Just steady. Like an ember that refused to die.

  And for the first time in a long time, Leiger let it stay.

  The house settled into silence as each room dimmed, one by one. Lights flicked off like falling dominoes until only shadows remained.

  Then, a soft knock echoed in the hallway.

  Izzy stepped in with a med kit in hand. Her footsteps were light, but her gaze found him quickly—Nolan, sitting on the edge of his bed, back hunched, his silver-white hair spilling over his shoulders like strands of pale silk.

  There was something fragile about him tonight.

  Not just in frame, but in the way his weary eyes met hers before drifting back down.

  She tilted her head slightly.

  “I’m here to tend to your bruise, Young Master Nolan.” she said gently, crossing the room.

  She knelt in front of him and reached up to cradle his chin, guiding his face toward her. Her fingers were firm but careful. His left eye was bruised, discolored beneath the lashes. She examined it closely before opening the med kit.

  Her hands moved with quiet precision—cleaning, treating, pressing cool relief to aching skin. Nolan didn’t flinch, though his gaze kept drifting, distant.

  Once finished, Izzy didn’t pull away.

  Instead, she leaned in and brought both hands to his face again, holding him with unexpected tenderness, tilting his head to look at her.

  “What Leiger said… she’s not wrong, Young Master Nolan.” she began, her voice calm, “but it’s not the full truth either.”

  She paused.

  “You are strong, Young Master Nolan. Maybe not like her—not yet. But in your own way. I believe you’ll find it. Carve your own path.”

  Her thumbs brushed lightly across his cheeks.

  “And no matter what, I’ll be there—to support you, to protect you. However I can.”

  Then she let go.

  The moment passed, and Izzy turned to pack the med kit, snapping it closed with practiced ease.

  “Get some sleep, Young Master Nolan.” she said, standing. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

  She turned to leave—but paused.

  Nolan’s hand had closed gently around her wrist.

  She looked back.

  His eyes, still soft with that familiar vulnerability, now held something else. A seriousness that needed no words. A request unspoken, but deeply understood.

  Izzy met his gaze, and a knowing smile crept to her lips.

  Without another word, she complied.

  The night lamp dimmed.

  And the house fell into silence.

  In her room, Leiger lay on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight cast faint silver lines across her bedspread, the only light in the room.

  Everything was still.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling.

  That someone was watching.

  That something waited just beyond the walls.

  Her eyes scanned the corners, the window, the door.

  Nothing.

  Still, the unease lingered like a whisper at the nape of her neck.

  Eventually, she rolled to face the wall, back to the window, trying to will herself to sleep.

  Then, in the stillness of the night—

  A shadow slipped across the room.

  From the window.