The maid's lips curled slightly in a sneer. "Don't get any ideas. You've got twelve carriages to wash. You're lucky the mistress hasn't decided to punish you further for your behavior. Move."
Kael'thar bit back a bitter laugh. Lucky? He had been thrown into a filthy, forgotten room like a stray animal, his every move watched, his every moment a reminder of his weakness. And now he was expected to wash cars—twelve of them?
He had been in many situations over the centuries. He had cleansed entire battlefields of life, washed blood from his hands without hesitation. But this... this was a different kind of task. It was beneath him, a mockery of his former life.
Yet, despite the boiling fury within him, Kael'thar didn't resist. He wouldn't waste his energy on such petty things. There was something far more important now.
The maid turned sharply and left, her footsteps echoing down the hall as Kael'thar followed behind her, his mind already working.
The courtyard outside was vast, but he didn't focus on the sight. His eyes were on the twelve carriages lined up, gleaming under the harsh midday sun. Luxury pristine, and unreasonably opulent. Not the kind of vehicles one would expect in the home of a lowly family, but Kael'thar recognized them instantly. They were signs of wealth—wealth that was wasted on foolishness.
He stepped forward, squinting slightly as the sun beat down on him.
"Twelve..." Kael'thar muttered under his breath. "Twelve... Useless junk what do they need them for, not like they've soldiers or war to fight. Imbiciles."
His hands shook for a moment—whether from the humiliation of the task or from the residual pain in his body, it didn't matter. He focused, and the shaking ceased. Every step he took, every movement he made.He would not be the one to break.
He didn't need to know how to wash cars. He needed to know how to use this moment.
As Kael'thar began to wash the first car, his eyes scanned the surroundings, his mind working furiously. How many servants? How many guards? How many blind spots? The maids were always around, but none of them paid him any real attention—after all, he was just a boy who had been thrown into servitude. He was beneath them, beneath their notice.
But that would be his advantage.
The water dripped off the sides as he scrubbed with a rag, his mind not focused on the task but on everything happening around him. He paid attention to the sound of footsteps, the occasional clink of keys, the servants chatting among themselves at the far end of the courtyard. There was a pattern, an unspoken rhythm to their actions.
He could use that.
Under the hot sun,the very act of washing it felt like an insult to his pride, but Kael'thar kept his focus. He didn't need to lash out.
The more he washed, the more details he took in. The large mansion, the servants' quarters, the layout of the estate. He could see everything with a clarity that came from centuries of strategic thinking. This was his domain now—he would own it, just as he had once owned empires.
He wasn't here just to endure. He wasn't here to wash cars like a mindless servant. No. This was his test. His challenge. He would survive this, but more than that, he would win.
In this house, he would find his way back to the power that had once been his. He would learn everything there was to know about the people here—every secret they held, every weakness they didn't know they had.
The game was already in motion, and Kael'thar would play it like he had played every other game before: with patience, precision, and a mind as sharp as a blade.
The moon had risen high, bathing the estate in a silver glow, quieting the world just enough for the night's whispers to be heard. The air carried the scent of soap and car polish, and Kael'thar—Zayn—sat beside the last vehicle, exhausted but still composed. He had finished his task. He had endured. Again.
Just as he was about to rise, a soft voice broke through the silence.
"Zayn?"
He turned slowly, guarded but calm. A young woman stood in the soft glow of a nearby lamp—she wore the plain, neat uniform of the housemaids, but her expression was different from the others. Her eyes weren't filled with scorn or disgust. They were... concerned.
"You're still not done?" she asked, frowning gently. "You used to be finished with the cars before sunset, even when they made you clean the garage after."
Kael'thar didn't answer immediately. His mind worked fast, measuring her words. She knows him. Knew this "Zayn."
He tilted his head slightly. "Got distracted," he said, voice low, brushing off her concern with a grunt.
She stepped closer, crouching beside him, looking at his hands—raw and pink from scrubbing. Her expression tightened. "You're hurting, aren't you? Let me help with the rest. You've done enough for one day."
Kael'thar studied her. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her hands were calloused, her uniform a bit older than the others. But there was kindness in her eyes. A strange, soft warmth he hadn't seen since arriving in this cursed body.
He watched her begin to gather the rags and the bucket without waiting for his answer.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She looked up at him, her voice firmer. "Zayn, I know things have been hard. She's been worse since your father passed. But you're not alone, okay?"
Kael'thar's jaw tightened.
So the body he was in—this "Zayn"—was the son of the master of this estate? And he was... dead? Maybe the woman in that picture is too?
They took all away from him, treating him like a slave.