"M-M'lady?" a stammering voice broke the quiet, abrupt and trembling. The maid had awakened, disheveled and wide-eyed, taking in the scene before her. Her gaze flickered nervously around the courtyard, until a wave of relief softened her features.
"Oh, great and mighty Lehoi, what is happening here?" she whispered in disbelief.
Fhena and Sager rose quickly, helping the maid to sit upright. Though by now, the maid's eyes no longer saw Sager as she had before—only the sun-dappled courtyard and its fragrant blooms.
"M'lady, what's going on?" she asked, her voice trembling as she looked at the child.
Fhena settled down before her. The maid's eyes immediately noticed something astonishing—the girl's skin had returned to its original porcelain fairness. The bruises and scars that marred her body were gone. Though still slender, she looked healthier, more alive than that very morning. Her hair had grown slightly, shimmering more silver-white than ash, and her eyes gleamed bright amber gold—like the sun at dawn and dusk.
"M'lady… you seem different," the maid whispered, awe in her voice. Fhena paused, surprised at the maid's calm reaction. Most would have screamed or panicked or fainted at such a transformation, yet this maid looked at her with quiet reverence, as if Fhena were the most precious soul in the world.
It reminded Fhena of Averys, one of her mage attendants, who had also perished in the civil war during her days as Nyala Nkosi.
"Are you my maid?" Fhena asked softly, her voice sweet and gentle.
The maid blushed, moved by the gentle tone. "Yes, M'lady, I am. I risked everything to escape and bring you out of this place—to expose the horrors Madame inflicted upon you. But six months ago, I was captured and thrown into those dungeons. I did everything I could to escape, but I was never successful. It was only last night, upon hearing news of your death, that she released me—to tend to you." At the mere mention of Madame, Maelith's face twisted with fierce anger.
Fhena thought silently, What a fierce and fiery woman.
"Maelith," Fhena asked, her brows slightly furrowed, "how are you not surprised? I can speak clearly now without stuttering… I'm not as frail as I was. And the lion cub—can't you see him beside you?"
Maelith blinked and looked first to her left, then her right, then back at Fhena with the puzzled precision of a wind-up toy asked to locate the four corners of the world.
"A lion cub?" she repeated. "Ah! I saw him earlier, yes—but now? No, I see nothing."
Then she smiled, radiant and calm. "As for the young miss' eyes, her voice, her soul—I dare not question such blessings. Some things," she added with a soft laugh, "are too sacred to be dissected."
Fhena narrowed her gaze slightly, thoughtful. There was something about this maid—something hidden, not suspicious in the dangerous sense, but mysterious… as though Maelith had always known something others did not.
Suddenly, Maelith reached forward and gently cupped Fhena's delicate hands in her own.
"M'lady," she said, voice soft but unwavering, "I am Maelith Dorea of Arrocel. I have pledged my faith to Lehoi, and my loyalty to Fhenalyssa of Talmerein—and now, to her daughter."
Her grip tightened ever so slightly, not out of force but conviction.
"Whatever you ask of me, I shall give. And whatever purpose you must fulfill, I shall walk behind you as your shadow, your guard, your support."
Fhena's breath caught as Maelith bowed her head and pressed a kiss to the back of each hand—an old rite, whispered in stories of ancients. This was not a mere gesture of affection. It was a vow.
A sacred oath.
A pact between Master and Servant.
An unbreakable bond sealed in honor and faith.
The wind stirred, rising in a swirl that rustled the flowers and brushed against their skin like an unseen hand. It blew not in chaos, but in celebration—light and singing, as though the sky itself rejoiced in what it had just witnessed. To Fhena, it felt less like coincidence and more like fate—an invisible thread correcting itself, weaving together two souls that were always meant to find one another again.
It was the kind of wind that spoke.
"Maelith," Fhena asked softly, her voice low and laced with suspicion, "do you know who I truly am?"
The maid bowed her head, her eyes calm, yet reverent. "I know now that you are not the same child I served yesterday—and yet, you are," she said, her words delicate but firm. "You are Fhenadove, daughter of my former master. Your truths are your own, M'lady. I will not pry into what you are not ready to share."
She did not tremble. She did not plead. She simply offered that answer—and nothing more.
Fhena stared at her for a moment longer. Her suspicion did not vanish, but it settled. There was something buried beneath Maelith's quiet grace—an unseen current she could not yet name. But Fhena was still young. There would be time. Time to uncover truths. Time for revelation.
But first—there were more urgent matters—something she could no longer ignore.
The Madame.
Her amber-golden eyes narrowed, the warm innocence in them replaced by cold resolve.
"Tell me," Fhena said, her voice now grave and sharp like a blade unsheathed, "what time does Madame Ossaria arrive?"
The wind stilled, as if holding its breath. Something old and burning had returned to Fhena—the fire of memory, and the fury that came with it.
****************************************************************************
The plan had been set in motion—quietly and meticulously—between Fhena and Maelith, in preparation for the arrival of Madame Ossaria. Ossaria had originally been appointed as Fhena's tutor by the late Grand Duchess. Over time, however, noble houses allied with the D'Vorelle family pushed for a contractual union. The Grand Duke had agreed, but with the stipulation that the arrangement would last only until Rheomund took over as Grand Duke. In five months, when the Grand Duke returned, the marriage would be officially recognized, and Lady Ossaria D'Vorelle would become the next Grand Duchess.
This revelation made Fhena's stomach churn, and she felt the urge to vomit every time the thought crossed her mind. She would never understand the complexities of arranged unions, she thought bitterly.
They remained in the courtyard through lunch, the sun lazily trailing across the sky as Fhena openly exercised her magic without restraint. She moved with the grace of someone reclaiming a part of herself, flickers of light and warmth curling around her fingertips. At first, Maelith had been stunned, her eyes wide with disbelief. But the shock melted quickly into quiet recognition. In her heart, she knew—it wasn't impossible. Of course Fhena could wield magic. She was of Talmerein blood, after all—a lineage whispered to have descended from ancient sorcerers and mages. The power was not a curse, nor a miracle. It was a gift woven into her from the moment she was born.
By now, the sun had passed its peak. Sager remained ever at Fhena's side—still unseen to Maelith, speaking only through the chain-link bond that tethered him to Fhena's thoughts.
The plan was clear. Neither Madame Ossaria nor the Grand Duke knew of Fhena's reawakening, nor of the magic pulsing quietly beneath her skin. But by nightfall, they would.
Maelith, ever diligent, had preserved every trace of Ossaria's cruelty—every log, every whisper, every mark of wrongdoing documented in her journal through the years. Now, those memories had taken formal shape, rewritten by her own hand onto parchment. Three letters, carefully sealed and bound, were prepared to be sent.
Fhena had insisted on helping—but found herself quickly humbled. Though her mind remembered, her hands did not obey. She could read. She could speak. She could recite scripture in five dead languages, if need be. But write?
No, not yet.
Her hands trembled with the effort, her penmanship wobbling between symbols and smudges like a drunken scholar at a royal feast.
"This is ridiculous," she murmured, scowling at the shaky letters she'd tried to copy.
But Maelith only smiled and took her hand gently. "Do not be discouraged, M'lady. You already speak and read beyond your years. Writing will follow—your body will catch up."
It made little sense to Fhena, yet there was comfort in Maelith's words. She let go of the frustration and focused on what mattered.
When the letters were ready, three birds were summoned—each as majestic and sharp as the truths they carried. A sleek peregrine falcon, a clever-eyed crow, and a fierce harpy hawk took to the skies. Two were bound for Sidria, to reach the Grand Duke; the last was sent to Hammendir, addressed to the young master——an older brother she had never known, but already longed to meet.
And with that, the sky was set in motion—wings carrying secrets, letters bearing truth, and a storm quietly building in the heart of the estate.
Fhena stood up, brushing the dirt from her palms. "Should we head back inside?" she asked quietly, glancing at Maelith.
They had about five hours before the Madame returned to the estate.
The events of the previous night lingered in the air like a phantom. Fhena had made an attempt to flee, desperate for freedom, only to be caught by the Madame. What followed was no less than a violent scuffle—Fhena had managed to scratch Ossaria's hand in defense, but the Madame, startled and furious, retaliated with a shove that sent the fragile girl tumbling down the towering stairwell—ten, perhaps twenty feet above ground.
She struck her head at the bottom.
Ossaria, in her cold calculation, watched it all. When the child did not move, she arranged for Maelith's release, ordering the maid to clean and prepare the body for a funeral—one that would be fitting to report to the Grand Duke's befor ehis siad return. It was all a performance, a veil of feigned grief and devotion, staged to convince the Duke that his daughter's death was a tragic accident brought on by her "growing instability" and "disobedient behavior."
It was all lies.
Fhena, now observing Maelith up close, only now truly noticed how worn and exhausted the maid looked—her face pale, lined with fatigue, her hands trembling slightly.
"I'm starting to feel anxious," Maelith admitted, fidgeting with her fingers and chipping at her nails. "The Duke has to arrive soon. But portals—those are going to be a problem. The Grand Duke of Hammendir's bloodline isn't naturally attuned to magic like the Talemereins."
Fhena placed a calm hand on Maelith's shoulder. Her touch was steady. Certain.
"It will be alright," she said gently. "Lehoi provides."
Maelith looked at her, eyes glimmering with tired hope, and managed a smile. "Indeed He does."
The Master and Servant prepared to return to the estate, but before leaving, Fhena restored the Soleon Temple into a garden sanctuary—filling it once more with light, warmth, and color. Then they retraced their steps, returning the way they had escaped, and entered the same room where Fhena had first awakened.
Maelith tended to her Lady with devoted care. She bathed her, fixed her hair, anointed her with fragrant oils, and dressed her in a simple white day dress adorned with lace at the sleeves and overcoat. Her feet were slipped into soft yellow buskin shoes, their tips studded with tiny crushed diamonds that caught the light with every step.
Fhena stood before the mirror and stared, flabbergasted. Her expression slowly turned sour with mild disbelief. "I look far too alive to be dead," she muttered, almost pouting.
Yet, despite her words, something about the transformation comforted her.
Her once silver-ash hair now gleamed with a silvery white luster, trimmed to fall neatly to her waist. Her eyes, still the same bright amber-gold, were round and full of life. Her nose was soft and slender—not sharp, but elegant. Her lips had a natural plumpness, and when she smiled, she noticed two dimples appearing above her cheeks, reminiscent of a bunny's whiskers. A small mole sat beside her left eye, and another followed the arc of her smile on the right.
Fhena leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting the features. She nearly laughed.
"I look like her," she whispered.
Indeed, aside from the change in hair color and the shift in her moles' placement, she bore a more striking resemblance to her past self as a child, now.
The Talmerein blood must be strong in me, she thought.
Maelith gently eased Fhena onto the bed, then took her place nearby, the heavy silence stretching as the hours ticked by like centuries. At long last, Lady Ossaria D'Vorell of Oswinch returned—an arrival that seemed to crack the very air with its weight.
Ossaria was the daughter of a count from Oswinch, a distant province on the fringes of Hammendir. Her hair blazed like the noonday sun, too bright, too fierce for comfort—an almost painful glare to the eyes. Her face was a careful mask: heavy makeup thickly applied to compensate for her narrow, sharp eyes, shades of color so harsh they seemed designed to command and intimidate.
Though taller than most women, she carried a fragile, petite frame, like a finely carved statuette. Her voice rang out like a chorus of a million bellhorns—sharp, unrelenting—a sound Maelith, Fhena, and the other servants dreaded more than any punishment.
How Ossaria had come to be the late Grand Duchess's closest confidante was a puzzle to all. Yet no one doubted she was more a cunning businesswoman than a true friend. She wielded words like weapons, persuasion like a finely tuned instrument, and no one questioned her ambition.
Clad in somber funeral garments of burnt orange and muted brown—colors that seemed to swallow light—she wasted no time. Her letter to the Grand Duke in Sidria had already been sent and accepted, word was the Duke was on his way.
For nearly two hours, Madame Ossaria and the other maids—everyone except Maelith—busied themselves with funeral preparations, their hurried movements a dance of grim purpose.