Elena:
Elena stood still in the center of the velvet-draped suite, her feet sinking slightly into a rug woven finer than anything she'd ever walked upon. The room was tall—cathedral-tall—with carved beams and arched windows that poured in soft blue mana-light filtered through crystal glass. A Saintess Yidali candle burned on the bedside table, perfuming the air with rosemary, rose, and salt.
It should have felt like sanctuary.
But to Elena Rosaria, it felt like being offered as tribute.
Behind her, Seamus leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, his presence as commanding as the manor itself. His voice was soft, almost reverent.
"You'll be staying here."
She didn't move. Her small satchel dangled from her fingers. Her Saintess medal warmed against her chest.
He walks like the halls answer to him, she thought.
He didn't fill the silence, didn't press.
"I'll have the rest of your luggage brought up, if you'd like," he offered after a long moment.
She turned her head toward him, slowly. The moonlight caught the fading bruises on her cheekbone. Her voice was quiet but clear as she raised her chin. Proud.
"This bag is all I have."
The faintest shift crossed his face. Something between guilt and humility . Not pity—he wouldn't dare. The kind given to survivors of storms who still carried thunder in their bones.
He stepped closer, lowering his gaze slightly in something that resembled a bow.
"Rest. I'll show you the estate at dinner."
He took her hand again—not as a lord might take a servant's, but with tenderness, with restraint. He kissed it, lips brushing her scraped knuckles, more ritual than romance. Then he turned and walked away, the soft click of his boots against marble echoing down the hallway.
He left the door wide open behind him.
"You're free to come and go," he said without turning back. "You're no prisoner here."
But freedom, Elena thought, was not always about open doors.
She stood there a long moment, her fingers ghosting over the place he kissed. Then, with slow resolve, she closed the door.
And finally exhaled.
The Bath
The bathing room was its own sanctum—a marble cathedral of heat and steam. She peeled away the filthy remnants of her dress, wincing at the bruises on her side, the angry lash marks around her hips. They bloomed across her skin like poisoned flowers.
The water was hot—scalding almost. She sank in slowly, letting it sting. She needed to feel again. Not rage, not fear. Just warmth.
She washed her hair. Scrubbed her skin until it flushed pink. Stepped out wrapped in thick, perfumed robes.
And then she found the wardrobe.
It stood nearly two stories high, its doors etched with gold-inked roses and serpents. Inside: a fortune in fabric—silks in blood red, shadowy green, corsets with gold-threaded boning, boots lined with pearls, gloves laced with mana-traced glyphs.
Elena stared.
If I'm to play the lady, she thought, I'll do it on my terms.
She chose black.
A sleek corseted gown that hugged her like armor. No jewelry—just her Saintess medal, polished and gleaming.
In the mirror, she still looked tired. Haunted.
But whole.
I've survived worse, she told herself. I can survive this.