I woke up in the sweltering weapons chamber, the air nearly spent. The heat clung to my skin like a second layer, but I suppressed the cough rising in my throat. It wouldn’t help, and more importantly, it would wake the girl resting her head in my lap.

  She was supposed to be my new daughter. Not by blood — by circumstance.

  And if this was how our relationship would play out, I might not need to be afraid after all. Even in sleep, she smiled faintly. So childlike. So innocent. She looked like the kind of daughter I had once dreamed of having. She was brilliant at baking, and her humming — songs I didn’t recognize — had a soothing, haunting quality.

  She had so much potential… to help humanity.

  But she was also the girl who drew grotesque faces on the wall with blood. The girl who turned fear into art. The girl who would kill to get what she wants.

  Whenever I spoke with her, she anticipated everything: my answers, my feelings, the words I needed to hear. She was always five steps ahead.

  She was playing a game with me.

  The problem was, I didn’t know the rules. I didn’t know what kind of game it was, what her strategy looked like — or whether I’d even been a player or just another piece on her board. But worse than the game itself… was the opponent.

  A 209-year-old monster in a girl’s body.

  A bit overwhelmed, I sighed — and instantly regretted it as Lucinda stirred.

  “Good morning, Mum!” she said brightly, already fully awake, wearing that perfectly crafted smile. She played her role without hesitation. She acted like she’d known me her whole life. So happy. So pure.

  “We should look a bit more scared,” she added, scanning the room. “And maybe we should scoot over into that corner.”

  She was practicing for the show — preparing for when someone finally opened the door.

  Her bottom lip trembled; her eyes darted around in a convincing display of fear. But they always returned to me, as if for reassurance. It was… disturbingly on point. A performance worthy of any stage. And a terrifying reminder of how easily she could wear a mask.

  And the scariest thing? She wanted me to see it.

  “Do you… need help?” she asked, her voice shifting back to its usual, soft register.

  “No, I’m good,” I replied coolly. “Lying to my citizens isn’t my hobby, but I’ll manage.”

  I crawled over to the corner and spread my legs slightly so she could sit between them. She tilted her head in quiet surprise, then shrugged and settled in front of me.

  I doubted I’d ever truly understand her — not even for a second.

  I wrapped my arms around her stomach and held her close. She squirmed briefly, searching for a comfortable position, and once she found it, she let out a happy sigh. When I tousled her hair, she leaned into my touch, pressing her head into my hand like a child starved for affection.

  That’s when I stopped. It felt too deliberate. Too calculated. Like she was coaxing me into loving her.

  She glanced up, pouting when I withdrew. I turned my gaze away from her and stared at a rack of weapons instead.

  It was safer that way.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the iron door.

  “What?” Lucinda tilted her head, genuinely—or perhaps feigning—confusion. But the sound was there again: soft scraping, shuffling, deliberate movements. Someone was clearing the hallway outside. It was subtle, but in the silence of this underground room, it stood out.

  “You seriously don’t hear that?” I pressed, surprised.

  “It’s daytime,” she reminded me with a flat tone. “I’m weaker than a little girl. One sunray and I pass out. My senses? Dull as bricks. My strength? Can′t even lift a sword.”

  I turned toward the weapon racks, then lowered my gaze toward the floor. She was watching me. Calm. Blank. As if she’d just been waiting for me to glance at the swords.

  “It’s your chance,” Lucinda said, voice low and oddly sincere. “I’m not lying. You know vampires die in the sun… I’m not exactly the same, but close enough. You could tell them I turned too. My head would roll off nice and clean.”

  She was tempting me. Daring me.

  It was a trap. It had to be. But everything she said made sense on the surface. Too much sense.

  “You’ve prepared for that,” I said slowly, watching her. Lucinda turned her head toward the door, then chuckled — light and easy — and screamed for help. Loud. Desperate.

  I froze.

  She was forcing me to choose. Now. Before anyone saw us together like this. Before questions could be asked about how I’d survived with her. If they opened the door and saw us like this — no bruises, no bindings, no blood — what would they believe?

  A knock echoed through the door.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Lucinda immediately went silent. “Time is nearly over,” she whispered, staring directly at me.

  “Who… who are you?” I rasped, my voice trembling, just loud enough for those on the other side to hear. I made my choice.

  “My name is Tom,” came the muffled voice behind the door. “I’m a guard here. Miss White? Is that you?”

  Lucinda had thought of everything. The fire destroyed all the evidence. The guards? Dead. Unidentifiable. And now Tom — the only survivor who could tell the story she wanted told.

  “Yes,” I said hoarsely, forcing a cough. “It’s me. Me and Lucy.”

  Murdering her would’ve been the simpler path… but if I failed — or even if I succeeded — she had set something else in motion. Something irreversible. A horde of wild elves, or worse, descending on the town. I couldn’t take that risk. Not with so many lives at stake.

  “That’s great to hear. I’m unlocking the door now.”

  When did he get the keys? Only then did I remember — Tom hadn’t followed us out of the kitchen way earlier. He was moving behind the shadows himself.

  And then… something small, something wrong, clicked in my brain.

  Lucinda was breathing.

  Before, she hadn’t. Her chest, her belly — completely still. But now… her shoulders rose and fell gently. Inhale. Exhale. Subtle, steady.

  She was breathing.

  And she wanted me to notice.

  The door opened swiftly, and Tom, dressed in guard attire, stormed into the room with several others behind him. Lucinda instantly shrank back into my arms, pressing her back tightly against me. I patted her head and hugged her protectively, trying to appear like a mother comforting her terrified child.

  “It’s alright, honey. You don’t have to be scared,” I whispered—loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Lucinda relaxed slightly, though her body was still coiled with tension.

  “Is he…” I began, but let the question trail off, leaving the implication heavy in the air.

  “The vampire was slain by my sword, Miss White,” Tom answered with practiced gravity. “The mansion and the other servants, though…”

  Yes. I knew exactly what you three did. You didn’t spare anyone. You slaughtered them and burned it all down.

  “…At least you and Lucy are still alive, and that’s what matters to me,” he finished.

  His delivery wasn’t flawless — his eyes darted to Lucinda too often, unable to ignore her, as if checking how much of her performance was for show. She returned his glances with wide, frightened eyes, her gaze flickering anxiously from face to face. But I wasn’t perfect either, and ultimately, all that mattered was how convincing we seemed together.

  “Thank you for your kind words,” I murmured, closing my eyes as if overwhelmed.

  “Wait— the duchess has a daughter?” one of the villagers asked, clearly confused.

  I let my mouth hang open, hesitating, as though struggling to find the words.

  “I do,” I finally said. “I birthed her fourteen years ago. Her father is… not Arthur. I…” I stopped myself, lowering my head. Emotion was expected now, but no matter how hard I tried, the tears wouldn’t come. My body didn’t respond like that on command.

  Thankfully, Tom knelt beside me, seamlessly stepping into his role.

  “It’s alright, Milady,” he said gently. “Don’t worry. It’s over now. Arthur is gone. He can’t hurt you or your child anymore.”

  Everything was going too smoothly.

  We had only agreed on the main points back in the kitchen — the fire, the escape, the “death” of Arthur. The rest was supposed to be improvised. I had hoped they would falter, give themselves away. But Tom leaned into the emotional burden perfectly, reinforcing the illusion of a battered mother and daughter rescued from years of torment. The villagers shifted awkwardly, their earlier zeal now replaced by shame and confusion.

  Tom offered me a brief smile before rising to his feet and turning to address the others.

  “Everyone, thank you,” he said with heartfelt sincerity. “Thank you for helping me slay this monster. Thank you for saving my Mistress and young Lucy. I’ll handle the rest. I’ll stay by their side, ensure their safety personally. And for your safety, please—take a sword for yourselves and your families. No one else should have to die today.”

  That speech wasn’t what I expected from someone under Lucinda’s thumb. It was noble. Kind. Almost honest. But I knew better.

  It was just another performance — a damn good one.

  “I will reward you soon for your help. Thank you.” I lowered my head respectfully and gently pushed Lucinda’s sobbing head down. It was rare for someone of my status to show such gratitude toward commoners, but I needed to make this moment memorable for them.

  Lucinda made it even harder on them as her sobs grew uncontrollable, and I had to pat her head to calm her.

  They mumbled under their breath, overwhelmed and unsure how to respond. Only after Tom distributed the weapons from the storage did they awkwardly shuffle out of the room. A few minutes passed in silence, the heavy air punctuated only by Lucinda’s quiet sobs as she pointed toward the door.

  When Tom closed it behind the last of them, she whispered, “Tom… I want you to remember everything you’ve seen. The mansion… did it burn down completely?”

  “Yes, all the evi—” Tom started, but she cut him off.

  “Even… even the kitchen?” Lucinda’s voice cracked, laced with a strange panic.

  “I think so. Why do you ask?” Tom’s question was sharp, and so was mine, watching her trembling in my arms.

  “We… we forgot the cookies…”

  For heaven’s sake—was she crying because she was acting, or genuinely upset over burnt cookies? I honestly couldn’t tell.