By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Ritsuka could feel the weight of her still-weak body in every step.
The corridor to her rooms ran along the outer wall. Lanterns burned low, glass smudged so the light fell in dull puddles on stone. The air was cooler here than it had been downstairs, and she could smell the sea.
Daen kept half a pace ahead and to her right.
His hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword. Every time a board creaked somewhere below, Ritsuka noticed the tendons along the back of his hand tighten.
“We’re in our own estate and you’re still this on guard…” she thought. “If you’re this tense inside the walls, what are things like beyond them?” She wondered.
Isolde walked on her left, close enough that their sleeves brushed whenever Ritsuka’s balance went a little off. The small chime of keys at Isolde’s belt kept time with their steps.
“If you feel faint, my lady, say so,” Isolde murmured. “There is no need to force yourself.”
“If I go down, it won’t be subtle,” Ritsuka smirked softly. “You’ll have plenty of warning.”
Isolde huffed once through her nose but didn’t argue.
They rounded a bend where the corridor opened onto a tall, arched window. The shutters were thrown wide. Wind pushed through the gap in cool bursts, tugging at loose strands of Ritsuka’s hair and slipping under the thin fabric at her wrists.
“Mind the window there, my lady,” Daen said quietly.
Ritsuka stepped into the recess anyway, palm on the stone frame.
From here the estate’s outer wall dropped away beneath them, then the hill fell in a jumble of red-tiled roofs and narrow streets. She couldn’t pick out faces from this height, just movement, little knots of people and the slow crawl of a cart along a lane.
Beyond that, Savora’s harbor cupped the sea in a rough stone half-circle. Their one ship sat moored near the outer curve, hull dark against the blue, masts cutting clean lines into the afternoon sky. A couple of smaller boats bobbed nearer the inner wall, barely more than shapes.
The air that rushed in tasted like salt and fish and tar, sharp enough to cut through the sourness still clinging to the back of her throat.
Ritsuka stood there watching the blue waves and the slow rise and fall of the ship.
“Damn, I could sit here all day and never get tired of this view… I’ve been missing out,” she mumbled, eyes half-closing as the wind caught at her hair.
She let more of her weight rest against the stone, shoulders dropping. The breeze slipped under the open collar of her shirt, cool on the skin at her chest where the fabric had gaped just a little too far.
Isolde flinched. The keys at her hip chimed hard against each other.
“My lady,” Isolde said, half-scandal, half-relief. “Your language… and your posture.”
Ritsuka blinked, glanced down, then gave a small, unapologetic tug at her collar and straightened just enough to be decent. A faint heat touched her cheeks, but the view still held her.
Daen barked a short laugh before he could stop it.
“Have to agree with you, my lady,” he said. “I’d take this view over any kingdom’s bullshit.”
Isolde swung her head toward him so fast her braid snapped against her shoulder.
“Ser Daen,” she snapped. “You do not speak like that in front of the duch…”
Ritsuka didn’t look away from the water, but she cut Isolde off before she could finish the sentence.
“Enough, Isolde,” Ritsuka said.
She kept her tone low, but it cut clean. Isolde’s mouth shut with an audible click.
A gust pushed at her side. The stone did slope toward the window; her heel skimmed the tilt and she let more of her weight go into her palm on the frame until the floor leveled back out.
“I’m not the duchess of this house,” she said. “Lucas is the duke. Just because I’m moving around now doesn’t mean that changes.”
Isolde frowned.
“By right, the title…”
“By right, I probably have the option to take it back if I chose to,” Ritsuka said, taking a measured guess. “And if I’m right about that, then by right I can leave it in my brother’s hands. From what I’ve heard, we’re already dealing with enough, and the people trust my brother, not me… so switching may just cause them to distrust the Wynnee household.”
Isolde’s eyes lowered, the line between her brows easing. For a moment she looked less like a maid scolding a patient and more like someone seeing her lady clearly for the first time.
“You are correct, my lady,” she said quietly. “The title rests with you by blood… but the people’s faith rests with Lord Lucas. Guarding that is no small thing.”
Daen shifted his weight, gauntlet scraping softly against the doorframe as he glanced back at her.
“Can’t speak for the whole island,” he said, voice a shade more careful, “but the men on the walls talk. They say the duke’s family stands between Savora and a lot of trouble that’s not of our making. Hearing you say you’d rather keep their trust than grab at your own brother …that sits well.”
Ritsuka let that settle.
“If I’m going to stay here, I can’t be the crack that lets everything fall apart,” she thought.
She finally turned her head, looking at Daen instead of the sea.
“And as for both of you,” she went on, “if you’re going to be around me more often, I’d rather you speak to me normally. I understand formalities when we’re out and about. When it’s just us, be real with me. I don’t do well with fake loyalty.”
She let one corner of her mouth tilt up, more wry than warm.
Something stung in her chest. The first face that flickered up in her mind was Aoi’s.
Daen straightened a little, some of the stiffness sliding out of his shoulders.
“With respect, my lady, I didn’t mean any harm,” he said. “Just…”
He glanced past her at the harbor, then back.
“Most nobles I’ve seen talk about leaving,” he said. “Running to some safer corner when things get ugly. Hearing you say you want to stay in this mess… it’s honorable.”
“I am not running away,” Ritsuka said.
“Not again,” she told herself.
The wind brought another cold breath of salt over her skin. Under her clothes, her tattoos prickled faintly, the pendant at her chest warm and steady.
Daen hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“If you don’t plan on taking the duke’s seat,” he asked, “what do you want to do, once you’ve stopped collapsing on us, I mean?”
Isolde shot him a warning look but held her tongue this time.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Ritsuka rolled the question around once before speaking.
“That’s a loaded question,” she said. “Right now I want to recover. Even with me walking around and cooking, I’m not in any condition to really see out my goals. But once I’m back to full strength…”
Her gaze slid back toward the harbor, softer now that her eyes had adjusted to the light.
“After that, I’ll solve one issue I know how to fix,” she said. “I can’t call myself a chef if I sit in a house while there are people needing to be fed. I’ll do my part to help my brother bring Savora back to where he can manage it, then… I get my kitchen. My restaurant.”
“But I can’t do any of that while I’m an idiot about this world,” she thought, thumb brushing the pendant on her chest once more. “I need to know what’s chasing my fate with this thing.”
The thought settled in the back of her mind, not ready for words, but solid.
Daen’s mouth pulled into a crooked half-smile.
“Never heard a lady say her dream is to feed dockrats and shout at suppliers,” he said. “But if you manage it, Count me in my lady.”
There was a spark of humor in her eyes now, even if the tiredness still tugged at the corners.
Isolde let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“Lady Julia Your color is going again. The room is close. Lets get there before you don’t have the strength to you have done great things today already.”
Now that she’d said it, the dizziness Ritsuka had been pushing past gave a small, mean twist. The harbor blurred at the edges.
“Fine,” Ritsuka said. “Before I test how hard these floors are with my skull.”
She eased away from the window. The sea breeze fell off sharply as soon as she stepped back into the narrower part of the corridor; the smells of stone and lamp-smoke folded around them again.
Daen moved ahead, sliding back into his place at the front, hand near his hilt, eyes on the shadows and doors ahead. Isolde stayed close at Ritsuka’s side, keys chiming a quieter rhythm with each careful step.
Her legs ached, her stomach was still uncertain, and the day felt like it had stretched into three.
Behind them the waves kept moving, just out of sight.
For now, getting to the bed without falling on her face would have to be enough.
The last stretch to her room was a blur of stone and lamplight.
By the time they reached the door, Ritsuka’s legs were shaking. A tight buzz had started behind her eyes, like someone had wedged a beehive at the base of her skull.
Daen stepped ahead, checked the latch out of habit, then pushed the door open and swept his gaze across the room.
“All clear, my lady,” he said. “Room’s as you left it.”
Ritsuka crossed the threshold. The familiar smell of linen and lavender wrapped around her at once, softer than the salt outside. The banked fire in the hearth threw a low, steady warmth. Her bed waited with the covers turned back, a clay cup and carafe on the small table beside it.
Her knees dipped when she stopped walking.
Isolde’s hand found her elbow before she could pretend it was graceful.
“Sit,” Isolde said. “Please. Before your legs give up on pride.”
Ritsuka let herself be guided to the edge of the bed. The mattress caught her with a small sigh of straw and cloth. When she sank down, the buzzing in her head flared for a heartbeat, then settled into a slow spin.
Heat pulsed under her collarbone.
The pendant against her skin was warmer than it had been in the hall. Beneath it, the fine lines of her markings prickled along her ribs and shoulder, a pins-and-needles whisper that made her want to scratch.
“You’ve been busy too,” she thought, pressing her palm flat over the fabric. “Great timing.”
Isolde’s gaze followed the movement.
“Your markings again,” she murmured. “They glow when you’re overdoing it.”
“Then they must be thrilled with me,” Ritsuka said. “Today was… not light work.”
Daen lingered near the door, not quite in, not quite out. His jaw worked once as he watched her.
“I’ll wait outside while you change, my lady,” he said. “If anything feels wrong, shout. Or breathe too loud. I’ll hear it.”
Ritsuka managed a small, crooked smile.
“I’ll try to collapse loudly, just for you,” she said sarcastically.
The corner of his mouth twitched, then smoothed back out. He dipped his head and stepped into the hall, pulling the door mostly closed.
“My lady please don’t joke like that…” Isolde mumbled.
Isolde moved to the wardrobe, hands already reaching for a nightgown.
“Arms,” she said gently when she came back. “Up.”
Buttons were suddenly more work than they had any right to be. Ritsuka’s fingers slipped on the first one. Her vision fuzzed at the edges for a second before snapping back into place.
“Apparently that’s my limit,” she muttered.
Isolde’s fingers brushed hers away and took over, quick and practised.
“You stood through an imperial proposal and cooked an unbelievable dish. Today has been a blessing, if anything , my lady,” she said.
Cool air slid over Ritsuka’s shoulders as the shirt came down. The nightgown followed, the cloth soft and faintly smelling of lavender. By the time Isolde had settled it around her and smoothed the fabric at her wrists, the spinning in Ritsuka’s head had sharpened into something more insistent.
Her stomach flipped once in warning.
“Lie back, my lady,” Isolde said. “You’re grey around the edges.”
“In a moment,” Ritsuka said. “I need to check something first.”
Isolde did not look convinced, but she stepped back enough to give her space.
Ritsuka drew a slow breath and focused on the memory that had been nagging her since the kitchen.
The blue floating text appeared again
[New Recipe]
“Why did that pop up just from making stew…? There has to be something behind it. Everything about this has felt like some sort of game,” she thought.
The answer clicked for her.
“A menu. If there’s a recipe, there has to be a menu.”
Her throat felt dry.
“Menu,” she whispered.
Nothing.
She frowned before mustering the strength again deep inside of her chest this time..
“Menu,” she said again, a little louder.
Something caught in the air in front of her. A thin line of pale blue traced itself into being, then unfolded like a page. Faint panels hovered there, more suggestion than solid, but enough that her eyes insisted on focusing.
[Julia Wynnee]
[Cooking Rank: 2]
[Condition: Fatigued]
A narrow bar under “Condition” sat mostly drained of color. Seeing it made something in her chest sink.
“So it’s not just in my head” she thought.
Her gaze dropped to the next line.
[Recipes Known: 1]
The text pulsed softly. When she focused on it, the panel shifted.
[Coastal Beef Stew] – New
Her fingers twitched on the blanket.
She focused on the stew.
A smaller box floated up beside the list.
[Coastal Beef Stew]
Hearty, spice-warmed dish built on slow-simmered stock, root vegetables, and preserved beef.
Effect: Slightly restores strength to exhausted bodies. Warms against cold.
Ritsuka’s mouth went a little dry.
“Food that does more than fill stomachs, she thought. “Of course it would be like that here.”
Heat flared under her palm. The pendant went from warm to hot in a breath. A pulse shot down along her markings; beneath the nightgown, light flickered faintly at the edges of the fabric.
“Lady Julia,” Isolde said sharply. “Your chest..”
The room tilted.
The blue panels blurred, lines smearing into each other. Sound pulled away, as if someone had stuffed wool in her ears. Her stomach lurched; her hands tightened in the blanket on reflex.
The pendant throbbed once, hard, like a second heartbeat slamming against bone.
The floor rushed up without moving.
“Julia!” Isolde’s voice snapped, thin and high. “Ser Daen!”
The door banged against the wall.
Then everything went black.
Out of it, the sound of waves rose. Slow, steady, not the distant murmur from Savora’s harbor but closer, as if the sea itself were breathing at her feet.
Light crept in by degrees.
Beyond it, open air and a dark shoreline, waves rolling in and out so close spray kissed the edge of her feet.
“You push yourself like someone who’s never had to rest,” a woman’s voice said.
Ritsuka turned.
A figure stood by the shore, sleeves rolled up, hands braced.
The simple pendant at her throat matched the shape of the one pressed against Ritsuka’s skin.
“You’re Leah?” Ritsuka said. Her own voice sounded small against the waves.
The woman’s mouth curved, faint and tired and kind.
“I am,” Leah said. “And you, Julia Wynnee, or should I call you Chef Izumi
END OF CHAPTER 9