“Your Grace,” Juliere interjected, seizing control of the spiraling conversation, “as requested, a priest will be here after breakfast for assessment and treatment. Miss Brighthaven, or Lore, is here to do whatever you command. She will help you this morning while we prepare for your meal with your guest.”

“My wh-what?” Historia sputtered, caught off guard.

Juliere cleared his throat sharply, a clear sign of disapproval at her confusion. “The esteemed Lady Historia, who has been staying here since the beginning of the year. She has not left her room much, as she is sensitive to the north’s temperamental climate. As her dear friend, you have opened your home to her for the time being."

Historia swallowed the bitter laugh in her throat. The lengths they went to keep the duchess' bizarre condition clandestine, going so far as to concoct a backstory for her new appearance, were almost comical. Historia furtively peeked at the eager, young servant standing before her, gauging her reaction to the surreptitious exchange. Of course, she was blissfully ignorant of anything amiss.

“Yes, I can’t wait to see her…” Historia trailed off.

“Now, I will leave you to get ready.” As Juliere turned toward the exit, he pitched a last-minute warning over his shoulder. “Do well, Miss Brighthaven, or face the consequences of your mistakes.”

But Lore was already prattling on, disregarding the butler’s callous apprisal in favor of light banter. “I will prepare a hot bath for you this instant! How good do you think it will feel after so long? Can you imagine the hot water on your skin, Your Grace?” 

Lore lifted the thin layers of her black skirts and frilly apron as she headed for a door Historia hadn’t noticed before, as if it had suddenly manifested in that very moment. It revealed a massive ensuite of which she could not fully see into from her current angle.

As Lore set out to work, Historia waited, caught in a tug-o-war between dissipating patience and flourishing impatience, and taking in the dutiful cacophony of the earnest maid’s zeal. She was an effervescent whirlwind of clumsy chaos, loudly clanking and clunking and thunking as she worked, and lacking the inherent grace in which others of the estate had carried themselves with. Being unexpectedly thrust into this affiliation felt more like a punishment than a matter of providing the duchess with necessary helping hands.

At last, Lore reappeared, clearly quite satisfied with her handiwork. “All set, Your Grace! Let me help you. It may be a bit difficult to walk.”

Shaking her head vigorously as she struggled to sit, Historia hastily asserted, “No! I can manage myself.”

Lore’s animated gaze suddenly shifted, a sheepishness taking over. Had Historia been too harsh in her refusal? Even Juliere’s earlier antagonism had not been enough to dampen the girl's mood, so why now?

“Um, actually,” she began, her mumbling nearly incoherent as her index finger bashfully pressed into her bottom lip. Scarlet stained the beige tone of her cheeks as she made a confession. “I completely forgot to bring towels and washcloths… And the soaps and oils...”

“So...all you have prepared right now is the water?” Historia asked with a touch of enmity. She just wanted to close her eyes and let out a long, slow, endless sigh.

“Y-Yes,” Lore professed. “But I have everything set up on a cart. I simply forgot to bring it. This works out perfectly, however!” Her positivity returned full-force. “While you make your way to the bath, I will quickly fetch it!"

Historia shooed her away with a frantic flick of the hand, seeking the brief reprieve her absence would instill. Lore bowed briefly before dashing out into the corridor, gaining the momentum required to sprint. Historia wondered how far she would get running like that before being scolded.

As she steeled herself to move, the mere thought of walking felt overwhelming. No, forget walking–could she even manage to stand? She peeled back the blankets that had cocooned her in warmth, scooting toward the perimeter of the mattress. Her legs dangled precariously and it was as if she was teetering on the precipice of a cliff. Her nerves to churned, but the likelihood of failing her ornery attempt to stand with no help was more tolerable than the prospect of the maid being present to bear witness to her vulnerability.

Historia's determined mind urged her to move, but her stubborn body remained noncompliant. “Just what are you so scared of?” she questioned herself. “It’s not like you’re falling to your death, damn it. If you do fall, just get back up and try again.”

She inched forward some more until the tips of her toes brushed the carpet, but where her mind sought progress, her body waged a war of reluctance. Why was this so hard?

“I’m back!” Lore chirruped. Just as the maid pushed a cart through the threshold, Historia's mind forced her body to jump, instantaneously buckling the second the soles of her feet flattened against the ground. Painfully, she caught herself on her hands and knees, but even they trembled from the strain, threatening to cave at any moment. Everything throbbed, though she was thankful the height had been minimal. “Dear Ephemeralis! Are you okay, Your Grace?”

Lore, dropping to her knees, patted the width of Historia's arched back in a manic frenzy. Historia kept her face turned away, hiding the glaring frustration and embarrassment.

“What should I do?” Lore panicked, frantically popping to her feet. "Hold on, Your Grace."

As Historia sifted through the sundry emotions burning inside, Lore’s fussing became distant. She suddenly left the room once more.

“Okay,” Historia breathed. In the wake of the desertion, she tried to reclaim the stubborn spark that had sent her toppling off the bed to begin with. She focused all her strength into her feeble limbs as her unsteady body continued to shake, further fueling her tenacity. “Count of three. One...two...three–”

The sound of two large feet clad in fine boots. A shadow looming, foretelling the imposing figure’s increasing proximity. Then the heat radiating off a solid form, which had suddenly become so close. She deviated her focus, preparing to look up, but something covered her head, pocketing her in darkness.

“You”–Historia shivered as sonorous vocals vibrated delightfully in her ears–"are entirely helpless.” She fumbled to pull the cottony material off her head, peering up through her luminous lashes at the silhouette of the colossus wavering above. “It’s unbecoming of a duchess,” he finished.

He seized her shoulders, driving her backward until her back pressed against the bed. Her startled gaze met those of her savior’s, of which one iris glittered like honeyed amber. The indifference on his face betrayed nothing of what mysteries lay within his mind or what he might have been feeling in that moment, while Historia’s own flagrant cycle of emotions made everyone privy to her inner thoughts, displaying her chagrin for all to see.

“Why must you complicate things?” the man continued, readjusting what she had come to realize was a cloak he had used to lessen her exposure. Before she could answer, she was sailing before carefully touching down into the knight’s embrace. Lean arm muscles wrapped around her, firmly securing her into his cradle. Historia’s temperature peaked, making her heart race from the currents of increasing tension.

“W-Wait!” Historia cried as she squirmed.

“Stay still,” Wraith commanded, and leaving no room for protest, he added: “Unless you wish to end up on the ground again.”

The inexplicable torrent of adrenaline was unbearable, borne of a palpable excitement suddenly coursing through her veins. Being squeezed in his strong arms was exhilarating, provoking sensations in multiple parts of her body of which she refused to acknowledge out of embarrassment.

Wraith headed for the bathroom. “Should I have left you crawling on the ground?” he asked.

“You're not funny,” she spat, annoyed by his impudence.

He was curt in his reply, “I'd never joke with the duchess.”

His veiled remark served to immediately remind her of her station–that of nothing more than an imposter. Any significance she held, if any, came solely from Eternalli’s need for her as a pawn in her scheme.

“A million thanks to you, Commander!” Lore expressed gratefully, oblivious to the building pressure in the air. She bounced along, trailing closely at the knight’s side as they entered the steamy ensuite. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come so quickly.”

“It is my duty.”

Historia peered up at his clean-shaven jaw, tracing along the sharp angle of the bone. “Commander?” she repeated, surprised. However, considering his formal getup and opulent tokens of militant background, coupled with a coordinated cape of dark burgundy that billowed at his booted heels with every movement, his station should have been sooner recognized.

“Yes,” he replied with little acknowledgement. His refusal to further engage only served to annoy, and considering his general attitude, he was completely fine with that.

“Just put me down,” she huffed.

“Anywhere?” he quipped. Neutrality dominated his voice, but she did sense aberrant humor in its undertone.

Wraith glided gracefully toward a corner of the bathroom, the only area adorned with elegant pieces of furniture. With a fluidity that seemed almost unreal, he effortlessly eased his mistress onto the velvety emerald chaise.

“Please”–the commander bowed low–”excuse me, Your Grace. I have important matters to attend to now.”

As if he could not bear a second longer in the electrically charged bubble of their tension, he urgently retreated. Historia's tense body slackening as she relaxed and Lore remained helplessly oblivious to her ebbing discomfort. 

“I hope everything is to your liking!” she said, gesturing around the room. It was a grand sanctuary, composed of mosaics of rich hues that captured the depths of the sea. The ambient lighting from the early morning sun cast a tranquil glow that invited repose and indulgence as tendrils of hazy steam spiraled lazily from the surface of the shallow pool, creating a veil of mist that shimmered around them. 

“May I help you undress?” Lore’s jaunty voice echoed in the expanse, interrupting her moment of awe.

“That won’t be necessary.” The false duchess evaded Lore’s eager reach. “I’ll do it myself.”

“But it’s my j–”

“I will do it myself,” Historia insisted, pushing the words through tight lips in a bid for authority. The maid shrank. However, her silence could not mask her presence, and Historia hesitated to disrobe before her attentive audience. Amassing courage, she freed herself from the swaddle of Wraith's cloak before slowly freeing the silken straps of the translucent nightgown from her shoulders. She let the discarded clothing fall into a pile near her feet, entranced by the vision in the mirror.

The elven figure reflected in the glass gazed back with deep-set eyes lacking warmth or life, a haunting contrast to the delicate beauty that seemed to transcend physical boundaries. She was small and fragile like the perfect porcelain doll. Her milky complexion exuded an otherworldly radiance, devoid of imperfections or blemishes. The only vibrancy in her ethereal visage lay within her eyes, reminiscent of silvery moonlight reflecting on a tranquil lake. Strands of spun platinum silk cascaded down her chest, brushing against her bare skin and sending shivers through her body. As goosebumps waltzed across her flesh, the pink buds of her breasts began to stiffen, hinting at their gratuitous sensitivity.  

At the extent in which her eyes anatomized her new form, so too had Lore's. Historia had not realized at first. Suddenly acutely aware of outside attention, she felt it like icy fingers caressing her naked skin. She observed Lore’s lingering gaze, demonstrating a tumultuous cycle of emotions that defied definition. Within the maid’s scrutiny, fleeting glimpses of fascination and curiosity swelled. Though the maid showed no desire for her body, the intensity of her voyeurism left the false duchess profoundly unnerved. 

“Um.” Though her voice was soft, it still compelled their gazes to intersect, albeit indirectly through the mirror. “Lore.” 

Lore gasped, clasping both hands over her mouth as she was consequently ousted from her trance. “Oh, forgive me,” she said through her fingers, though her shame did not keep her from maintaining eye contact. “That was inappropriate of me."

Historia exhaled deeply, shaking off the last remnants of a shiver. She had to set all feelings aside to seek assistance or her debilitation would gladly have her on the ground once more. She garnered her resolve, summoning the maid’s aid. “Help me to the bath.”

“What if you fall again?” she fretted, timidly inching closer. Where did her confidence go? “Shall I call Commander Wraith ag–”

“Are you crazy?” Historia cut in, louder than intended. She paused, steadying her voice. “The commander’s a busy man.” She waited for recognition to flicker in the maid’s eyes–nothing. “And most importantly, why would you have the commander–a man–come to me in this state?”

Lore remained momentarily rooted by confusion before her eyes rounded with realization. “Right! I didn’t even think about that.”

There's no way I'll survive this, Historia thought to herself. This girl's harebrained antics will be the death of me before anything else.

Thankfully, they navigated the short distance to the bathing pool without incident and she soon found herself easing into the hot water. She flinched as the heat stung her tender skin, Lore's soft grip slipping from her body. As she submerged her fleshy chassis, the intensity began to subsist, bringing about a rather pleasant sting.

The tremendous volume and breadth of the pool struck her as nothing more than wasteful grandeur, completely unnecessary for solitary indulgence. Yet, she could not help but recognize that such lavishness was not merely a matter of personal choice; it was a reflection of the societal hierarchy that dictated this world. Where status was often measured by the opulence of one’s possessions, the vastness symbolized significant privilege and power. 

“Allow me to wash your hair, Your Grace.” Lore’s pert intonation interrupted her musing. “What scents do you prefer?”

“Whatever’s fine,” Historia murmured, dipping deeper into the heat. Lore proceeded to pop the lids from several elegantly crafted bottles, infusing an array of fragrant oils and flower petals into the aquatic mixture. A symphony of scents saturated the air, evoking a tentative tranquility.

Despite earlier hiccups, Lore’s disposition shifted dramatically in this frangible moment, transforming her into a figure of surprisingly skillful efficiency. Her unexpectedly nimble fingers worked through the length of Historia's hair, kneading her scalp as the soothing floral fragrances enveloped her senses. She began to lose herself in a wave of hypnotic pleasure.

And she could only dare to dream that this serenity would last forever.