The night was long.

For most in the manor, the hours passed in quiet stillness. But not for Sigrid.

He stood near the hearth in his chamber, silver hair glinting under firelight, his sharp profile carved from tension. The report in his hand was brief—yet heavier than iron. His jaw clenched as he reread the lines, each word sinking deeper.

> “Unregistered dimensional interference linked to a forbidden ritual. Suspected dark mage activity. Lady Millicent Grace’s behavioral shift began two days after the ritual surge.”

The parchment crackled in his grip.

Rituals like this weren’t just outlawed—they were erased from history for a reason.

Their results were inconsistent, and the consequences—devastating.

And yet, here she was.

The woman who called herself Ira.

He had expected another tantrum when he demanded answers. Another lie. Another insult. But instead… she had asked to cook. Not to bargain. Not to stall. To cook.

Millicent Grace—the Millicent—had once ordered a chef whipped for serving underseasoned duck.

Yet this girl had rolled up her sleeves and gone into the kitchen herself.

He let her, partly for time—his informants needed a few more hours—but mostly out of curiosity.

He’d watched her closely as she served him the food.

No noble grace. No confident smirk. Just trembling hands and eyes that refused to meet his.

Even the way she carried the tray—it was practiced, but not rehearsed. Learned, not bred.

He hadn't expected anything from the food.

But as the aroma drifted up from the bowl—ripe tomato, mellow basil, something warm and honest—it stirred something old in him.

A memory.

He saw himself as a boy, curled under a blanket, his nanny sneaking in late-night soup to hush his nightmares.

It can’t be her.

He took a bite. Then another.

His anger dulled. His chest eased.

He finished the entire bowl.

And for the first time in months… he slept.

---

Elsewhere, Ira sat in the cell, back against the stone wall, eyes fluttering shut.

Her mother had tried to question her earlier, but she’d deflected, whispering, “Let’s talk in the morning. Please.”

But sleep didn’t come easy.

She kept whispering names into the darkness.

Her name. Her family’s names. Her street. Her kitchen. Her favorite spatula.

A mantra of survival.

When sleep finally took her, it came in broken waves—until a loud, sharp voice shattered it.

“Millicent Grace. On your feet.”

She jerked upright, eyes wild. Rik touched her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I have to be.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and followed the guard, heart pounding. Every hallway was colder than the last, as if the castle itself resented her presence.

This time, she wasn’t crying.

She was calculating.

She couldn’t afford to fall apart now—not if she wanted to protect her family. Not if she wanted to live.

---

In his chamber, Sigrid stared at the empty fireplace. The last ember had died.

He barely noticed.

What he did notice was the tightening knot in his chest.

What if she’s telling the truth?

What if this strange, frightened woman had somehow taken Millicent’s place? And if so… where was Millicent now?

His thoughts turned, unwillingly, to Lillian.

Every moment that passes... she gets farther.

In the black markets, a single day could mean ruin. Once sold, a slave’s fate was no longer theirs. And Lillian had already been missing too long.

His fist clenched.

This woman—this Ira—was his last clue.

“Bring her to me,” he ordered.

The guard nodded and left.

---

Ira was already at the door when it creaked open.

She stepped inside slowly. The room was dim, and the mage sat by the window, back to her, arms folded.

No anger. No greeting.

Just silence.

But she could feel it—the tension in the room like static before a storm.

And still, she stepped forward, heart trembling but will firm.

If this was the game now… she was playing too.