The knights froze in place. Their hands hovered midair, unsure whether to intervene.

To strike or restrain a noble—especially their own mistress—was a crime punishable by dismissal or worse.

If they stepped between her and her servant, it would be labeled insubordination.

“We… we can’t stop her,” one whispered, voice shaking. “If the Lady wishes to discipline a servant—what are we supposed to do?”

Both Melissa and Vivianne understood immediately. The realization spread through the boutique like a chill draft from a crypt.

But Vivianne refused to stand still.

She rushed forward and caught Lady de Guzman’s wrists, stopping the next blow mid-swing. “You!” she barked, turning to the timid maid by the wall. “Help me! You know your mistress—you believe she won’t hurt you, right?”

It was a desperate gamble. Even Vivianne wasn’t sure this noblewoman wouldn’t harm her maids. Buying them new dresses didn’t erase the cruelty carved into memory.

Please don’t let me be wrong about her…

“Vivianne, what are you doing!?” Melissa cried, clutching her cheek where red welts bloomed.

“Commoner! Release our mistress at once!” one of the knights barked, torn between duty and fear.

Mary stood frozen, eyes darting between her mistress and Helen, who lay barely conscious on the floor. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst.

She knew this scene too well. Saints above, not again… not her again.

Before the accident, Lady Vivian’s temper had been infamous—cruel smiles, shattered porcelain, punishments that left servants trembling for days. Even after she’d fallen from her horse, the sharp tongue remained, slicing through apology like silk through flesh.

But lately… something had changed. Her anger had softened, reshaped itself into scolding that still stung but no longer destroyed. She had started saying thank you.

Now, her mistress’s face was void of all emotion—an empty mask framed by falling curls.

Mary’s instincts screamed louder than her fear. Something is wrong. This isn’t her.

She stepped forward, trembling but resolute. “I… I’ll help.”

“Mary!” one of the knights hissed, panic twisting his voice. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ll take responsibility for whatever punishment comes,” she said, her voice shaking yet firm. “Just—help me, Anton!”

The knight hesitated, torn between orders and conscience. For a heartbeat, the entire room held its breath.

The smell of lavender and bitter citrus clashed sharply with the metallic tang of fear.

Finally, Anton exhaled, gripping the hilt of his sword—not to draw it, but to anchor his courage. “As a knight, it’s my duty to protect the Lady from harm,” he muttered. “If her hands were injured in this struggle, it would reflect poorly on our service… so I’ll interfere. Not because I wish to help you, understand?”

The other knight sighed, shaking his head. “Agreed.”

They stepped forward, careful not to meet each other’s eyes. “Move aside,” one said stiffly. “We will protect the Lady… and assist the injured maid.”

Mary understood perfectly what those words hid beneath their formality.

They couldn’t openly defy their mistress—not without risking their names, their families, perhaps their lives.

Their talk of protecting her hands was the only rebellion they could afford.

They’re bound by duty, Mary thought, a faint, bittersweet smile flickering across her face. Just as I’m bound by conscience.

She moved quickly. The timid maid’s steps were light but sure as she knelt beside Helen. The sight of her fellow servant—pale, bruised, barely breathing—snapped something inside her fear.

Her trembling stopped. The panic-butter scent around her steadied into something warm and yeasty, like bread rising under steady heat.

If I falter, she’ll die. If I freeze, we’ll all be ruined.

Adjusting Helen’s weight carefully over her shoulder, Mary turned toward Lady Baltimore. Her every movement carried the quiet grace of a servant who’d practiced invisibility as survival.

She stopped beside the noblewoman, lowering her gaze.

“Please, my lady,” she said softly, voice trembling but steady, “send the invoice for the damages to the de Guzman mansion. They will take full responsibility.”

Her knees threatened to buckle under Helen’s limp weight, yet she gave a small bow—awkward but deeply respectful.

Then, gathering what courage she had left, she turned toward the boutique door, stepping carefully over the scattered porcelain.

The floor was littered with broken porcelain and splintered wood, but she didn’t hesitate. For all her quiet nature, Mary moved with the calm precision of someone who’d lived too long in chaos.

Timid, yes. But never useless.

As she stepped into the bright street, the contrast of sunlight after the boutique’s violet gloom made her eyes sting. Shoppers glanced up, startled by the sight of two maids covered in dust and blood. Mary ignored them all, her focus locked on Helen’s shallow breathing.

Hang on, please. Just hang on.

Inside, the boutique was a ruin. The air still shimmered faintly where the dart had struck; the faint scent of metal and rain hung like a curse before vanishing.

“Yeah, I will!” Melissa snapped suddenly, breaking the paralysis that held the room. She pressed a hand to her throbbing cheek. “All of it! Including my face—this is practically an attempted murder! She may be a duke’s daughter, but striking me, a noble—”

Her rant faltered when she noticed Vivianne still catching her breath, faint red marks around her throat. “Oh, Viv, are you all right?” she asked, voice softening. “That viper really got you good… I’ll be informing my father about this!”

Vivianne’s reply was barely a whisper. “Lady Baltimore, please… you should let your servants tend to you instead.”

Ignoring the protest, she turned toward the window where light slanted across the floor. Dust motes swirled through the fractured air.

Outside, the knights restrained Lady de Guzman, whose body thrashed weakly between them. The silver dart wound at her neck still pulsed faintly green. Then—

Vivianne’s breath caught.

Lady de Guzman stiffened suddenly. Her entire body jerked as if pulled by invisible strings. The knights shouted in alarm, but it was too late.

Her knees buckled. She convulsed violently, the sound of choking cutting through the din.

Vivianne’s feet moved before thought did.

“Vivian!”

The cry tore out of Vivianne’s throat before she could stop it. Every lesson about class and etiquette from Lady Melissa vanished; panic burned them away.

The two knights struggled to restrain Lady de Guzman as her body jerked violently, her movements wild and unnatural. She twisted in their grasp, limbs flailing with such force that their armor clanked and scraped against the cobblestone floor.

“Hold her still!” Vivianne ordered, voice trembling. “Don’t let her hurt herself!”

Anton obeyed, locking his arms under the Lady’s shoulders while his companion steadied her legs. Her gloved fingers clawed at the air, her breath rasping as though she were choking on something unseen.

Her hat slipped from her head, tumbling across the polished tiles until it hit the counter with a soft thud. Golden curls clung to her sweat-dampened forehead, and for the first time, her blue eyes looked unfocused—almost glassy, as though some invisible hand had stolen her will.

Vivianne dropped to her knees beside her. “Vivian, can you hear me?”

The noblewoman didn’t answer. A faint groan escaped her throat as her back arched, her body convulsing again.

Vivianne’s stomach lurched. That dart…

She remembered the glint of green light when it struck. The way the shimmer had spread along Vivian’s neck like ink through water. Now that same faint hue pulsed beneath her skin. This isn’t just rage or fainting. That thing wasn’t just enchanted—it was poisoned.

Melissa’s shrill voice shattered the tense quiet. “What’s happening to her!? She just lost her temper, and now—this!?”

Vivianne turned, her voice still shaking but steady with purpose. “Please, my lady—get me some water. Anything cold, quickly!”

The command, though respectful, carried enough authority that Melissa instinctively obeyed, gesturing for the shopkeeper to fetch a pitcher.

At that moment, Mary burst back outside, breathing hard, her apron smeared with dust. She had helped place Helen safely inside the carriage, but hearing the commotion, she had returned at once.

“Lady Vivian—!” she gasped, freezing as she saw her mistress trembling on the floor, her lips pale and her body writhing.

“She’s been struck with something,” Vivianne said, eyes darting over the green pulse beneath the noble’s skin. “Mary, get a clean cloth and soak it in water.”

Mary ran to the counter, grabbing a square of fine linen. Her hands trembled but her movements were quick, purposeful. She dunked it into the pitcher Melissa’s servant brought, wrung it out, and pressed it gently against Lady Vivian’s neck.

Steam rose faintly where the damp cloth met her fever-hot skin.

“Her scent suppressants…” Mary whispered, her nose twitching as sandalwood and bitter citrus warped into something metallic.

Vivianne grimaced. “They’re breaking down. Whatever hit her—it’s fighting through everything she used to mask her scent.”

She turned to the knights, her expression hardening. “You two—ride ahead to the de Guzman mansion. Fetch a physician, discreetly. Tell no one what happened here. If gossip spreads, the entire house will suffer for it.”

Anton saluted sharply, already sprinting for the door. His partner followed, boots striking the floor in urgent rhythm.

Vivianne faced the coachman next. “Take the carriage directly to the de Guzman estate,” she ordered. “We’ll meet the physician halfway if fortune allows.”

The man bowed deeply. “At once, my lady.”

As he hurried, Vivianne turned to Melissa. “My lady,” she said carefully, “I must leave first. If this turns into a scandal within your establishment, the repercussions will not stop with your reputation—it could reach your father.”

Melissa’s painted lips parted, indignant at first—but reason flickered behind her eyes. She looked down at the noblewoman writhing weakly on the floor, then back at Vivianne. “…Go. And see that she survives. I don’t need this turning into a headline.”

Vivianne bowed her head in gratitude, then gestured to Mary. “Help me lift her.”

Mary obeyed immediately, bracing her arms beneath Vivian’s shoulders. Together they heaved her up, careful not to jostle her too harshly as they half-carried, half-guided her toward the waiting carriage.

Outside, curious nobles had begun to hover near them, murmuring in low voices. Vivianne raised her chin, ignoring their whispers as she shielded Vivian’s face with her cloak. The Lady’s head lolled weakly against her shoulder, her breath ragged but still there.

“Clear the way!” the coachman barked, his voice sharp with authority. The crowd parted, uneasy at the sight of the de Guzman crest gleaming on the carriage door.

Vivianne and Mary climbed inside, carefully laying Vivian across the seat. The interior smelled faintly of perfume and dusted powder, but under it all was something else—ozone and iron, the scent of unstable magic.

Mary sat beside the half-conscious Helen, clutching the cloth that had already begun to warm against Vivian’s skin. “Her pulse… it’s slowing,” she whispered.

“Keep that cloth cool,” Vivianne said, voice tight as she adjusted the Lady’s head onto her lap. She reached out, brushing a stray curl from Vivian’s temple. The golden strands clung to her gloved fingers.

For a moment, Vivian’s lips moved. A sound—hoarse, small—escaped her. “...it hurts…”

Vivianne’s throat tightened. Of course it does, she thought. You’re fighting something no one else can see.

She pressed the cloth more firmly against the noble’s forehead. The scent of sandalwood and citrus twisted again, thinning into something rawer, sharper. Her suppressant wasn’t fading—it was burning out.

Vivianne’s pulse quickened. If she dies here, if the Duke’s daughter dies in my arms…

The thought refused to finish.

She clenched her jaw and held Vivian’s head steady on her lap. “Stay with me,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’re too stubborn to die over tea and gossip, remember?”

The carriage jolted as the horses took off, hooves thundering against cobblestone. Sunlight flashed through the window, painting stripes of gold across Vivian’s pale face.

Mary steadied herself against the seat, watching in silent terror as Vivian’s breaths grew shorter.

Minutes passed. The rattle of the wheels drowned everything. Then—Vivian’s body convulsed once more, violently. A strangled cry escaped her throat.

“Hold her!” Vivianne ordered. Mary reached across, gripping her mistress’s shoulders while Vivianne kept her head still.

Vivian’s fingers spasmed, clutching Vivianne’s sleeve so tightly that her nails left faint scratches in the fabric.

“Stay with me—Lady Vivian!”

The name slipped out again, raw with fear.

For one haunting instant, Vivian’s eyes fluttered open. Her pupils were blown wide, the blue of her irises rimmed with faint green light, glowing like burning glass. She looked directly at Vivianne but did not seem to see her.

And then—the light faded.

Vivian went limp.

The only sounds left were the horses’ hooves and Mary’s quickened breathing. Even Melissa’s empty carriage, following behind, fell silent.

“Lady Vivian…?” Mary whispered.

Vivianne lowered her ear close to the noblewoman’s lips. A faint breath brushed her skin—barely there, but still there.

“She’s alive,” Vivianne murmured, though relief trembled like glass in her voice. “For now.”

She brushed a damp curl from Vivian’s face and stared at the faint green shimmer still glowing faintly beneath her skin, pulsing like veins of light under porcelain.

What have they done to you…?

Outside, the church bells began to toll. Twelve slow, deliberate chimes rolled across the city, echoing through the silence within the carriage.

And as the last note faded, Lady Vivian de Guzman lay unmoving in Vivianne’s arms, her heartbeat slowing into the deep, rhythmic hush of the unknown.

For one fragile moment, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.