The second that door slammed open, the steam burst apart like startled birds, and my heart leapt straight up into my throat where it beat against my tonsils like it was trying to escape the building entirely.
I was halfway submerged in the bath, blissfully soaking my sins and regrets, when a short, trembling silhouette stumbled into the doorway.
For one glorious moment I thought maybe Iskanda had come to drag me back to another lesson in stamina, flexibility, and strategic begging, but no.
It was Dunny. Sweet, skittish, never-signed-up-for-this Dunny, his arms flailing and his slippers fighting for their lives against the slick tiles.
He skidded to a stop so abrupt you could practically hear his soul leaving his body. "L-Lady Iskanda! I prepared the bath but I thought I heard a strang—"
Then he saw me. Actually saw me. And the sound that came out of him was a squeak so high-pitched it might’ve summoned bats from neighboring counties.
The poor boy slapped both hands over his eyes so dramatically I thought he might knock himself out. His lips trembled like he was receiving divine revelation he hadn’t asked for, and his knees clattered together in percussion that would’ve put any marching band to shame.
I froze. Instinctively. Like a deer in the world’s most indecent headlights. The steam curled around us in thick waves, making everything too soft, too bright, too dreamlike, and I squinted through it trying to get a proper look at him.
Poor mistake.
Because the instant I strained my eyes, the bathhouse snapped into razor clarity, as though someone had yanked a curtain off the universe.
I could see everything. Every drop of water glistening on Dunny’s skin. Every bead of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose. Every pore, dear gods above, every single pore on the boy’s face like the world’s most misguided constellation map.
It was too much. Way, way too much. Dunny let out another squeak as if he could feel my eyes on him, and his face went so pale he might’ve been auditioning to be a ghost.
Then, almost immediately, I clapped both hands to my head, groaning as though someone had smashed cymbals inside my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut so hard the corners wrinkled, and I could practically feel the headache blooming behind them.
"Are—are you alright?" Dunny whimpered, peaking through the slits in his fingers, voice wobbling like warm jelly on a sled.
I opened my eyes before blinking at him once. Twice. Then something inside me cracked. A small sound escaped my throat, the kind that could have gone either way—a sob or a laugh—but unfortunately for both of us, it chose the direction of hilarity.
First a low chuckle, deep in my chest, then a rising tide of giddy laughter that rolled out of me until I was doubled over in the water, splashing and wheezing like a drunken seal. My ribs hurt. My throat hurt. My dignity hurt the most.
But the truth had slammed into me with all the subtlety of a brick through a stained glass window.
I’d done it.
I’d stolen Iskanda’s power.
Her sight. Her elven nature. The superior, predatory sharpness of their kind that I had only ever heard about in tavern stories. And now I had it. It was mine. Wobbly, pulsing, and apparently ready to give Dunny a mental breakdown, but mine nonetheless.
Dunny stared at me with wide, watery horror, his expression saying something between please stop and I would like to wake up from this nightmare now.
I wiped a tear from my face, lounging backward in the tub with the satisfied sprawl of a cat who’d just pushed a priceless vase off a shelf. "Dunny, darling," I said, waving him over with all the casual authority of someone who definitely didn’t deserve the privilege, "come here."
To my eternal delight, he obeyed out of pure reflex, shuffling forward with the resignation of a man walking toward his execution. He kept one hand over his eyes as if that would protect him, and I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing again.
"Closer," I said. He whimpered, but complied nonetheless. "Now," I said, tapping the rim of the tub with my finger, "wash my back."
There was a full three seconds where Dunny seemed to reconsider his newfound employment, his upbringing, and the nature of his free will.
Then, with a groan heavy enough to move tectonic plates, he picked up a bucket and a rag like a soldier accepting orders from a disastrous commander and began to scrub. I leaned forward with a contented sigh, stretching out luxuriously while my mind whirled at dangerous speeds.
"Loona," Dunny said eventually, voice wobbling, "why were you...you know...in Lady Iskanda’s room?"
I shot him a look over my shoulder and offered the most confident lie my brain could cough up in ten seconds of panic. "Study session."
He halted mid-scrub. "Study... session."
"Yes," I said, very proud of myself. "You know. Vocabulary. Grammar. Cultural exchange. Elven syntax. Very educational."
Dunny narrowed his eyes, "You’re a terrible liar."
I tensed. He had me there. Before I could scramble for a better excuse—something involving magical emergencies or a textbook explosion—I perked up with a brilliant idea. I whirled back in the water, sending a wave slapping against the sides of the tub.
"Dunny," I said, pointing at him with grand importance, "what exactly do you do around here?"
He blinked, rag hovering over my shoulder. "I... um... prepare Lady Iskanda’s bath. And her meals. And her room. And change her sheets. And polish her weapons. And fetch her parcels. And pack her travel bags. And—"
I grinned so wide he took a step back. "Excellent. That’s excellent. I love this for us."
He swallowed. Loudly. "Loona, I don’t like that look on your face."
He was right not to. Because inside, my brain was dancing around a bonfire of triumph, shouting: saints above,this is perfect!
If I could get Dunny back on my side, even temporarily, I could learn more about Iskanda, every pattern, every oddity, every reckless habit she thought no one noticed.
I sat straighter in the tub, water cascading off my shoulders like I was rising from a baptism into a life of strategic sin. "Dunny," I said slowly, savoring the moment, "I have a job for you."
His face went from confused to mortified in record time. "No. No. Absolutely not. Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no. Iskanda will turn me into a decorative throw pillow."
"Oh relax," I said, waving one hand through the steam, "she won’t suspect a thing. You’re adorable and harmless. Like a ferret with a mop."
"That doesn’t make me feel any better."
"Good. Keeps you alert." I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Here’s what I need you to do. For the rest of the week, I want you to follow her routine. Write down everything. What she eats. Who she speaks to. Where she goes. How long she stays there. If she touches any glowing or ominous objects that hum at night, note those especially."
Dunny’s hands twitched like he might fling the rag at my face. "Why? Why would you want to know any of that?"
Because I was building leverage. Because I needed information. Because I was tired of being swept along in Iskanda’s current like a leaf with commitment issues.
Out loud, I said, "Academic curiosity."
He closed his eyes in pained understanding. "Right..."
"And," I added, "once you’ve collected all this deliciously incriminating information, I want you to help me with something very important. Something daring. Something bold. Something that won’t get you killed...if we’re careful."
Dunny went still. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "And what exactly do you want me to do?"
I leaned forward in the tub, water sliding down my chest as I crooked a finger at him. "I need you to steal something..."
He swallowed hard enough to choke a ghost, inching closer until I could feel the little tremors shivering through his body.
When my lips brushed his ear, he stiffened like a statue carved from pure dread, and I whispered the plan in low, deliberate tones that probably made me sound like a villain seducing a witness into perjury.
The second the words registered, Dunny yelped and jumped back so fast you would think I’d set his tunic on fire.
He waved both hands wildly, sputtering about how he couldn’t possibly steal anything from Lady Iskanda, not even a button, not even a crumb she’d accidentally deemed unworthy of her plate.
I fixed him with a stare that would’ve melted any sturdier man, letting the steam swirl around me like I was some kind of water deity trying to make a point.
"Dunny, darling," I said, voice calm yet painfully reasonable, "who do you serve first?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish experiencing profound emotional conflict, and finally, with a full-body shiver, he whispered, "Y-you."
"Good boy," I smiled. Gently. Terrifyingly. Comfortingly to exactly no one. I praised him like he’d just brought me the head of an enemy general before commanding him to hand me my towel.
He did. In a shaky little toss, as if the towel weighed fifty pounds and contained a moral dilemma. The moment it touched my fingers, he spun on his heel and bolted for the exit with the frantic energy of a rabbit who’d realized he was late for a predator’s luncheon.
And just like that, my plan had been set in motion, already weaving itself into place like fate had grabbed a spool of thread and said, "Let me make things interesting."
I sank deeper in the tub for a moment, the water lapping at my collarbone as I draped the towel around my neck. Then I lifted both hands in front of me, staring at them like they were foreign artifacts I had recently stolen from myself.
When I strained my eyes again, the world lurched into perfect clarity with a little internal snap, the steam parting in a mosaic of impossible detail.
I could see the delicate lines etched in my palms, the faint scars I had collected over years of questionable decisions, even the tiny imperfections in my nails I never bothered to fix.
It lasted five seconds, maybe less, but it was enough to leave my head pounding and my heart thudding with the dangerous thrill of power that didn’t belong to me. A stolen gift. A borrowed knife. A cheat code I was absolutely going to abuse before the universe realized I shouldn’t have it.
I let the focus go, wincing as my vision softened again, and sank once more beneath the water, letting the heat swallow me in its forgiving embrace.
After washing off the grime of the night and the shame of my existence, I climbed out, dried myself with a vigor bordering on hostility, and made my way back to Iskanda’s room.
She was perched on the edge of the bed like a lounging panther, eyes half-lidded, lips curved. When I pulled my clothes back on, she blew me a kiss with the kind of smug flourish only a woman who had ruined me twice before breakfast could pull off.
I pretended not to notice how my ears warmed at that. Then I stormed out the room with all the dignity a half-naked escapee from a bathhouse could muster, which is to say, virtually none.
Outside her door, that same attendant who’d lead me through the first floor waited in perfect silence before bowing at the waist like I’d suddenly become someone important.
Then, without a word, he turned and trailed ahead of me, guiding me down the long corridor with that quiet, eerie grace only lifelong servants or highly-trained assassins possessed.
The second we descended the elevator to the first floor, we wove through the halls, turning corners I hadn’t memorized yet, until the air shifted—opening into that massive chamber with the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the garden.
The rest of the slaves were already there, arranged in a loose circle that tightened the moment my hovering presence drifted through.
Brutus, Freya, and the rest of my motley-haired, sleep-deprived little crew lurked at the rear, their shoulders hunching like kids caught skipping morning drills.
They jumped back as I passed between them, their eyes wide, their expressions silently screaming a thousand different questions.
Brutus opened his mouth first—of course he did—with a booming, "Where the hell did you vanish to? What did she do to—" but I pressed a hand over his face and walked past him.
"Later," I muttered, trying to suppress a yawn that my body insisted on shaping into something theatrical.
Freya grabbed my arm as I moved, whispering, "Tell us what happened," but I shook her off with a vague gesture that I hoped conveyed both exhaustion and profound emotional damage.
My excuse died on my tongue. Because that was when I finally registered the catastrophe happening at the center of the room.
My eyes locked onto Mia—small, sharp, stubborn Mia—kneeling on the floor with four men gripping her arms and shoulders like she had personally insulted their mothers.
Her hair was mussed, tangled from the struggle, and her lip was split, a thin crimson drop trailing down her chin. Standing before her, cool as winter stone, was Elvina. And in her hand, held with the delicacy of someone considering a recipe rather than a murder, was a wicked carving knife pressed right against Mia’s throat.