The transition from the void of sleep to the reality of the morning was a painful one. Elma’s legs were no longer numb; they were leaden. Every muscle fiber in her calves felt as though it had been shredded and hastily stitched back together.

  Last night, Jorm had preserved the weapon’s blueprint in her lattice on the first attempt. Elma had been too exhausted to accompany her to hide the blade, so she had entrusted the task to her.

  She rolled out of bed, her small frame staggering as her feet touched the floor. As she moved to steady herself, her eyes caught a detail that froze the blood in her veins.

  On the pristine white wool of her bedside rug, two muddy boot prints stood out like a death warrant.

  Elma let out a slow breath.

  Sable.

  She had been here while Elma was gone. According to Merideth, she was one of the Shepherd’s followers.

  And she had left the prints where they could not be missed.

  Elma wasn’t sure they would appreciate finding her room empty.

  She forced herself to the door, but she didn't even make it to the handle before it swung open.

  Christa stood there, a tray of breakfast in her hands. She looked better—the color had returned to her face, and the swelling at her lip had ebbed.

  For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

  Then Christa's eyes narrowed with simmering fury.

  "Where were you last night?" Christa’s voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous edge.

  Elma’s mind strained for an excuse—a walk in the garden, a nightmare, a search for a book—

  Then her eyes caught the glint of the pendant at Christa’s throat.

  Christa noticed the look and instinctively curled her fingers around it, tucking the chain beneath her collar.

  "It’s none of your concern," Elma said.

  She didn't wait for a reaction. She brushed past Christa, leaving the woman standing in the doorway with a cooling plate of food and a look of profound hurt.

  By the time she reached the corridor, the irritation still lingered.

  She knew she was doing the wrong thing.

  This had been her chance to compromise Christa.

  But the moment she saw that pendant at her throat, Elma simply couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  She rubbed her eyes and kept walking.

  Right now, she was too tired to argue with herself.

  Elma headed for the kitchen, her pride refusing to touch the peace offering Christa had brought.

  Inside, the morning rush was in full swing. She spotted Jorm immediately. The girl was leaning against a prep table, her eyes glassy with exhaustion.

  Next to her was Lea, the maid who supposedly told Jorm about the exit.

  Lea’s gaze flicked to Elma. Something sharp and unreadable passed between them before the maid quickly lowered her eyes and returned to her work.

  Jorm noticed Elma and perked up just enough to slide a plate of bread and fruit toward her.

  "Did you tell her about last night?" Elma whispered, her voice barely audible over the clatter of pans.

  "Who? Lea?" Jorm yawned widely. "Not yet."

  "Don't tell her anything," Elma said quietly. "She stays in the dark."

  Jorm looked at her for a moment, the weight of the secret finally settling on her.

  "Alright," she said softly.

  Elma took a bite of the bread, her eyes scanning the room for eavesdroppers.

  "Where did you hide it?" she asked.

  "Somewhere safe, trust me," Jorm said, a faint, tired spark of pride returning to her eyes. "I have to go back now."

  Elma sat there for a long moment.

  Lea’s shift ended. The maid set down her cloth, wiped her brow, and slipped out of the side door.

  Elma slipped off her stool and followed, her sore legs screaming in protest with every step.

  Lea was only a few paces ahead when she turned the corner.

  Elma quickened her step to keep the maid in sight.

  She rounded the corner after her—

  and slammed straight into a wall of solid fabric and bone.

  The impact sent Elma tumbling back onto the marble.

  Stupid Unawakened.

  "My god," Lucien said, looking down in shock. "Are you hurt, Elma?"

  Elma didn't answer immediately. She leaned to the side, her eyes scanning the hallway.

  Lea was gone.

  She looked up at the pair. Lucien looked genuinely concerned, while Silk stood half a step behind him, a living shadow.

  "Are you okay?" Silk whispered, her voice barely a breath.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Elma scrambled to her feet, dusting off her tunic with jerky, annoyed motions. "I’m fine."

  "Where did the maid that just passed you go?" Elma demanded.

  Lucien tilted his head. "I really don't know."

  "Didn't pay attention to her," Silk added.

  "Why? Do you need something from her?" Lucien asked.

  Elma remained silent. With Valerius home and the Altheris power concentrated in the manor, it was highly unlikely another assassination attempt would occur.

  I'll pursue her later.

  The tension was broken by a blur of motion. Jorm came sprinting down the hall, her face flushed from work. She skidded to a halt and wrapped a familiar arm around Elma’s shoulder.

  "Why did you go all of a sudden?" Jorm asked.

  The reaction was immediate. Silk’s eyes tracked her silently, while Lucien’s brow furrowed at the sight. The weight of their gazes alone made Jorm shrink back.

  Jorm’s arm dropped. She lowered her head, trembling. "My lord," she stammered.

  Lucien’s confusion deepened. "Is this maid bothering you, Elma?"

  Elma let the silence stretch. She looked at Jorm, then at Silk.

  "She is," Elma said flatly.

  Jorm froze immediately, her breath catching in her throat.

  “She’s insisting on wielding a sword she could nap on,” Elma continued.

  Jorm’s lips trembled as her face turned several shades of blue. "Hehe... my lady, what are you talking about?"

  So now you're being smart.

  "If you're going to carry that thing, learn how to use it," Elma continued, her eyes shifting directly to Silk.

  As D—67, Silk was a master of the blade. D—66 never needed one, so she was never formally trained in the steel arts.

  If Jorm was going to carry Gund, she needed a professional.

  Silk’s eyes flickered with a brief, sharp realization. "Well, it’s not our problem," she said, her voice turning cold as she began to push past.

  “Would it become your problem if I decide to discuss your… midnight activities,” Elma said.

  The hallway turned into an icebox.

  Silk stopped mid-stride. Lucien looked between the two girls.

  "Elma..." Lucien said, his voice low.

  "You want me to die," Silk said, her voice devoid of any emotion, though her hand tightened on her sword until the leather creaked.

  Elma stepped closer to her, meeting that lethal gaze without blinking.

  "I won't allow it," Elma responded. "No one can touch you here."

  Silk and Lucien stared at Elma in open confusion.

  “Are you really… four?” Lucien asked slowly.

  “Told you,” Silk murmured.

  Elma turned and began walking.

  “Come.”

  Lucien blinked. “Excuse me? She’s my guard.”

  “Then stay by her side,” Elma replied without looking back. “You can come too if you want.”

  “Do you think I have time for this?” Lucien asked as he followed.

  “Right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means everyone else is busy with something,” Elma replied flatly. “And you’re sulking in this corridors. I haven’t seen you leave them since you arrived.”

  Lucien didn’t answer.

  “So what?” Silk cut in. “He’s smarter than any of them. They just don’t take him seriously because he’s—”

  Lucien grabbed her wrist.

  Silk fell silent.

  Elma drew a deep breath.

  So it's genuine.

  The New Maid House was a towering structure of timber and grey stone, crowned above its entrance by a massive brass clock. Jorm led them to the base of the doorway, craning her neck as she stared up at the giant gears.

  "How did you even reach up there?" Elma asked, her mind struggling to find a logical climbing path for a girl Jorm’s size.

  "I’m strong now, remember?" Jorm grinned, though her eyes remained glued to the clock's face. "They're hollow from the back."

  "It’s actually... unexpected," Elma admitted.

  As the heavy brass hour hand groaned toward the numeral IX, a metallic shink echoed through the air.

  Gund didn’t fall so much as slip.

  The sword slid free from behind the brass hand itself, gravity finally claiming it after hours of precarious balance.

  It dropped with a sharp whistle through the air before burying itself deep into the dirt with a bone-shaking thud.

  Elma’s gaze snapped to Jorm instantly.

  "I... I knew we would come before it happened," Jorm stammered, her bravado flickering under Elma’s stare.

  "That could have killed someone," Lucien said. He looked at the blade, vibrating in the earth, then back at the girl who had hidden it.

  While Jorm and Silk moved to the center of the clearing, Elma and Lucien retreated to the long shadows of the maid house.

  The training began without a word. The sound of their collision was deafening—the high-pitched clang of steel meeting steel followed by a shower of orange sparks.

  Jorm was using Internal Reinforcement at command now. Her muscles were dense, her strikes carried the weight of a falling building.

  But she still lacked in Recovery. The law of inertia was working against her. Because the sword weighed more than she did, every swing generated a momentum she couldn't stop.

  Silk intercepted every strike effortlessly. Her Burrowed Aegis granted no strength; this was all her own raw physical power.

  Lucien sat beside Elma, his eyes wide and tracking Silk’s every footfall as if she were a star in the night sky.

  He watched Silk like she was the only thing in the world.

  "Isn't she impressive?" he whispered.

  "Well, you're not," Elma responded.

  Lucien jerked back, looking at her with a mix of offense and confusion. "What the hell did I do to you?"

  "This isn't going to work," Silk stated, her blade held in a perfect, effortless guard. She hadn't broken a sweat, while Jorm looked like she had been dragged through a river of iron. "You should try a smaller—"

  "No," Jorm interrupted, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

  Elma stepped into the training circle, her eyes scanning the mechanical failure of Jorm's stance. "Maybe make a counterweight."

  "What?" Jorm asked.

  "Make another sword."

  Jorm didn't hesitate. She reached into her Lattice, and a second identical slab of silver-grey steel manifested in her left hand. Elma felt the shift immediately—Jorm's weight, decreased slightly as she partitioned her Aegis to make the other construct.

  Jorm swung chaotically at first, the dual blades nearly pulling her arms from their sockets. But then, guided by raw instinct, she began to find a rhythm. She swung one sword forward and the other in the opposite direction, using the centrifugal force of one to cancel out the staggering inertia of the other.

  Elma retreated to the shade, letting the training resume. Jorm was transformed. Her defense was faster, her intervals shorter. The two massive swords swung like the heavy gears of the clock above them.

  Silk’s rhythm sped up. She was no longer just deflecting; she was searching for the gap in the gears.

  Jorm planted her feet. She forced the two swords to strike simultaneously, their arcs intersecting in a violent, horizontal semi-cercle.

  "12 O'Clock!" She shouted.

  Silk, for the first time in the session, staggered back half a step.

  "Impressive," She said, her voice dropping an octave.

  Before Jorm could celebrate, Silk moved—a flash of silver that struck the swords with precise force. The blades wrenched from Jorm’s hands, skidding across the grass, leaving her momentarily unarmed.

  "Don't loosen your grip," Silk instructed, her breathing still steady.

  The training had stretched for hours, bleeding the morning into the harsh, unforgiving light of midday. As they finally turned back toward the manor, the adrenaline that had fueled Jorm had vanished, leaving only the brutal reality of exhaustion.

  Jorm staggered behind them, her hands locked in a rigid, claw-like spasm. Her fingers were now barely capable of movement.

  "Oww," she whimpered, trying to flex her palms.

  "Well, you insisted on that weapon, so you deal with the consequences," Silk said.

  As they neared the front gates, the air seemed to thicken. Three figures emerged from the side entrance. Valerius walked with his usual heavy authority, and Nina followed with her characteristic sharp elegance.

  But it was the third figure, standing between them, that caused the world to tilt.

  He was tall and slender, draped in a dark cloak. He wore a smile—a thin, practiced, and entirely fake expression that didn't even attempt to reach his cold eyes.

  Hephryx.

  Elma froze. Her breath hitched in her throat, coming in short, jagged gasps.

  It can’t be.

  Flashes tore through her mind—the coffin, the nails driven into her wrists, the bars forcing her mouth open. The suffocating stillness.

  The world began to blur.

  "Silk," Lucien whispered. "What’s wrong?"

  Elma looked back at Silk. Her sister was a statue. She hadn't moved an inch, her eyes wide and glassy, reflecting a primal, systemic fear that was hard-coded into her very programing.

  Elma reached out and grabbed her hand. The contact was jarring—Silk’s skin was ice-cold. Slowly, Silk’s fingers wrapped around Elma’s small hand.

  Hephryx followed Valerius to the entrance.

  Elma steadied her racing heart. Her eyes sharpened. She gave Silk’s hand one last squeeze before letting go.

  She walked forward alone.

  She would attend this meeting. She needed to know who had signed the order for her death, and more importantly, she needed to see what role the Architect had played in it.