DING. DING. DING.
I awaken to the chime of my timekeeper, as I do every morning. Instinctively, my hand reaches for it on my nightstand, and my fingers brush against the smooth metal casing of the chronologue as they search for the protrusion atop of it. I find and press it in with a satisfying click, silencing the alarm. Sleep clings to my senses and I deeply desire the simple joy of rolling back into it. But alas, I have far too many responsibilities to attend to today, as I do every day.
I pull open the brass cover of the timepiece, revealing numerous delicate dials slowly, and unstoppably, marking the passage of a day that won't be waiting around on my account.
The glowing needles mark the fifth hour. With a soft click, I shut the cover. I hadn’t needed to check, the alarm always chimes at the same time, as constant as the sun and moon. Opening it was just habit, a reflex honed over years.
Holding the chronologue, I sit up as the white sheet slides off my naked breasts, pooling at my waist before slipping away completely, while Lord Griswald sleeps soundly beside me. His tall muscular frame, twice the size of most men, remains imposing even in rest. On his other side, my fellow elf, Daphne, shifts slightly, snuggling deeper into the warmth of the sheets I now must leave. Her ample bosom presses into him, her face nuzzling against his shoulder in contentment as her lapis eyes flutter open briefly, meeting mine.
Managing the master’s domain requires that I rise early, though I do not mind it. In fact, I am proud to serve our master. I do, however, envy Daphne. It’s her turn to sleep in with the master, and to be his morning comfort when he wakes. I have no malice in my jealousy, and I easily return her sleepy smile before leaning forward to place a light kiss on Griswald’s forehead. He stirs but does not wake.
Unlike the other maids, who take turns sharing Griswald’s bed, I spend every night at his side. My master has a large appetite and varied desires, but I hold a special position in his life.
Slipping out of bed, I retrieve my silken nightgown from the floor and exit the master’s chambers. The dim hallway is lit by enchanted crystal sconces, their soft glow catching in my silver hair.
There currently are no other men in this household, and at my age, modesty is a meaningless notion. So, I make my way confidently toward the baths in the buff to wash last night’s affections from my body and begin the day fresh and clean.
My bare feet make light taps on the cold stone floor as I walk down the halls, the cool air brushing against my skin. The mansion is quiet at this hour, save for the soft hum of magical crystal sconces lining the corridors, their glow casting gentle light across the polished stone. I pass the many rooms that house the ten servants and four retainers who reside here, each door closed in slumber.
Upon reaching the bathhouse, I step into the dressing room and place my nightgown into one of the shelves that line both sides of the room. Then I continue into the bathing hall. The grand room is immaculate. Polished stone floors reflect the flickering light of the enchanted sconces that encircle the vast bathing basin. I grin to myself, recalling how the spacious bath has, on occasion, felt far smaller when filled with bodies indulging in far more than just bathing.
Along the walls, statues stand at regular intervals, each depicting, in exquisite detail, a different feminine figure in all her natural beauty. Griswald has a very particular taste in art. Between the statues, mirrors are set into the walls, and before them are stools where one can sit to tend to their hair and makeup. Beside each stool, a bucket rests beneath a rune-powered faucet, ready to provide fresh, warm water.
I make my way to the wall where a hexagonal rune stone is embedded, its intricate symbols etched deep into the surface. Pressing my palm against the cool stone, I release a pulse of mana. The runes flare to life, glowing with a soft blue luminescence. A moment later, hot water begins pouring from the chutes, cascading into the basin below. The sound of flowing water fills the chamber, echoing softly as it splashes against stone. Steam rises, carrying the soothing aroma of citrus and wildflowers through the air.
As the bath fills, I take a seat at one of the stools, reaching for the faucet. A faint glow pulses from the runes as I twist the handle, and a steady stream of warm water pours into the bucket below. I dip my hands into the steaming water, then lift it over my head, letting the soothing heat cascade down my body. Droplets roll over my shoulders, tracing the curve of my breasts, gliding along my waist, and pooling at my thighs before dripping to the floor.
The polished silver before me reflects my bare form—platinum hair damp and clinging to my skin, pale flesh flushed from the warmth. My gaze lingers on my own reflection, but my thoughts drift elsewhere.
Looking at myself now—healthy, well-kept, at ease—it makes no sense.
By all logic and reason, I should hate this life. I should hate .
Like so many of my kind, I was taken as chattel when the Kingdoms of Men turned against the elves. When they scorched our lands, slaughtered our people, and shattered our histories. So much was lost, and every day I betray the memories that remain… Because I love .
I love him, and it’s so wrong that sometimes it hurts. is one of them! He fought alongside the very men who razed my city! He aided those who butchered my kin! He is a murderer and a scoundrel, and I should hate him!
And yet… I love him. Because of him, I am alive.
Lord Griswald led a contingent of Arcadian mercenaries, hired by the Human Kingdom of Polarevia. When he discovered that his contract was not to defend, but to destroy, he risked treason to warn us. Alone and under the cover of night, he slipped past the patrols of his own soldiers to alert my people of the coming massacre.
Most of my kin escaped, because of him.
But not all. The sick and injured were left behind, unable to flee. I was among them.
Griswald ensured that those who could not run were hidden in a part of the city his forces would reach first. Under the guise of taking us as slaves, he spared us from the horrors that befell the rest. We became his spoils of war, and in doing so, we were protected from the rape and slaughter that awaited those captured by others. He ensured we were given food, clothing, and healing. His men treated us well—but not out of kindness. They did so because he had laid claim to us.
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It was mercy, wrapped in chains. But mercy, nonetheless.
Behind me, the splashing of water ceases, signaling that the bath has filled. I rise from the stool and cross the room to the massive sunken basin, stepping carefully into the heated water. The warmth engulfs me as I lower myself into it, the tension in my muscles dissolving. Steam curls around me, the scents of citrus and wildflowers mingling in the air. I close my eyes, letting the silence and heat lull me into stillness.
I remember my master was a different man back then. Wracked with guilt and self-loathing, hating himself for all the reasons that I should hate him too. But he sought atonement.
On the journey back to Arcadia, he had me brought to his tent late at night. Drunk and weary, he confessed his regrets—to me, his enslaved enemy. He spoke of his anguish, of the lives taken, and of how he would give up his own if only to bring back even one. Then, without ceremony, he laid down his sword to rest beside me, then rolled his face away from me and fell asleep. I was left alone with the first of his many gifts to me: the opportunity to enact my revenge and free myself.
I stood over him, my trembling fingers gripping so tightly around the hilt of a sword still stained red with the blood of my people, the weight of justice and vengeance pressing down upon me, compelling me to thrust it down onto him.
I could have done it. I should have done it. It would have been right to do it.
But as I stared down at the man who had risked his life to spare mine, I realized my anger was misplaced. Killing him would have been justice, but it would have changed nothing. It would not have brought back my home, my family, or my people. It would not have stopped the war, nor undone the betrayal of Men.
Elves are not short sighted. We live long lives and consider the long-term consequences of our actions.
It would serve my kin far more to let him live—to ensure that a human with his convictions, his guilt, and his authority would rise to a position where he could change the fate of others like me.
That night, I chose not to take his life. Instead, I chose to rebuild that broken man to be our champion within human society. By letting him live, in a way, Lord Griswald’s life became my responsibility.
I finish my bath, stepping out of the warm water and into the cool air. Droplets slide down my skin as I walk to the dressing room, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the stone floor behind me. In the dressing room, I approach the hot air rune embedded in the wall, positioned above a metal drain set into the floor. I step over the drain and activate the rune with a touch of mana.
A warm gust of air surges down over me, sending my long silver hair billowing in the sudden current. I close my eyes and slowly turn in place, letting the heat chase away the lingering dampness clinging to my skin. The spell lasts only moments before the mana runs out and the warm breeze fades, leaving me clean and dry.
I slip into my nightgown and make my way to my quarters to prepare for the day. Though I have a room of my own, I use it more as a display for the gifts Griswald has given me than as a place to sleep.
One such gift bounces lightly against my chest with each step, the chronologue, a rare and costly artifact crafted by Hyperion’s finest artificers. Normally reserved for Arcadia’s merchant sailors, these devices track time with unerring precision. Yet my master saw fit to gift one to me, just another of the many precious treasures he has bestowed over the years.
Before long, I emerge from my room, now dressed in my neatly pressed black-and-white maid’s uniform, my silver hair pinned into a flawless bun. As the door clicks shut behind me, I catch sight of Stephoney, one of the night-shift maids, sprinting toward me down the hall. Her gray wolf ears are pinned back, her tail low, and her wide golden eyes shimmer with urgency.
Even before she speaks, I know something is wrong. Wolfkin wear their emotions far too openly to hide distress.
“”
“Thank the gods I found you. I looked in the master’s chambers, but you weren’t there.”
“What’s wrong, Steph?” I ask, already sensing something amiss from the look on her face.
“It’s Diana, Nickels, and Adams! They never made it back last night!” she blurts out, her voice urgent.
My stomach tightens. Diana, one of the senior maids, and two of Griswald’s retainers had traveled to Ashford yesterday to purchase new slaves. Griswald often buys slaves, not to own, but to free. Some leave to start anew, while many stay, earning fair wages under his protection. They still wear his collars, not as shackles, but as shields against those who might try to reclaim them.
They should have returned late last night. I consult the chronologue; six in the morning already, and seven hours past when I would have expected their arrival. A delay this long does not bode well.
“Did you tell the master?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“Yes, and he—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I already know what she’s going to say.
Griswald is fiercely protective of his people. The moment he heard that Diana and the others had not returned, he would have immediately begun preparing to go after them himself. He is impulsive and strong-willed, a brute of a man who does not carry himself as a noble should. But he is also a man of action, and when his people are in danger, nothing will stand in his way.
Which is exactly the problem.
For all his strength and skill, he is not just a soldier anymore—he is the head of the most prosperous domain in Arcadia. He cannot afford to recklessly throw himself into a potentially perilous situation, not when he has people who can do it for him.
Stephoney and I race through the manor, my heart pounding as I move as swiftly as I can.
We reach the parlor in time to see exactly what I feared—Lord Griswald, fully armed and dressed in his military uniform, a fur-lined cloak slung over his shoulder, a sword on his hip, and his mithril staff in hand. The amber focus crystal atop the staff gleams in the morning light. He is striding toward the front door with the single-minded determination of a man prepared for war.
Two maids attempt to stop him, Daphne, still naked from bed, clings to his arm, while Abigail, the foxkin maid, tugs at his other. But he is a mountain of a man, and their combined efforts do little more than slow his stride.
“Master, stop!” Abigail pleads, her small hands grasping his sleeve.
“Calm down, please!” Daphne squeaks, holding on desperately as if sheer will alone can keep him from charging off into the unknown.
I move swiftly and place myself directly in his path, planting my feet firmly as I call out, "Master, wait!"
Griswald does not slow. His hulking form moves with the single-minded determination of a charging beast, dragging Daphne and Abigail along as if they were no heavier than stray pieces of cloth caught on his arm. His jaw is set, his deep-set eyes burning with fury and determination. I press both hands against his broad chest, bracing myself in a futile attempt to halt this boulder rolling down a mountain.
"You cannot simply storm off alone," I say firmly, tilting my head up to meet his burning gaze. "You are not a common soldier anymore. You are the Lord of this domain. If Diana and the others are in danger, then the proper action is to send a rescue force, not to charge off on your own like an enraged grizzly!"
Griswald's nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling with controlled, heavy breaths. His eyes are filled with fury—not at me, but at the situation. If it were any other noble staring me down with such intensity, I would expect to be beaten within an inch of my life. Any other noble would see a servant’s defiance as an insult worthy of severe punishment.
But Griswald is not like other nobles.
"They are my people," he growls, his grip tightening on the shaft of his mithril staff. "Diana has served this household for twenty years. Nickels and Adams are my men. I will not sit here and do nothing."
I lock eyes with Griswald, my gaze unwavering despite the terrifying intensity of his own. He is a man of overwhelming physical and magical might, one who could crush me into paste with a single blow or reduce me to ash with a flick of his hand. It would take him no more effort than snuffing out a candle. And yet, here I stand, placing myself between him and his reckless impulses.
This is the first chapter including sexual content. This type of content is not the main focus of this story and most chapters do not include it. However in future chapters where it is included it is used to develop character relationships. How do you feel about how it was handled?
