I am Sylfina Elowen, 324 years old, and I am a lot more than just a loyal servant and Governess to the Noble Griswald Household.

  Griswald doesn’t wait for confirmation. The moment the words leave Loxly’s mouth, he barrels out the door like a charging beast, his massive frame moving with startling speed. Loxly barely sidesteps in time, his reflexes the only thing keeping him from being flattened as the half-dressed Adonis blurs past.

  I spring to my feet as well, heart pounding at the news of Diana’s return. I smooth my dress with a shaky breath, trying to collect myself, just as Loxly pokes his head back through the doorway, wearing a mildly amused expression.

  "Sir Loxly, please escort our guest out," I say coolly, gesturing to the dazed and still-trembling Lord Foster.

  Loxly's lips curl into a smug grin as he steps inside. "With pleasure, ma’am." He turns toward Foster, his smirk widening. "So, Lord Foster… how was your meeting with the boss?"

  I don’t wait to hear the response.

  "Daphne," I call, just as she steps out of the study, now fully dressed but still blushing furiously.

  "Go tell the others that Diana is back," I instruct, already moving toward the door.

  Daphne nods quickly, then hesitates. "Should I—?"

  I glance back, already anticipating the question. "Yes, tell Mira to serve everything she can. The master will want a feast."

  "Yes, ma’am!" she calls after me as I hurry out the door.

  By the time I catch up to Griswald, he is already pulling Diana off the back of a very familiar horse. My eyes immediately dart to the second horse beside it, and I recognize both animals instantly. Huckleberry and Buttercup.

  They had belonged to Griswald for years before he gifted them to Master Shadow as a token of gratitude for his countless acts of heroism. Seeing them now, carrying Diana and three unfamiliar women, newly purchased slaves still wearing standard iron collars; my mind race with questions.

  Where is Shadow? Where have they been? Where are Adams and Nickels?

  The moment Diana is off the horse, she flings herself into Griswald’s arms. He catches her effortlessly, lifting her off the ground in a loving embrace. She clings to him just as tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him as she buries her face in his neck, her small frame trembling.

  Griswald’s deep voice rumbles, thick with emotion. "You’re back… Oh, bless the gods, you’re back!" He squeezes her tight, as if afraid she might vanish.

  Tears glisten in Diana’s large eyes as she sniffles against him.

  "Did they hurt you?" Griswald demands, pulling back just enough to examine her. His expression darkens, voice dropping into something deadly. "If they did anything to you…"

  “They killed Adams and Nickles!” Diana sobs, tears spilling freely down her face.

  A different kind of chill grips me, spreading through my limbs like a numbness I can’t shake. Judging by the way Griswald stiffens, his expression frozen between shock and sorrow, he feels it too.

  "No… how?" Loxly’s voice is barely above a whisper behind me.

  My mind reels. Adams and Nickles had served under Griswald in the military, following him into retirement to become his retainers. They were more than just loyal men—they were part of our family. They had lived in the manor as long as I had, their presence as steady and reliable as the walls around us.

  Of course, in the back of my mind, I knew it was possible. If Diana had been taken, there was always a chance they had been killed protecting her. But I had clung to hope, just as I’m sure Griswald had—that her safe return meant they were alive too.

  "What happened to them?" Griswald growls, his grief sharpening into fury. But despite the rage in his voice, he holds Diana close, his arms steadying her as the floodgates burst. Now that she is safe, the emotions she had been suppressing pour out unchecked.

  “They… sniff… they fought the bandits, but… sniff… there were too many,” Diana forces out between trembling breaths. “There were… sniff… fifteen of them… we were surrounded and…”

  "Who did this?" Griswald asks, his rage momentarily reined in for her sake.

  Diana swallows hard, her long rabbit-like ears folding back. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “But they’re all dead.” Her gaze flickers with uncertainty before she adds, “I think… Master Shadow killed them.”

  Griswald slowly lowers Diana to the ground, his brows furrowing in surprise. “Shadow did?” His gaze shifts toward the horses, his calloused hand running absently over Huckleberry’s mane, as if searching for an explanation. His expression darkens, warring between relief and frustration. He is glad the bandits are dead, yet robbed of the chance to exact vengeance himself.

  “Wait… you’re telling me Shadow and Maribel took down fifteen bandits?” His surprise evident, but there’s no doubt in Diana’s tear-streaked face.

  Diana nods. "We got away, and then there was this massive explosion right where their camp was. I didn’t see them, but I think Shadow must have sent the horses to bring us here. Somehow."

  Griswald’s hand stills against Huckleberry’s mane, his eyes narrowing in thought. “He sent them for you?” His gaze flickers skeptically between the two mares. Hmm… That's an… interesting story.”

  She nods, sniffling. “And the horses… they chewed through our bindings and carried us away while the bandits were distracted.”

  Griswald frowns, his fingers idly combing through Buttercup’s mane. "Strange," he mutters, distracted by the sheer improbability of it. "Almost unbelievable. I suppose we’ll need to ask Master Shadow what happened when he returns."

  I narrow my eyes slightly.

  Wait. Shadow can command horses to act on their own now? Does he speak to them? Is he a beast tamer? But only with horses?

  I store the thought away for later as Griswald steps forward, extending his hand toward the new arrivals. His palm glows faintly as he utters a quiet incantation, and one by one, the slave collars shimmer with magic before unlocking and falling to the ground with soft metallic clinks.

  The three women, exhausted and wary, watch him closely. The first, a tall, horned Cervilkin with light brown hair, shifts uneasily. Beside her, a silver-haired elf with strikingly pale skin glances between us cautiously. The last, a stocky red-haired dwarf, frowns deeply, her posture tense.

  Dressed in thin, rough-spun tunics, they shiver against the midday chill, arms wrapped around themselves. They gaze nervously at the hulking figure of Griswald, clad in only his cloak, which he has yet to properly fasten to himself and remains unabashedly open in the front.

  He’s not at all like other nobles, that's for sure.

  Before anything more can be said, Abigail arrives in a rush, throwing her arms around Diana in a tight hug before ushering us all toward the manor.

  The heroic horses are brought along, their reins handed off to Sir Loxly, who ties them to the hitching post just outside the mansion.

  “Please give these good girls as many carrots as they can eat,” Diana says, gently patting Buttercup’s head before turning toward the house with the others.

  “Absolutely. They’ve more than earned it,” Loxly replies with a grin.

  As if in agreement, Huckleberry lets out a proud, almost smug whinny that draws a chuckle from a few nearby guards.

  The rest of us step into the welcoming warmth of the mansion while Loxly heads off to see to the horses' well-deserved reward. At the threshold, the three new girls pause, wide-eyed and hesitant, clearly overwhelmed by the grandeur and the sudden rush of warmth, noise, and unfamiliar faces. I place a reassuring hand on one of their backs and gently usher them inside.

  Stephone spots us from the hallway and waves them forward with a cheerful grin, guiding them toward the dining hall. Inside, the entire household, including the guards, gather to celebrate. Tonight the usual formalities are set aside to rejoice in Diana’s safe return.

  As expected, Mira has outdone herself. The long wooden dining table overflows with food—platters of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, thick stews, ripe fruits, and aged cheeses. The air is thick with the rich scent of warm spices and sizzling meat, drawing an appreciative sigh from Abigail.

  The room buzzes with laughter and conversation as chairs scrape against the stone floor. Compliments and thanks are showered upon Mira for the feast. The new girls hesitate at the edges of the hall, uncertain if the meal is meant for them. I motion them toward open seats near the master.

  “You eat with us,” I instruct firmly.

  Their eyes scan the room. Mira sits beside the master, casually stealing bites from his plate. Stephone, already drinking, takes a deep swig from a bottle of ale before handing it off to Griswald. It doesn’t take long for the new girls to catch on and start hesitantly filling their plates.

  Griswald lifts his bottle high, his deep voice carrying over the chatter.

  “Tonight, we drink to the safe return of our dear Diana!” he bellows, Diana perched on his knee.

  “To Diana!” He says raising his tankard to toast.

  “CHEERS!”

  The room erupts with voices raised in unison, bottles clinking together in tribute.

  Then, his tone shifts to something heavier, more solemn.

  “And let us have a moment of silence for Nickles and Adams, who bravely gave their lives protecting her.”

  We all bow our heads in respect for the fallen. I don’t know what tributes or prayers the others offered in their hearts, or even to whom they offered them.

  As for me, I prayed to the spirits of nature, asking they guide their souls to return to this world in a more peaceful, kinder time, in forms free from suffering and persecution. I know they did not follow my gods, but I would be content if any divine force welcomed their spirits kindly, in recognition of the lives of honor they lived. They were good men. Good to me. Good to all of us.

  After a long, reverent silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth, Griswald raised his head and spoke.

  “To Nickles. To Adams.”

  “Here here,” we echoed together.

  The feast continues for over an hour, filled with laughter, drinking, and shared stories. We reminisce about those we lost, and everyone takes turns telling Diana just how deeply she was missed. As the party stretches on, the drinks flow freely, and clothing becomes increasingly optional. Recognizing the shift in atmosphere, I take it upon myself to usher the guards and the new girls out of the hall. The celebration will continue—but without them.

  The guards return to their posts, and I escort the new arrivals to the room I had prepared for them, a spacious chamber with three neatly made beds. Once inside, I turn to address them.

  “First off, ladies, I am Silfy, the Governess of the Griswald estate. I was once a slave, just like you. But now, I am a willing servant of this household,” I say with a reassuring smile. “You may choose to do the same.”

  I gesture for them to introduce themselves.

  “Cicil,” says the Cervilkin.

  “Wanda,” the elf murmurs.

  “Hilda,” the dwarf states, arms crossed.

  “Welcome to your new home,” I say warmly before shifting into a more businesslike tone. “Before you go to bed, we need to go over a few things.”

  I retrieve three of Griswald’s signature slave collars and hand one to each of them. They hesitate, brows furrowing.

  “These are not the kind of collars you’ve worn before,” I assure them. “They won’t restrict you in any way, and you can remove them whenever you like. They simply identify you as under Lord Griswald’s protection. He is the man you just met.”

  They exchange uncertain glances before, one by one, they fasten the collars around their necks, albeit reluctantly. The dwarf is the last to put hers on. As soon as it clicks into place, she unclips it, testing that it can be removed, then fastens it again.

  “Despite what these collars may suggest, you are no longer slaves,” I continue. “You will work, but you will be paid. And you are free to come and go as you please, outside of your duties.”

  “What are our duties?” Hilda asks skeptically, her arms still crossed.

  “You’ll only be required to assist with cleaning the home,” I explain. “You’ll live here for a trial period of one arc. If, by that time, you wish to stay—and the master agrees—you may join the permanent staff and receive your own room. Tomorrow, I’ll go over your tasks in detail, but for now, you should rest.”

  Wanda shifts uncomfortably before speaking. “Will we be required to… serve the master?” Her voice is hesitant, and I immediately understand the source of her concern. After watching Diana and Griswald’s display in the dining hall, they’ve likely drawn some very incorrect conclusions about what’s expected of them here.

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  I meet her gaze seriously. “Affection from the master is a privilege that must be earned.” I let the weight of my words settle before adding with firm clarity, “To be clear, you will not be asked to, nor should you attempt to, be intimate with him.”

  I will not allow any woman near my master or his bed unless I am certain of her complete and unwavering loyalty to him.

  Cicil’s ears twitch as she hesitates before speaking. “What happens if we want to leave?”

  “If you choose to leave, we will not stop you. Our master purchased you to set you free. However, beyond his lands, you will find yourselves in human-controlled territories on all sides where that freedom holds no weight. These collars may offer some measure of safety, but beyond these borders, you risk being hunted, enslaved once more, or worse.”

  I let the words hang in the air, watching as the weight of reality settles over them.

  "You are free to make your own decision, but I urge you to think carefully before discarding this opportunity. There will be no second chance."

  “If you choose not to stay, or if the master does not see a place for you here, you may seek work in the city of Stonebrook. If that’s what you decide, I can help arrange employment for you.”

  The three exchange uncertain glances, still absorbing everything. Their reactions are familiar. No doubt they are waiting for the catch, the hidden cost of this supposed freedom.

  I’ve given this speech to many newly purchased slaves over the years, and it is always the same. They struggle to believe they are safe, that they will not be used and discarded, that this isn’t just another form of servitude disguised in kinder words. No explanation will convince them. They will only believe it when they see how the servants here are treated, when they experience for themselves

  That is why the trial period matters. They need time to see for themselves how the master treats his people, time to understand that their fate is no longer in the hands of cruel owners but their own. Given that chance, most come to realize that this home is not a gilded cage, but a sanctuary.

  “I’m sure you have many more questions,” I say, softening my tone. “But I suggest you rest for now. I promise to answer everything in the morning.” I pause before adding, “But there is one warning I must leave you with.”

  Their eyes snap back to me.

  “My master has been very generous with you. If you repay that generosity by attempting to steal from him or by harming any of his girls, he will not show you mercy.”

  I wait just long enough for the weight of my words to settle. They nod, accepting my warning.

  Satisfied, I leave them to rest.

  Griswald has brought many slaves into his home this way. Most have had their spirits broken by their past and, unsurprisingly, do not try to run. A few have made an attempt to flee, and true to my word, we let them go—allowing them to choose their fate.

  Most stay for an arc, adjusting to the idea of working for payment, of making their own choices. When the time comes, many move into Stonebrook, taking jobs as farmhands, bakers' assistants, or apprentices in trades.

  But only a rare few form a true connection with the master. Only they are granted a permanent place in this home.

  Next, I make my way down the hall toward the parlor, intending to check on the welcome-home party. As I walk, I pull out my chronologue, flicking open the cover out of habit. The delicate hands indicate it’s the fifteenth minute of the seventeenth hour, plenty of time left for celebration.

  The moment I near the dining hall, the unmistakable sound of off-key, drunken singing spills into the hallway. Loud, slurred, and utterly devoid of harmony, it grates against my ears like a pack of tone-deaf wolves howling at the moon. I sigh, shaking my head. As expected, the feast has descended into its usual brand of barely controlled chaos.

  Before I reach the door, a sharp knock comes from the main entrance, drawing my attention to the large double doors. Changing direction, I move to answer it.

  I pull the door open just enough to peek outside and find Sir Nix standing at attention. “Ma’am, Lady Maribel is here to see you.”

  Oh, good. They’ve returned!

  “I’ll be out in a moment,” I say, backtracking toward the master’s study to retrieve a pouch of coins from his safe. Once I’ve filled it with enough for the payment, I hurry back and step outside.

  The moment my eyes land on Maribel, I freeze.

  “Oh my!” The words escape me before I can stop them.

  She stands at the base of the stairs, covered from head to boot in blackened, dried blood and unidentifiable chunks of gore. Her clothes and the fur of her cloak are stiff with crusted filth. As I step closer, I get a better look at the extent of the mess, but before I can ask what happened—

  “UHK!”

  A wall of stench slams into me like a physical force. Thick, putrid, and so overwhelmingly vile that my stomach lurches in protest. It feels as though I’ve swallowed the very smell itself, and my body is doing everything in its power to reject it.

  I stagger, bringing a hand to my nose, my eyes watering from the sheer potency of it. That’s when I notice the guards standing well back, a full five paces away from Maribel, their expressions a mix of horror and pity. Meanwhile, Maribel meets my gaze with a weary, resigned look that says she has had a truly miserable day.

  “I’m here to collect the payment for the quest,” she says in a clipped, businesslike tone, clearly in no mood for conversation.

  I hesitate, glancing around in an effort to delay stepping any closer. “Where’s Master Shadow?”

  Without a word, Maribel lifts an arm and gestures tersely over her shoulder.

  I follow the direction she indicates and spot Shadow a short distance down the road, also caked in gore. He walks alongside a wagon, guiding the horses with exaggerated gestures and what looks like an animated lecture. Though I can’t hear his words, his body language makes it clear he is speaking with the horses.

  …Huh. I suppose he does talk to them.

  Speaking of horses…

  I squint at the wagon.

  “How’d you get that wagon here?” I ask, half to myself, half to Maribel.

  “He pulled it,” she replies flatly.

  I blink. “Impressive.”

  “I guess he had to, after you guys sent the horses to get Diana away from the bandits before you attacked them,” I say, watching Shadow gesturing animatedly at the horses. “Diana told us what you two did, and we are very thankful for saving them and dealing with their attackers.”

  Maribel stares at me blankly for a moment, then her gaze shifts toward the dining hall windows. The party inside is still in full swing—laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional drunken cheer. Slowly, her eyes slide back to me.

  “Right. That is definitely what we did.” She nods with sudden confidence. “So there should be no issue with the payment.”

  “Absolutely,” I confirm, pulling out the pouch of coins. “Based on the request, I will pay you for the safe return of Diana and the three slaves, as well as the slaying of fifteen bandits.”

  It’s hard to tell through the layers of dried blood and grime on her face, but out of the corner of my eye I think I see her eyebrows twitch upward the moment I mention the fifteen bandits. It happens so fast that by the time I turn to look at her directly, her expression is as neutral as ever..

  I narrow my eyes slightly. “It was fifteen, right?”

  “Yes. Fifteen,” Maribel replies, her tone flat.

  A beat passes before she adds, just as offhandedly as one might comment on the weather, “Oh, and we also killed about two hundred goblins.”

  I pause, frowning. “Goblins? What do goblins have to do with their kidnapping?”

  “Nothing,” Maribel admits. “But we ran into them while looking for the bandits. That’s why we arrived so much later.” She shrugs. “And Griswald has a standing quest to kill any goblins on sight.”

  “Fair enough. Did you collect proof of the number you killed?” I ask.

  Maribel’s eyes widen slightly. She hesitates, then glances down at her gore-coated garments. “The proof is all over us!” she exclaims, motioning to herself, still caked in dried goblin blood and viscera.

  “That’s not enough,” I sigh. “You know the quest requires goblin ears as proof of how many were slain.”

  “We almost died!”

  “Rules are rules. I have to be a good steward of the master’s coin.”

  “ARRGHHH, fine.”

  I watch as she fumes, shoulders tense with frustration. After a moment, I sigh and soften my stance. “Look, because you’re good friends, I’ll pay you for... twenty goblins,” I offer apologetically. Honestly, there seem to be at least that many pieces of them clinging to her, Shadow, and the wagon.

  Maribel narrows her eyes at me, then grumbles. “Fine. Better than nothing, I guess.”

  She mutters something under her breath about having goblin bits coming out of her ears but holds out her coin pouch regardless. I count out the additional payment and pour the full amount into her pouch with a series of satisfying clinks.

  “Thank you,” Maribel mutters, turning toward the wagon where Shadow has already hitched the horses and prepared for departure. She walks with the heavy, sluggish steps of someone utterly drained. When she reaches the driver’s bench, Shadow extends a steady hand, gripping hers with ease and pulling her up beside him in one fluid motion.

  As soon as she’s seated, her body slumps against his, her exhaustion overtaking whatever pride she might have had left. I watch as the wagon lurches forward, Shadow’s arm loosely wrapped around her to keep her from slipping.

  I rub the chill from my arms and turn back toward the mansion. The bitter winter air clings to my skin, and for a brief moment, I recall the countless nights I spent under the open sky, sleeping on hard ground, struggling to stay warm. Back then, I fought for every meal, every bit of shelter. Every night had been a test of endurance.

  Now, I have warmth. A full belly. Safety. Love, even.

  I’ve grown spoiled.

  Pushing aside my thoughts, I step back into the mansion, sealing the cold outside as I make my way toward the study. I retrieve the accounting ledger and quickly jot down the payment given to the adventurers, ensuring every coin is accounted for. Once satisfied, I secure the remaining coins in the safe, locking it with a soft click.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

  I pause mid-step, exhaling through my nose. Another visitor? Today has been nothing but an endless stream of arrivals.

  Striding back to the door, I swing it open to find Sir Nix waiting outside.

  “Prince Drakemore and his attendant are here to meet with the master,” he announces.

  Looking past Nix, my eyes land on Lady Willow. Her long silver hair shimmers in the dim light, and her piercing blue eyes meet mine with quiet confidence. There’s something about her presence that puts me at ease, perhaps her refined grace or the way she seems more elven than human.

  Looking down, I see the young prince, his black hair tousled by the wind, hazel eyes peeking out from the cloak he’s burrowed into against the cold. I’m always glad to see him. He is very clever and kind.

  These are not words I usually associate with human royalty.

  “Please come in out of the cold!” I say with a inviting tone, stepping back to let then enter

  "Thank you, Ms. Silfy," Ren says, pulling his cloak back down over his shoulders as he and Willow step inside.

  "You are always welcome here, young master," I reply, shutting the door behind them. "Though I don’t believe the Lord was expecting you."

  Even as I speak, the raucous sounds of celebration continue to echo from the dining hall, and a growing concern settles over me regarding the possible state Griswald may be in at this point.

  "He may… uh… not be ready to meet with you," I add carefully.

  That is a massive understatement, but what else am I supposed to say? The kid is eight years old—I can’t exactly explain that his prospective business partner is currently deep in his cups and surrounded by half-dressed women.

  "I’m willing to wait," Ren responds patiently. "But I do have something rather important to discuss with him."

  "I see," I say, turning to Willow in the hopes that she might pick up on my hesitation. Instead, she just smiles in that way she does, as if she already knows how this will play out.

  "We understand," Ren continues, his voice polite but firm. "Could you please let Lord Griswald know we’re here? He can meet with us whenever he is ready."

  The request is delivered with a level of grace and patience that still takes me aback, even after knowing him for some time. Nobles—especially royals—are not usually this courteous. It makes me want to help him even more than I was already inclined to. And knowing Griswald, he would certainly want to meet with Ren if he knew he was here.

  "Alright, young master, I’ll go inform him."

  "Thank you, Silfy."

  I make my way toward the dining hall, stopping first at the study to retrieve the clothes Griswald had discarded earlier. Folding them neatly, I carry them with me, already bracing myself for what I might find.

  The feast has predictably devolved into a chaotic mess of alcohol and skin that is most certainly not suitable for the adolescent prince’s eyes. With a bit of coaxing, some assistance from the more sober among us, and a fair amount of patience, I manage to get Griswald dressed and back into the parlor. He’s heavily inebriated but still standing, though with a noticeable sway. His words are slurred, but at least he’s coherent.

  "Welcome back, Ren," Griswald greets, his voice thick with drink. "What can I do for my favorite prince?"

  Ren, ever composed, gestures toward a piece of parchment that Willow smoothly retrieves from her cloak. "I wanted to request that you sign this decree for me."

  Griswald reaches out and snatches the document from her hand, even as Ren launches into what is clearly a well-rehearsed explanation.

  "I humbly request authorization to negotiate trade on your behalf."

  "Okay," Griswald says with shocking immediacy, to my absolute horror. Without even pretending to read the document, he signs his name at the bottom.

  Ren, still mid-sentence, falters. "Giving me this authorization will allow me to sell my stock of healing potions to Hyperion, which will net you ten percent profits with no labor investment—wait, what?"

  "I signed it," Griswald replies simply.

  "That’s it?"

  "That’s it," he confirms, handing the decree back toward Willow.

  Before she can accept it, I swiftly intercept and pull it toward myself, scanning over the text. Ren looks thoroughly thrown off by how easy that was, while Willow suppresses what looks suspiciously like a knowing smirk.

  "It appears," I say after a quick review, "that all he’s asking for is to use his own products and money to negotiate. He’s merely seeking legitimacy by attaching your name to the agreements. I don’t see any harm in that."

  "There you have it," Griswald says with finality, leaning back lazily. "Did you need anything else?"

  Ren blinks, still processing, clearly expecting more resistance. Willow, on the other hand, looks positively entertained.

  "Is there anything I could do for you?" she asks, her tone warm, eager.

  "More ale would be nice," Griswald shrugs.

  The words barely leave his lips before Willow produces a large bottle of ale from inside her cloak—one far too large to have reasonably been concealed within her robes. She holds it out toward him.

  "What would you trade—"

  "It’s a gift!" Ren sharply cuts her off, shooting her a warning look. Willow’s playful expression vanishes, and she hands the bottle over with a crestfallen pout.

  "Much appreciated, Ren," Griswald says, accepting the bottle with a pleased grunt.

  "Silfy," he adds, standing up. "See to it that the prince and Willow are given a room for the night."

  "As you wish, master."

  I fetch Abigail, one of the only other maids in the house still sober. Being Gavin’s girl, she never drinks around the master to avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings. She greets Ren warmly with a hug and then escorts him and Willow to their lodging.

  With that settled, I turn back toward the dining hall, rejoining Griswald and the others. The moment I step inside, I’m met with the aftermath of absolute debauchery. The once-lively feast has dwindled into a chaotic sprawl of food, overturned dishes, and unconscious bodies.

  Mira, completely naked, is sprawled across the dining table, remnants of food smeared across her body and scattered around her like the wreckage of a battlefield. Daphne, equally bare, is curled up beneath the table, snoring softly. Discarded plates and mugs litter the floor, and the rich scent of ale and roasted meats lingers thick in the air.

  Griswald, still draped in only his cloak, now stained with splatters of food, sits beside Mira’s head, grinning as he lightly shakes her shoulder. “I think that means I win, cow girl,” he chuckles, clearly pleased with himself.

  “Hheey,” comes a sluggish voice.

  I glance up to see Stephoney, still in her undergarments—small mercy—but hanging upside down from the chandelier by her legs, slowly spinning in circles. She watches me, addressing me each time she rotates into view.

  “Silfy.”

  “Looks like I missed all the fun,” I remark dryly, stepping further into the room and surveying the scene with a mix of exasperation and amusement.

  “Master…” Stephoney slurs as she rotates past again.

  “Mira and Daphne bet Master they could out-drink him,” Sati supplies, smirking from across the table, where Diana leans tipsily against her shoulder. Unlike the others, Sati remains sober. As the master’s personal guard, she prefers to keep her wits about her, but she does enjoy the spectacle that drunken revelry provides.

  “Drank…” Stephoney mumbles, still turning.

  “They were wrong,” Griswald declares smugly, just as Mira groans and shifts, rolling onto her side with a heavy thud. Her large breasts slap together audibly, drawing a snicker from Diana.

  “Them…” Stephoney mumbles as she takes another slow pass around.

  “I suppose we should get everyone cleaned up and in bed,” I say, stepping carefully over a pile of food scraps.

  “Under…”

  “Time for a bath!” Griswald announces, effortlessly scooping up Mira. It’s for the best—she’s twice the size of any of the other girls, and in her current state, there’s no chance of her getting there on her own.

  “The…”

  “I’ll take Diana. Can you grab Daphne?” Sati asks, pulling Diana to her feet with practiced ease.

  “Table…”

  Before I can respond, Stephoney finally slips off the chandelier, landing flat on her back atop the table with a dull thud.

  “Ouch…” she groans, blinking up at the ceiling.

  I sigh, ducking under the table and carefully dragging a very unconscious Daphne out from beneath it. “Come on, Daph, let’s get you to bed.”

  With some effort, I hoist her up just enough to get her onto her feet, supporting most of her weight as we shuffle toward the bathhouse. Ahead of me, Griswald carries Mira slung over his shoulder like a giant sack of potatoes, while Sati guides a wobbly Diana. Stephoney stumbles along behind me, rubbing the back of her head.

  “What about the mess?” she slurs. “Pretty sure that’s my job…”

  “Aeris and I’ll take care of it,” Sati sighs, already resigned to the inevitable.

  “You’re like… the best, Sa…ti.”

  “Nah, you owe me for this,” Sati corrects her.

  We stumbled our way to the bathhouse in a drunken haze, clumsy and giggling, and quickly got to work filling the basin with fresh hot water. The steam and warmth did wonders to soothe the buzz in our heads. We bathed, cleaned up, and sobered up—some more than others. Mira clung to Griswald like a lazy kitten, Daphne barely conscious in my arms. Diana and Stephoney managed well enough on their own, while Sati slipped away early to deal with the chaos we’d left behind.

  There wasn’t much talking, just the occasional splash and quiet murmurs. By the end, we were cleaner, calmer, and more tired than drunk. We dried off and parted ways for the night.

  As for me, I headed to the master’s chambers. It was obvious Diana would be joining us, Griswald has been waiting too long to hold her again.