A low growl rumbled in its chest, and its jaws, wide enough to swallow her head, slowly opened. Besa’s breath caught, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. The beast’s hot, stale breath ghosted over her face, smelling of damp earth and something acrid. Its burning eyes, flecked with gold, were fixed solely on her pocket. She could feel the faint, rhythmic thrum of the music box through the fabric, a cold pulse against her thigh. This was it. Not Ravik’s blade, but a monstrous maw. Then, a sharp *thud* echoed through the hall. Not a loud sound, but distinct against the rasping growl of the hound. Toma, still at her side, swayed slightly. A heavy, leather-bound volume lay at his feet, its gilded pages splayed across the marble. He bent, a faint frown on his handsome face, as if he hadn’t noticed the immense beast looming over them. “My apologies,” he murmured, his voice calm, almost absentminded. “My grip falters sometimes. Such a pity to drop a first edition of Lord Cinder’s ‘Ballads of the Blighted’.” The hound’s head snapped up. Its ears swiveled towards the sound, a low whine escaping its throat. The other beast, which had been circling the intruder and his stunned men, also paused, its glowing eyes turning towards Toma. For a moment, they seemed to hesitate, their primal focus momentarily diverted by the innocent thud of a book. Then, with another guttural snarl, the lead hound turned and, with an impossible leap, cleared the broken window frame, vanishing into the mist outside. The second beast followed, a dark blur against the swirling grey, leaving behind only the cold shards and the lingering scent of ozone. Silence descended, heavy and thick. The intruder straightened his cloaked form, eyes glittering with fury as they darted between Besa and Toma. “This is not over, herbalist,” he hissed. He gestured to his remaining men. “We will speak again.” With that, he stalked out of the hall, his escort melting into the shadows and dragging the whimpering assassin away, leaving a smear of red along the marble. Besa found her legs trembling. She leaned against the cool marble pillar, pressing a hand to her pounding chest. The manor offered no true shelter. Toma’s proximity felt steadying, yet his effortless handling of the falling marble earlier, and now the beasts' retreat, hinted at depths she could not fathom. “Are you quite alright, Lady Besa?” Toma’s voice was gentle, his sightless gaze seeming to pierce through her terror. He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm. The touch was light, yet it sent a peculiar warmth spreading through her. “I… I am,” Besa managed, her voice a reedy whisper. She looked at the book, then at him. “Those were… Ravik’s beasts.” Toma merely nodded. “Indeed. They are… particular creatures. Often drawn to unusual scents, or sudden disturbances.” He bent, picking up the book with a casual grace. His movements were too fluid, too precise for a man who claimed to be merely a poet. She remembered his strength, the ease with which he’d caught the statue. His blindness felt less like a vulnerability and more like a carefully crafted veil. “Perhaps we should retire,” he suggested, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. “Dinner will be served shortly. I imagine the other residents are quite eager to make your acquaintance, now that your… arrival has proven so eventful.” Besa swallowed, dread pooling in her stomach. Her attempts to hide were only drawing more attention. This was the opposite of inconspicuous. Later that evening, the manor’s grand dining hall, usually a cavern of muted whispers and clinking cutlery, buzzed with an uncharacteristic energy. The shattered windows and the violent scuffle had given the reclusive nobles rare fuel for gossip. Besa, seated at Toma’s right, felt every eye on her, their gazes like tiny, sharp needles. She picked at a delicate pastry, trying to recall Neda’s hurried instructions on proper noble etiquette. *Elbows in, small bites, don’t speak unless spoken to.* It felt like a performance, and Besa was a novice actress on a grand stage. “So, the esteemed Lady Hosti,” a saccharine voice cut through the polite murmur. Baroness Vance, a woman with a towering, powdered wig and a gown the color of bruised plums, leaned forward, her smile thin and predatory. “You arrived quite… dramatically. I understand you are from the outer villages? The lands bordering the Mire-Fen?” Warmth flooded Besa's neck. “My family keeps a shop of simples near the village of Skuld, Baroness,” she said, working to steady her voice. “We prepare remedies for fever and blight.” A titter ran around the table. Baroness Vance smiled wider, showing teeth filed sharp at the edges. “A common shop. How quaint. I suppose one becomes accustomed to rather… rustic manners, in such a profession. Tell us, dear, do you find our silver cutlery too delicate after years of handling… roots and poultices?” She gestured dismissively at Besa’s hand, which held her fork with an unpolished grip. The other nobles chuckled, a ripple of cruel amusement. Besa’s face burned. She wanted to disappear, to sink beneath the polished oak table. She was an imposter, and they knew it. Then Toma spoke, smooth and unhurried. “Baroness Vance, I confess myself surprised. I took you for a woman who values substance over superficiality.” He turned his head slightly, his milky eyes fixing upon her with unsettling precision. “To mock a guest for tending the sick speaks not of refinement, but of meager wits. It may be that your own lineage is so frail that you require such venom to appear substantial.” A stunned silence fell over the table. The baroness stiffened, her powdered cheeks mottled with scarlet. “Lord Toma! How dare you!” “Dare?” Toma’s voice remained even, laced with a chilling sweetness. “I merely observe. You mistake my blindness for a lack of perception, it seems. While I cannot see the lace upon your collar, Baroness, I hear the thinness in your breeding. Besa spent her seasons soothing pain. What, pray tell, have you contributed beyond a powdered wig and clumsy barbs?” The silence that followed was absolute. The baroness shrank into her chair, her painted lips parted in wordless outrage. Across the table, the other guests dropped their eyes to their plates. Besa looked at Toma, a strange warmth blossoming in her chest. His words, sharp as daggers, had cut down the snobbery and defended her with an intensity she hadn’t expected. He was more than a gentle poet. He was a protector, fierce and unwavering. A tremor ran through her, a realization that was both terrifying and exhilarating: she was falling for him. Her fake fiancé, the man who was supposed to be a safe, blind recluse, was becoming dangerously real. Later, as the manor settled into its nightly gloom, Besa found herself unable to sleep. The image of Toma, defending her with such eloquent fury, replayed in her mind. She needed to do something, anything, to show her gratitude, to offer him some protection in this dangerous manor. Her training urged her toward dried leaves and mortar stone, seeking an herbal ward to blunt ill will. She carefully crushed dried 'Whisper-Leaf' and 'Sunken-Root' into a fine powder, mixing it with a pinch of 'Ashen-Thyme' in her small, portable mortar. The scent, earthy and faintly sweet, filled her chamber. It was a charm for protection and clarity, a balm against the unseen threats of the Kraznan night. Quietly, Besa slipped through the shadowed corridors, her bare feet silent on the worn runners. The manor felt vast and empty, the ancestral portraits on the walls seeming to watch her with their dark, unblinking eyes. She reached Toma’s study, the door ajar, a faint glow of moonlight filtering through the tall windows. He was likely asleep, or occupied in his chambers. She crept inside, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and faint pipe tobacco. His desk, a massive slab of dark wood, was littered with scrolls, quills, and leather-bound books. She found a clear space near a stack of poetry, intending to leave the small sachet of charm powder there. As she placed it down, her gaze drifted towards the window. Her lungs froze. Outside, bathed in the sickly silver glow of the moon, prowled one of Ravik’s shadow-beasts, its dark coat drinking the night. And Neda, her maid, stood before it. Casually. Not cowering, not trembling, but offering the monstrous beast a piece of sausage, which it delicately took from her fingers. Neda’s cheerful face was calm, utterly unfazed by the terrifying creature that had burst through the manor’s windows just hours before. The hound nuzzled her hand, a low rumble, almost a purr, emanating from its chest. Besa’s heart dropped. Neda. Her loyal, cheerful maid. Feeding a shadow-hound. She stumbled back from the window, her mind reeling. Her hand, brushing against the desk, knocked against a small, ornate drawer. It slid open with a soft rasp. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, gleamed a dagger. Its blade was crafted from black glass, sharp and sinister, reflecting the moonlight with an icy sheen. Its hilt was intricately carved, a design she knew intimately, horrifically. It was the exact weapon from her nightmare, the blade meant to pierce her heart, here in Toma’s own desk.

The Maid's Secret and the Midnight Waltz