A cold, slick slab slapped Niemi's cheek, jarring her awake against the sagging straw of the rickety cot. The smell of brine and stale copper stung her nostrils. She pried open an eye, the grey light of dawn barely piercing the gloom of the maid’s dormitory, and saw a dark, glistening mass draped across her face. Kelp. Thick, ropy strands of it, dripping frigid water onto her threadbare pillow.
She sat up, pushing the reeking bundle away. It landed on the damp floorboards with a wet thud, unspooling to reveal a smaller package nestled within the seaweed’s embrace. Not a package, she realized with a lurch, but a grotesque, fleshy offering. A severed tongue, pale and slick, its surface mottled with dark spots, lay exposed, still glistening with whatever viscous fluid had preserved it. Bile surged in Niemi's throat, but her thoughts, honed on the visceral set pieces of survival titles, cataloged the grim tissue with clinical detachment.
Beneath the tongue, a parchment scroll, sealed with crimson wax, peeked out. Her fingers, steady despite the grim discovery, unfurled it. The script, elegant and flowing, was written in the estate's official hand. Her gaze fell to the bottom, where Matron Oili’s signature, loops and flourishes like a spidery embrace, stood out against the parchment.
*Valamo Academy of Arcane Weaving – Covenant of Service.*
Valamo. Matron Oili. The sinking gothic halls over salt-marsh. The creeping corruption from the depths. The name hit her like dropped ballast. *Tides of Ruskola*. She wasn't just dreaming; she wasn’t just transmigrated. She was *inside* the game. The very game she’d sunk a thousand hours into, the one where she’d meticulously mapped every enemy patrol, every trap, every gruesome death.
Her gaze dropped to the tongue. A payment. A warning. A ritual component. Her brain, now locked in survival mode, raced through lore items: soul-binding contracts, the flooded lower cells, the secret coven...
A low groan echoed from beneath her cot. The sound wasn't the usual creak of ancient timber; it was a deeper, more resonant thrum, like the earth itself was sighing in agony. A spiderweb of cracks erupted across the floorboards beside her bed. Dust, ancient and acrid, plumed into the air. The cracks widened with an audible *snap*.
Then, a rupture. A jagged tear in the floorboards. From the gaping maw, tendrils of inky shadow, impossibly sharp and impossibly black, surged upward. They twisted, coalesced, hardening into obsidian lances that shot through the space where her ribs had rested moments before. She threw herself sideways, rolling off the cot just as the lethal abyssal surge broke through. The air crackled, heavy with the scent of ozone and decay.
This was it. The early game event. Taavet’s uncontrolled magic. The boy she was assigned to serve. The boy who, in the game’s canon, murdered his first maid in a fit of rot-induced rage.
Niemi scrambled to her feet, her face already morphing into the practiced, unshakeable cheerfulness she’d perfected in her past life as a customer service drone, now repurposed as a weapon. Her gaze swept over the room, taking in the freshly laundered shirts she’d meticulously folded the night before, awaiting delivery to her assigned charge. The dark needles, still vibrating with latent, malevolent power, stood like grotesque, razor-thin pillars in the center of her small room.
“Oh, dearie me!” she chirped, her voice bright enough to cut through the oppressive atmosphere. “What a fright! But look, Master Taavet, you’ve provided me with the most excellent drying rack!”
She plucked a clean, white tunic, still faintly smelling of lavender, from the top of the pile. With a movement almost too casual, she draped it over the closest black needle, pressing it down gently. The dark magic hissed, a low, guttural sound, as if protesting the indignity. She hummed a tuneless little melody, then grabbed a second shirt, a dark, heavy wool, and hung it on another spike, then a third.
The shadow-blades, poised to strike again, wavered. The oppressive aura around them flickered. A soft, wet thud announced the arrival of their creator. Taavet, no older than twelve, stood in the gaping hole in the floor. His irises, pale slate like winter surf, stared wide and unblinking. His hands, stained with the tell-tale black ichor of uncontained Miasma, trembled. He was supposed to be terrifying, but right now, he just looked bewildered.
His magic fizzled, the needles retracting with a soft *shiiing* sound, leaving behind only splintered wood and the lingering smell of ozone. He lunged, moving with a speed that belied his fragile appearance, and slammed her against the cold stone wall. His small, soot-crusted fingers wrapped around her throat, surprisingly strong, though his grip trembled. His voice, a rough whisper, was laced with venom. “Who… who sent you? What are you trying to do?”
Niemi met his furious gaze with a smile that showed the dimples in her cheeks, utterly devoid of fear. She reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a small, folded cloth. “Oh, goodness, Master Taavet! Your hands are quite a mess.” She carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing a warm, lavender-scented towel. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up. You wouldn’t want that lovely new tunic to get stained, would you?”
Her fingers gently nudged his chin up, guiding his bleeding, sludge-coated hands away from her throat. She pressed the warm towel into his palm. His eyes, fixed on her face, still held a wild, desperate confusion, but the ferocity in them had softened, just a fraction. He stared at the towel, then at his hands, then back at her, as if she were an alien creature from another world.
The spy contract, tucked away in the deepest pocket of her apron, suddenly burned against her hip. A searing pain erupted, not just on her skin, but deep inside, as if scorching her very soul. She gasped, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch in her cheerful facade, as the first rune of the sacrifice agonizedly carved itself into her ribs.