Crystal flutes chimed in sharp, nervous tings against the gallery of whispers. Tasmira Vlatka, perched precariously on a velvet banquette, felt the eyes of every titan and socialite in the Grand Ballroom of the Volkov Club bore into her back. The air, usually thick with the scent of imported perfume and ambition, now reeked of schadenfreude. Her father, a man whose spine had always been as rigid as the automatons he collected, stood on the polished stage, his face a roadmap of recent collapse. His voice, when it came, was a raspy ghost of its former booming self. “The Vlatka & Sons conglomerate… will be filing for insolvency.” Silence, sharp and sudden, cut through the ballroom. Then, a collective intake of breath, like a hundred tiny gasps for air. Tasmira’s mother, across the room, looked as though she’d swallowed a lemon, her usually immaculate coiffure slightly askew. But Tasmira? Tasmira merely blinked. Insolvency? That was a quaint, old-fashioned term, wasn’t it? Like her grandmother’s lace doilies. She straightened her posture, a tiny smile playing on her lips. ‘No, no,’ she thought, adjusting the imaginary apron she suddenly felt tied around her waist. ‘Father is announcing the start of the Grand Ovestra Benevolence Gala, that’s all. The first step in the annual Maid’s Survival Competition.’ This was merely the preliminary round, a test of composure, of quick thinking. A true maid must always be prepared for any eventuality. A gaunt-faced servant, moving with the practiced efficiency of a shadow, set a tray of glistening caviar tarts on a nearby pedestal. Tasmira’s smile widened. Excellent. A prop. She rose, her silk gown rustling like dry leaves. Lady Mariska, a woman whose jowls quivered with gossip, narrowed her eyes at Tasmira. “Lost your mind, little Vlatka? Your family’s ruined.” Tasmira gracefully plucked the silver tray from the pedestal. “Oh, Lady Mariska, how observant of you!” she chirped, her voice clear and bright, cutting through the murmurs. She pivoted, a perfect curtsy that dipped her low enough to hide the tremor in her hands. “Tasmira Vlatka, at your service! Formerly the Vlatka heiress, now simply… the newest addition to the Volkov Club’s esteemed catering staff! May I offer you a tart?” She extended the tray, the caviar glistening beneath gas-lit glass pendants, an offering to the vultures. Lady Mariska’s mouth fell open, a small, unappetizing cavern. Other elites stared, their snide amusement turning to bewildered disgust. No tears? No desperate pleas? Just… this? Tasmira beamed, internally awarding herself ten points for improvisational excellence. The opening trial: maintain decorum under pressure. Passed with honors. Hours later, crammed into the back of a delivery carriage alongside crates of wilting hydrangeas and empty champagne bottles, Tasmira finally allowed herself a small, triumphant sigh. The rumble of the carriage wheels was a soothing counterpoint to the city’s distant, industrial hum. Ovestra’s smog-choked air was growing thicker as they climbed towards the exclusive hilltop estates. The Vorsteg Manse. Her next assignment. Her true test. This was the proving ground: the Grand Prize Domestic Survival Tournament. Father had always said the Vorsteg family was ‘eccentric,’ prone to ‘unconventional recruitment strategies.’ Clearly, this was one of them. The winner, she’d convinced herself, would receive a grand sum, enough to buy back Vlatka House, restore her family’s honor, and prove she was more than just a sheltered heiress. The carriage shuddered to a halt before a monolithic gate of wrought iron, adorned with menacing-looking gryphons. The Vorsteg Manse loomed, a sprawling, grey edifice that seemed to swallow the dim Ovestran light. It looked less like a home and more like a paranoid fortress. Perfect. A true maid needed to govern an armed compound. The gates groaned open, revealing a courtyard slick with recent rain. A stout woman with a face like a perpetually soured dumpling stood waiting, arms crossed, two younger, nervous-looking maids flanking her. “You the new scullery girl?” the woman barked, her voice like grinding gears. “Vlatka, isn’t it? Thought your kind only polished silverware, not scrubbed it.” Tasmira stepped out, smoothing her new, rough-spun apron. “Indeed! Tasmira Vlatka, reporting for duty! And I assure you, my skill with a polishing cloth is second only to my enthusiasm for a good scrubbing brush!” She beamed, a picture of eager competence. “Is this the first round? Are there points for immediate integration?” The stout woman, whom Tasmira mentally dubbed ‘Head Judge Griselda,’ snorted. “Points? You’ll be lucky to keep your fingers, girl. The Manse has rules. Break ‘em, and you’ll find yourself sorting coal in the cellar for a month. Get to it. Zelna, show her the linen closets. Don’t dawdle.” The younger maid, Zelna, a wisp of a girl with fearful, darting eyes, gave Tasmira a pitying look before leading her away. Tasmira hummed cheerfully. Head Judge Griselda was tough, but fair. A demanding opening heat, strictly in line with official tournament regulations. The storage halls ran through damp, lime-washed passages, each turn narrower than the last. Tasmira, however, cataloged the circuit as a timed navigation puzzle. ‘Spatial awareness and memory test!’ she decided, mentally ticking off another objective. Zelna, however, kept her chin tucked, murmuring warnings about forbidden wings and the lord's sudden rages. “And whatever you do,” Zelna murmured through chattering teeth, “never enter the West Wing. It stays bolted for a reason. Lord Branik tolerates no trespassers.” Tasmira’s eyes lit up. “The West Wing? Ah, a bonus tier! An unlisted trial! Is it a puzzle box, perhaps? Or a test of stealth?” She clapped her hands together softly. “Brilliant! They’re really pulling out all the stops for the grand prize!” Before Zelna could catch her sleeve, Tasmira slipped around the corner in brisk, cheerful strides. The West Wing. Of course. The most difficult, the most dangerous, therefore, the most rewarding. She found a service door, barely ajar, and slipped through. The air instantly grew colder, heavy with a scent of old parchment and metallic tang. A long, dim hallway stretched ahead, flanked by canvas-draped consoles. This was it. The ultimate obstacle course. She tiptoed, ready for pressure plates or tripwires, her senses on high alert. The ceiling was high and rib-vaulted; at the far end of the gallery, a tiered brass luminary hung directly over a low, padded divan. A figure lay on the cushions, obscured by gloom and dangling brass tiers. A dummy, perhaps? A target for a precision throw? Or, even better, a rescue mission! Just as Tasmira began to plan her route, iron sheared with a sharp crack. A link snapped under tension with a scream of tortured metal. The whole fixture tilted, groaning as links unspooled, then plummeted straight toward the lounger. ‘A falling hazard!’ Tasmira’s mind raced. ‘A classic survival trap! I must save the objective!’ She kicked off her satin slippers and sprinted forward, hem snapping against her calves. “Incoming!” she shouted, driving her shoulder into the man's ribs just as the brass frame struck the flagstones with an explosive crash of sheared crystal. Tasmira, sprawled on the floor, found herself on top of a man. A very large, very annoyed man. He glared upward, dark hair spilled across his temples, while powdered plaster and cold copper dust settled over them. He was flesh and sinew—Branik Vorsteg himself—staring with cold, predatory alertness. His hands, even as he was tackled, had moved with a practiced grace. From beneath his heavy velvet smoking jacket, he produced a small, silver-plated pistol. The cold metal pressed against Tasmira’s cheek as he shifted, pinning her. A click echoed in the sudden silence. He cocked the hammer. “Who sent you?”

The First Round of the Rest of Her Life