Immaculate halls, polished floors, and a ceiling that stared down with judgment. But even such a pristine citadel had to make room for practicality. Specifically: the Warbringer's maid chamber.
The room was aggressively tidy. Beds perfectly spaced, wardrobes aligned with militant precision, and the ever-present scent of lemon polish—cleanliness masking paranoia. You could eat off the floor, though Silva would kill you if you tried.
"Obviously, you can't wear our maid's uniform," Silva said, arms crossed, leaning against the nearest wardrobe like it had personally disappointed her. Her eyes scanned Valeria with casual disapproval.
Valeria stood awkwardly by one of the beds, fingers tugging at the hem of a skirt that drowned her knees. "I'm just saying," she offered, "a maid sneaking around the city at night won't be that bad of a disguise."
"No." Silva's answer dropped like a blade. "You're one of the Sisters, aren't you? Shouldn't you have your own suit?"
