Freya fell asleep in the bathtub.
It wasn't planned.
One moment she was soaking in warm water, staring at the flickering candlelight dancing across the cracked tiles—the next, she was waking up with a cold splash and a thoroughly pruney body, her hair plastered to her face like kelp.
The sky beyond the bathroom window had already turned dusky violet, streaked with crimson like a wound across the horizon.
It's already evening.How long had she slept?
She yawned, baring sharp little fangs, and pulled herself out of the tub with a wet squelch.
No towel. Of course.
She summoned a small gust of dark mana—Black Magic's Blow-Dry—and dried off in record time, faintly smelling of brimstone.
Wrapped in a threadbare bathrobe three sizes too big, she padded barefoot into the living room and shouted up at the second floor, "Callum? You awake?"
Silence.
"Rise and shine, dearest cousin, get down here. We've things to discuss."
Still no Callum. No Callum in the kitchen. No Callum on the porch. No snarky remarks. No coffee brewing.
Just the chirping of crickets and the low hum of magic lurking in the corners of the old house.
Freya's frown deepened. "Shit, where has he gone?"
She was halfway to checking the cellar when her eyes caught something that did not belong on the living room table.
There, neatly folded with the kind of reverence normally reserved for sacred relics or dangerously unstable magical grimoires, lay a dress.
Not just any dress.
A gothic dress. All black silk and midnight lace, ruffled in just the right places, with ribbons like shadows and a bodice that screamed nobility—but make it fashion.
It was brand new, and it radiated the faint smell of lavender and luxury—definitely not something you'd find hanging in Callum's dismal wardrobe.
Freya stared at it for a long moment, lips slightly parted.
"…Okay, this is not creepy at all."
She reached out, fingers grazing the delicate fabric. There was a note tucked underneath.
Not sealed with wax, but the handwriting was elegant and graceful:
"I'll be back by dawn. Figured you'd want something less swamp-bog-chic to wear. Don't get into trouble. —Callum"
She blinked. Then reread it. Twice.
"Oh no. Someone wise once said, when your dinner starts being nice to you, you'd better be careful."
"...So, what is he up to now?"
She hugged the dress to her chest, spun once, and caught her reflection in the cracked windowpane.
"Well, it's a nice dress, though. And there's a pair of shoes that came with it."
"I wonder how he got them."
And with that thought, she turned on her heel and went to get dressed.
But with a suspicious squint.
The dress, it fit like a dream—dangerously well.
The fabric hugged her petite frame with unsettling precision, as if it had been tailored for her body alone.
She adjusted the velvet choker, glared at her reflection, and muttered, "Either he took my measurements while I was asleep… or he has a collection of little girls' dresses in his closet, which is super creepy."
Still, it was better than swamp-bog chic.
She stepped outside into the night.
The air was cool and heavy with the scent of wet earth, grass, and distant rain.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and filtered out the familiar smells of mildew, woodsmoke, and old books clinging to the house.
Somewhere beneath it all—yes, there. Faint but distinct.
Callum.
Freya opened her eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips.
"You left a trail, dummy."
She set off in silence, her mana shifting around her like a second skin.
Shadows coiled along her limbs as she channeled her dark magic, each step swallowing sound and leaving only a whisper behind.
Her presence blurred, fading from the attention of the world like a passing shadow at twilight.
To anyone else, she'd be just a cool breeze rustling through the hedges.
She followed the scent—Callum's weird herbal cologne mixed with magic residue and something sharp like burnt sage—down a narrow forest path, across moss-covered stones, over a silent brook, and past a pair of owls that gave her the stink eye.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Then she saw it.
A wrought-iron gate loomed ahead, overgrown with thorny ivy.
Beyond it stood a grand manor house, its silhouette rising against the moonlight like a coffin propped up on a hill.
Turrets, balconies, and a roof that looked like it was designed by someone with a grudge against architects.
This is definitely not a peasant's house.
Freya crept closer, pressing a hand to the cool iron gate.
Callum's scent was stronger now. Recent.
He was here.
She narrowed her eyes, dark mana curling at her fingertips like ink in water.
"Oh, you better not be doing anything stupid, my dearest cousin."
Freya flipped gracefully over the rusted gate.
She moved like a shadow draped in silk. Every step was deliberate.
Her mana wove a veil around her presence, bending light, muting sound.
It didn't render her invisible, but close enough that a guard wouldn't see anything more than a trick of the eye—a swaying curtain, a drifting cloud of mist.
The manor grounds were patrolled. Of course they were.
A pair of armored men walked the perimeter with lanterns that cast pale gold halos on the gravel path.
Their breath misted in the chill air as they muttered about rumors—some nonsense about ghost hounds in the woods and a cursed swamp hag stealing children.
Intrigued, Freya smiled.
Urban legends, huh? Maybe she'd end up being one someday.
She clung to the shadows, darting behind hedges, slipping between pillars, crouching beneath ornate balconies.
Every move was measured. Her ears strained for voices.
Finally, she caught a low murmur.
It came from the west wing—light spilled through the tall windows of a drawing room, the curtains left half-parted.
Freya crouched beneath a stone balustrade, then slithered to the side of the building like an eel through black water.
She scaled the ivy-covered trellis without a sound, planted her boots on a second-floor ledge, and peeked inside.
There he was.
Callum, alive and upright, standing beside a tall man in a high-backed chair.
He looked to be in his early forties, broad-shouldered, with a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and sharp, calculating eyes that gleamed beneath his silver-rimmed spectacles.
His coat was deep navy with silver trim, clearly tailored, with a sash bearing the crest of Krasvale—a crowned stag pierced by three arrows.
Freya narrowed her eyes. He's gotta be someone important. Maybe a noble.
They stood near a heavy oak table, parchment maps spread across its surface. Tiny figurines marked out positions—red stones for humans, dark ones for orcs.
Freya's ears perked as the conversation floated through the slightly ajar window.
"—They've moved their supply route," the man was saying. His voice was deep, authoritative, but worn with fatigue.
"What we thought was a decoy camp is now the real hub. West of the ridgeline. That's where they're stockpiling weapons. Probably getting ready for a push into the valley."
Callum rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "We don't have the numbers to hit them head-on. Even if we take out the outpost, they'll scatter into the jungle. Then we've got ten more problems instead of one."
"You said your... companion could be a game changer?" The man leaned forward, folding his hands. "...This cousin of yours?"
Freya's eyebrows shot up.Excuse me?
Callum raised a brow. "She's definitely an extraordinary one, but the problem is..."
"She's also unpredictable," the man said, tone dry.
Callum gave a slow nod. "That's why I'm not dragging her into this unless I'm sure. She won't help just because you ask nicely.You'll need to offer her something more valuable than a handshake and patriotism."
The man leaned back in his chair, gaze thoughtful. "I'm prepared to be generous. This town needs leverage. If she's half as dangerous as you claim... then we need her on our side before the orcs try to make her an offer of their own."
Freya's mouth twisted in an unimpressed smirk. Now I'm a commodity? Then you guys better pay me big bucks.
She pressed her back to the wall beneath the window, heart steady, mind spinning.
So Callum was working with this noble guy, huh? Planning something big. Involving orcs...
Guess him showing up at that orc outpost wasn't just "passing through" after all.
He was there with a mission, and had been lying all the while.
Her fangs itched.
But she wasn't angry.
Not yet.
Just... interested.
Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes, cousin.
She slinked away from the window, shadows curling around her heels.
She wouldn't crash the party.
She'd watch. She'd listen.
And then—
Another figure entered the room. A guard, looking anxious.
He gave a salute and said, "Sorry Mayor Aldrich, but we have a perimeter breach."
The air in the room shifted. Callum straightened. Aldrich rose slowly from his chair, a shadow crossing his face.
"Where?"
"North garden, near the trellis. We found fresh marks on the wall. Whoever it was—moved like a ghost."
Freya froze. So he's the mayor, huh?
Her eyes narrowed.
They'd noticed. That was fast.
Then came Aldrich's next words, low and precise:
"Seal the exits. Full lockdown. Send more men to my wife and children."
"Oh shit." Freya quickly on the move. She needed to get out before the full lockdown.
And from somewhere inside the manor… a bell began to toll.