I had just finished cleaning up Regina's war zone of a room—art supplies scattered like shrapnel, half-finished sketches bleeding off her desk, books in precarious towers waiting to fall like noble empires.
All that was left was the bed, where she lay asleep, wrapped in blankets like a bored dragon hoarding ennui.
Not knowing what else to do, I sank into the chair she'd been using earlier—the one with paint still smudged on the armrest—and glanced at the canvas she'd left behind.
A raven, mid-flight, silhouetted against a sunset burning over a pine forest. It was haunting. Beautiful. A little too good for someone who threatened to fire me via eye contact.
This moment, rare and quiet, gave me room to think—a dangerous activity lately.
That's when it hit me: I didn't have a name.
No one had asked. No one cared. If I was acknowledged at all, it was with a "You," or if they were feeling generous, "maid." Or "maggot," if it was the drill sergeant with the voice of Satan's personal megaphone.
I'd been screamed into submission so many times I could now execute orders before my brain had time to panic.
Progress? I wasn't sure.
Regina stirred with a groan that sounded like she was offended by the mere concept of waking up.
The head maid, ever so helpful, had warned me about this.
"She gets grumpy after naps. Or if she's hungry. Or if Mercury is in retrograde. Or if her wine is the wrong temperature."
Now, her sapphire-amethyst eyes cracked open and locked onto me, her expression unreadable.
She looked like she was deciding whether I'd pair well with a rare white wine.
I bolted.
The kitchen was... empty.
Gone were the shouting chefs, the glorious clatter of cutlery, the glorious aroma of noble feasts.
Just a cold hearth and a mocking silence that sounded like the head maid whispering, "You were supposed to notify the cook if Regina was to eat, idiot."
"Maybe you're not cut out for this," the System chimed in, its voice crisp and smug. "Why not settle for having your head cut off instead?"
"Cut it out and help me!" I hissed, eyes darting across shelves and counters.
I had no idea what Regina liked. No idea how to cook anything. And zero idea why the pantry had 18 different types of flour but no bread.
"Cut your coat according to your size," the System droned, "and prepare some cup noodles."
"This is a medieval kitchen," I growled. "Where am I supposed to find noodles? Or cups?"
"Oh look," it said dryly, " marinated lamb. Shawarma mode engaged."
I blinked. Sure enough, there were thin cuts of lamb already seasoned and tucked away in a clay dish like they'd been waiting for divine intervention—or culinary theft.
Under the System's surprisingly competent direction, I pan-fried the lamb, roasted some root vegetables, and even plated it with those delicate fan-cut marks that scream fine dining. It wasn't exactly fit for a noble banquet, but it looked... intentional.
"How do you know how to cook like this?" I asked suspiciously.
"Player memory access: enabled," the System replied. "Turns out you watched a lot of late-night cooking shorts."
I stared at the plate in disbelief.
Well. Bon appétit.
Back at Regina's room, she was sitting up now, her long, messy golden-black hair tied in a lazy knot, looking at me like I was ten minutes late to an execution.
Her eyes narrowed at the plate I placed in front of her.
"You made me wait."
Not a question. A declaration. I winced.
She picked up a fork, took one bite.
Chewed. Swallowed.
Sighed.
"...Acceptable."
I stared at her, stunned. She took another bite.
"Clean up after yourself," she added.
"...Yes, mistress."
As I turned to tidy up the room—again—I heard the System hum like it was sipping digital tea.
"You're improving."
"I still want to die," I muttered.
"Charactergrowth," it replied smugly.