The morning light barely filtered through the heavy purple curtains of Wrighton Manor.
In a large bedroom, the silence was broken only by the peaceful breathing of a boy fast asleep, a thin trickle of saliva escaping from the corner of his mouth.
The parquet floor reflected the filtered rays of light, giving the room a calm, almost unreal air, as if time had stood still.
A young woman with dark brown hair opened the curtains slightly, allowing the sun to caress the floor. She patted her black skirt, adjusted her apron, straightened the office chair with a resigned sigh, and rolled her shoulders slightly, as if to shake off the fatigue of the first morning steps.
She approached the bed, adjusting the collar of her shirt and smoothing her hair behind her ears.
"Young master, it's time to wake up." She whispered softly.
The boy grunted something unintelligible and turned over, wrapped up in his sheets.
"Young master... get up!"
"Hmm... ten more minutes... frrrrr..."
Mireille rolled her eyes, stood still for a moment... then raised her hand high.
SMACK!
The sharp sound echoed through the room, rattling the windows and travelling down the corridor to the ears of the steward, Alciel, three rooms away.
The latter stopped, calmly adjusted his monocle, sighed and continued on his way as if nothing had happened.
In the bedroom, the young Silas Wrighton was holding his cheek, eyes moist.
'"M-Mimi! Why?!"'
'"Because it is already ten o'clock in the morning, and your tutor has been waiting for you for several dozens of minutes."
Silas stared at her with a mixture of pain and resignation. Then, without a word, he hurried behind the screen to get changed.
"You could have at least woken me up some other way." He muttered, splashing water on his face.
"I did. But you were still asleep."
Mireille opened the wall wardrobe and took out a clean shirt. Silas held out his arms, grumbling.
"Several dozens of minutes... damn it."
"Yes. You'll probably get your hands caned." She confirmed innocently.
Silas froze. A shiver ran down his spine.
"M-Mimi! Don't say that..."
Mireille gave him a sly smile, finished buttoning his sleeve, then softened her tone.
"There you go. Now you look like a dignified lord."
"Thank you, Mimi!" replied Silas softly, his cheeks turning red.
The maid opened the door for him, and Silas rushed into the corridor.
"Master Silas! No running in the corridors!"
"Yes, yes!" he replied, already skipping down the stairs.
Mireille sighed, ran a hand over her forehead and followed him at a leisurely pace, a slight smile playing on her lips.
—— As you may have already guessed, my name is Mireille, or "Mimi", as my masters like to call me. I work for the Wrighton family, one of the oldest lineages in the kingdom of Velenisia.——
She descended the grand central staircase, her hand brushing against the polished wood, then crossed the hall. The tapestries of the Wrighton ancestors gazed silently at her, and the crystal chandeliers cast tiny sparkles of light onto the stone walls.
—— Nothing predestined me for a life of servanthood. And certainly not in the service of an earl. ——
In the kitchen, the smell of warm bread and coffee wafted through the air. The servants were already busy tidying up the utensils and preparing breakfast.
Mireille exchanged a few quick words with them, a wink here, a nod there, recognising each of their usual gestures.
She grabbed a jug, filled a glass, and placed two buns, a glass of milk and some fruit on a tray.
She paused in front of the large portrait of a young woman, once the mistress of the house.
——To be honest... I thought I'd end my life in a brothel or on a battlefield. But hey...——
She smiled bitterly, looked up at the blue sky visible through the open window, and hugged the jug close to her.
***
A few years earlier, in the plains of Noveria, on the western front, the wind howled over the military camp. Hundreds of tents stretched as far as the eye could see, between the carts, horses and smoke from the fires.
The air was thick with dust, sweat and the metallic smell of dried blood.
The clanking of armour and the pounding of boots echoed across the ground, mingling with the shouts of officers and shouted orders.
A young messenger raced across the camp, his armour clanking with every stride. He stopped abruptly in front of a large command tent, out of breath.
"Captain! The scouts are back!"
The canvas opened abruptly. A young woman turned her head towards him... half-dressed.
Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes shone with a dangerous gleam.
The soldier blushed scarlet.
"A-Ah! S-Sorry, Captain! I'll come back later!"
But he didn't have time to back away. A cold blade came to rest against his throat.
Mireille — much younger, but already surprisingly formidable — stared at him with her dark eyes.
"What did you see?"
"See? See what? I don't think I saw anything. You must be mistaken, because I didn't see anything at all!"
She moved the blade closer, her smile widening.
"Oh... that's good, I like that. It's a bit of a shame. It would be silly if we found your body slashed, your eyes gouged out, your jaw broken, your stomach ripped open, your—"
"I didn't see anything! I'm blind! Matter of fact, I'm blind in both eyes! And I think my brain is fried, too!" interrupted the soldier, raising his hands.
Silence.
Then a sigh.
Mireille put away her dagger and took a few steps back.
"That's enough. Get out. And don't come back until I call you."
"Roger that!" he replied, scurrying away like a rabbit, his eyes wide with fear.
Mireille looked up at the fabric of the tent, where sunlight filtered through in pale strips.
In the camp, soldiers laughed loudly, drank, tested each other in small duels, and some mages cast weak spells into the air, transforming the camp into a strange dance of light and shadow.
The clanging of weapons, the clatter of boots, and the whistling of the wind formed a chaotic but familiar symphony.
For a few moments, the war seemed far away. Yet the plain still had its eyes open, and soon chaos would remind everyone of its presence.
Mireille sighed, ready to return to her tent to finish dressing, but a cold shiver ran through her.
She slowly turned her head towards the horizon.
In the distance, on the plain, beyond the trenches and spikes, the enemy banners had just appeared on the horizon.
And with them... a shadow that the soldiers feared more than death itself.