The carriage rattled violently across the uneven dirt road, wheels grinding against stone and root. Garreth sat alone on the driver's bench, reins clutched tight in his trembling hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps that clouded the cold evening air.
'Damn it all.'
He cracked the whip again, urging the horse faster. His chest heaved as sweat dripped down his temple despite the chill.
'If not for the young miss ordering me, I would have never gone to that cursed place.'
The image of Milbrook Village flashed through his mind—rotting wood, diseased livestock, hollow-eyed villagers who looked more corpse than human. The stench of death hung thick there, clinging to everything like a plague fog.
'That place is already dead.'
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He'd been ordered to accompany Count Redwood's son Viktor and his nanny to that forsaken village.
Ordered to stay and watch.
But staying meant dying, and Garreth wasn't stupid enough to rot alongside some exiled noble's reject.
'I'll just take my family and escape the county. Head south, maybe. Anywhere but here.'
The guilt twisted in his gut, but survival burned hotter. Viktor's face surfaced in his thoughts—that strange, unsettling calmness the young man wore when accepting exile.
No begging. No tears. Just... acceptance.
Garreth's lips curled into a bitter grimace. 'That guy will definitely die there.'
The thought had barely formed when something whistled through the air.
THUNK.
The arrow buried itself deep into the horse's flank. The animal screamed, rearing back violently before its legs buckled.
The carriage lurched sideways, wood splintering as it toppled.
"ARGH—!?" Garreth flew from the bench, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
He gasped, dirt filling his mouth as he tried to push himself up. Pain shot through his ribs.
Before he could even process what happened, rough fabric smothered his face—a cloth bag yanked over his head, plunging him into darkness.
"Wha—!"
Hands grabbed him from all sides, yanking him upright. He thrashed, but his body was already weakened from the fall.
"Kkurgh...wa..wait..." They dragged him off the road, his boots scraping uselessly against dirt and stone.
He was still a few miles from Redwood territory. So close to safety. So goddamn close.
Then came the first punch.
BAM!
It slammed into his gut like a hammer. Garreth doubled over, coughing violently as bile rose in his throat.
"Who sent you there?" A cold voice demanded from somewhere beyond the cloth.
"N-no one!" Garreth wheezed.
Another punch. This one to his ribs. Something cracked. He screamed.
''Who sent you?!''
BAM!
"No one! I swear! Please!"
Someone grabbed his hand. Before he could react, agony erupted from his fingertips. They were tearing his nails off. One by one.
Garreth's screams tore through the night, raw and animalistic. His vision swam behind the cloth, consciousness flickering like a dying candle.
'Please... please just let me die...'
Suddenly, the cloth was ripped from his face. Cool air hit his sweat-soaked skin as someone forced his jaw open, shoving a bottle between his lips.
Liquid poured into his mouth—thick, bitter, glowing faintly green even in the dim light.
His eyes went wide.
'A healing potion.'
He tried to spit it out, but rough hands clamped his mouth shut, forcing him to swallow. The potion burned down his throat, then spread through his body like wildfire.
The pain in his ribs faded. His torn fingertips itched violently as nails began growing back, flesh knitting together.
'High-grade. This is... this is noble-quality medicine.'
His middle-aged body, which had felt halfway to the grave moments ago, suddenly thrummed with renewed vitality.
He gasped, blinking rapidly as his vision cleared.
And then he heard it. A woman's voice, smooth and cold as polished steel.
"Well done, Garreth. At least you're not the type to snitch on me."
His blood turned to ice.
Slowly, his gaze lifted. There, seated in an ornate wooden chair just a few feet away, sat a woman bathed in lantern light.
Blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders like spun gold, and her blue eyes gleamed with something dangerous—something predatory.
"Lady Elena?!" His voice cracked, mouth trembling. "I-I-I—"
She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a curiosity. Her lips curved into something that might have been a smile on anyone else, but on her, it looked like a blade's edge.
"I—" Garreth scrambled for words, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I got terrified, my lady! That place—it's cursed! I swear I'll follow your orders! I'll do whatever you need! Please, I—"
Elena chuckled. It was a soft sound, almost musical, but it made his skin crawl.
"Follow my orders?" She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other with elegant ease. "I told you to stay there. To keep an eye on him." Her voice dropped, losing all warmth. "But you ran away, didn't you, Garreth?"
He trembled, words dying in his throat. His nails—freshly regrown—dug into his palms as terror seized him whole.
Elena sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "But I'll show mercy. You're not the type to snitch, even after all that... interrogation." Her gaze flicked toward the shadows where her men stood. "That counts for something."
"Thank you!" Garreth gasped, practically sobbing. "Thank you, young miss! I won't fail you again! I swear it!"
But Elena wasn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes had drifted upward, toward the dark sky visible through the trees.
Her pale neck arched gracefully as she swallowed, and for just a moment, something flickered across her face—disbelief, perhaps. Or fury.
"So you chose death over me, Viktor?" she murmured, almost to herself.
Garreth froze at sudden smile.
Elena's jaw tightened.
Her hands curled into fists on the armrests of her chair. She couldn't believe it.
She'd been so certain—''so certain''—that when Viktor faced exile, he'd break.
That he'd fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness.
That she'd see him shatter, and then maybe, just maybe, she'd have stepped in.
Handled the execution. Made excuses to the Count. Spared him the worst of it.
And then took him as her husband, a collar in neck while he licked her feet like a good chubby fat dog he was—her cute teddy.
But instead, he'd chosen exile. Walked away without a word of protest. Accepted his fate like it meant nothing.
Like 'she' meant nothing.
It was worse than rejection. It was humiliation. Like he'd spat in her face and walked away whistling.
Her breathing quickened, chest rising and falling as she fought to control the storm raging inside her.
Finally, she looked back down at Garreth.
"Return to him."
Garreth's face went white. "W-what?"
"Return to Milbrook Village," Elena said calmly, each word precise. "Watch him. Report everything he does. Every word. Every action."
"Please!" Garreth's voice broke. "My family—they depend on me! If I stay in that dead village, I'll die! Disease, starvation, bandits—it's a death sentence!"
Elena blinked slowly. Then she smiled.
"Bring her."
A figure stumbled forward from the shadows, pulled by a guard holding a chain.
The woman—if she could still be called that—wore a rusted iron collar around her neck.
Her hair was matted and filthy, hanging in dark clumps.
Her face was bruised, malnourished, barely recognizable as human.
But the worst part was her eyes—hollow, empty, like all the life had been beaten out of her.
And her tail. Or what was left of it. Half of it had been severed, the stump wrapped in dirty cloth.
A slave. Broken. Trained.
Garreth's stomach dropped.
Elena rose from her chair, moving with the grace of a dancer. She approached the slave slowly, running a finger along the edge of the collar before looking back at Garreth.
A smile tugged at her lips—soft, sweet, utterly terrifying.
'If you want to abandon me and live in some run-down town, then so be it,' she thought. 'You'll live alone until death, Viktor.'
She turned her gaze to the slave, voice firm and cold.
"Visit Milbrook Village. Find Viktor Redwood's nanny."
The slave's hollow eyes lifted slightly.
Elena's smile widened.
"And kill her."