"Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe."
***
The candle flame danced on my desk. Shadows stretched across my hastily scrawled notes.
Operation Save the Maid: Success.
Grundy: Arrested.
Lyra: Alive.
Status: One less death on my conscience.
I leaned back in my chair. The old wood creaked in protest. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until spots bloomed behind my eyelids.
The adrenaline from this afternoon's performance had faded hours ago. What remained was bone-deep exhaustion from maintaining my pathetic facade for so long.
I rubbed my temples. Already dreading the morning.
Lucius would be insufferable. His condescension was practically a physical force. Father's gaze would slide right over me like I was a crack in the wall. And Lady Vivienne would give me that look again. The one that said I wasn't just a stain on her life, but the memory of a stain she couldn't quite scrub out.
The script was getting old.
But it was necessary.
The moment anyone suspected that Kaelen Leone possessed even a fragment of intelligence, my survival strategy would crumble. Better to be dismissed as harmless. To be the joke they'd already grown bored of telling. Than studied as a threat worth eliminating.
A soft scraping sound from the window made me freeze.
What the hell?
My room was on the second floor, facing the estate's inner courtyard. A deliberate architectural choice meant to prevent the "problematic" third son from having easy escape routes. The only way to reach that window would be to scale the stone wall. That required skill, upper body strength, and reckless courage.
My hand moved slowly toward the letter opener on my desk.
An assassin?
The window opened with barely a whisper. The hinges were silent in a way that suggested someone had oiled them recently.
A figure slipped through the gap. Dark clothing that swallowed the candlelight. A slender build that suggested speed over strength. Hair that caught what little light remained like polished obsidian.
Lyra.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
She stood in the center of my room. Her red eyes reflected the candle flame like twin embers. There was an intensity in them I'd never seen before. The servant girl who'd served me tea this morning was gone. Something else had taken her place.
"You know," I said, forcing my voice into its usual weak register, "most people use doors. Revolutionary concept, I'm told. Stairs. Handles. All very convenient. Much less risk of falling to one's death."
She didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge the words.
Instead, she moved to the center of the room. Her steps made no sound on the wooden floor. Her hands reached up to the pins holding her hair in its servant's knot.
What is she doing?
One by one, the pins came free. She pulled them with deliberate slowness that made the act seem like a ritual. Her hair tumbled down her back in a wave of black silk. The transformation was immediate. The invisible maid had become something else entirely.
Something that made my mouth go dry in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
This is not good. This is very much not good. This is the opposite of good.
She sank to her knees in the middle of my room. Her eyes never left mine.
"Lyra, what are you—"
"My hands," she whispered. The words came out ragged. Torn from somewhere deep. She held them out, palms up, like she was offering evidence in a trial only she could see. The skin was rough from years of lye soap and hard labor. Tiny scars marked them from kitchen accidents and harsh treatment.
"They were for floors. For filth. For scrubbing dirt from beneath their boots." Her gaze locked onto mine. "They're yours now. Tell them what to do. Command them."
Oh no.
"My eyes only saw what was beneath notice. Dust. Grime. The things they wanted invisible." Her voice cracked. "Now they only see you. Master."
Oh no no no.
"I'm empty. A vessel with no purpose." She pressed her hands against her heart. "Please fill me. Give me meaning."
The college student still living somewhere in my skull, that naive idiot who'd believed in things like justice and fairness, was screaming at me to stop this. To shut it down. To send her away before this got any worse.
But the words wouldn't come.
"You're wrong," I started.
She kept talking like I hadn't spoken. Like my words were wind and she was stone.
"You saw the truth when no one else could. You moved the world itself to save me. You wove a chain of events to protect my life." Her fingers splayed across the rough fabric of her servant's dress. "I understand now. My life wasn't meant for them. For being their invisible thing. It was meant for you. Only you. Serving you is my purpose. It's why I exist."
Oh shit.
Oh shit shit shit.
This was bad.
This was exactly the kind of complication I'd been trying to avoid. The kind of emotional entanglement that got people killed in stories like these.
I'd saved her because the alternative was watching an innocent person die for a crime she didn't commit. Her execution would have been nothing more than a convenient plot device for Grundy's embezzlement scheme. It was basic human decency. Nothing more. A simple act of not being a complete monster.
But she thought I was some kind of all-seeing mastermind. A puppet master who'd orchestrated the entire day's events for her benefit. Who'd moved the pieces on some cosmic chessboard with prescient genius.
Which, technically, I had.
But not for the reasons she thinks.
Not because she was special.
Because I cheated.
I knew the plot. I knew Grundy was going to frame her. I knew Thomas had a grudge that could be exploited. I just put the pieces together because I'd literally read the script.
That's not wisdom. That's not power. That's just having the cheat codes.
But looking at her now, kneeling on my floor with that fanatic devotion burning in her red eyes, I realized something terrible.
She wasn't going to believe that.
Nothing I could say would convince her I was just some transmigrated reader with plot knowledge. She'd already built me up into something I wasn't. Something divine. Something worthy of worship.
And trying to tear that down might be more dangerous than playing along.
Great. Just great.
I saved one life and accidentally started a cult.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Lyra remained on her knees. Waiting. Her eyes never wavered.
I was going to have to say something.
I just had no idea what.
Think, Kaelen. Think.
The candle flame flickered. Lyra's shadow stretched across the floor.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice pointed out that this was probably going to get a lot more complicated before it got any simpler.
Story of my life.
Literally.