PRESENT◇ CHAPTER 4: MORNING ASSIGNMENT

The sunlight poured through the window, casting a stark, unforgiving light onto the considerable lump enveloped in blankets on the bed.

Outside, a chorus of cheerful songbirds flitted among the branches, their melodies vibrant enough to challenge even the most skilled orchestra in the Faraway.

"Bothersome birds," Gabriella mumbled groggily from her cocoon of warmth, a reluctant soldier still caught between the realm of dreams and the reality of daybreak.

A soft smile tugged at her lips as she savored the fading remnants of a splendid dream.

As the songbirds continued to serenade the morning, their delightful tunes seemed to dance through the air, wrapping around her and nearly lulling her back into slumber.

Suddenly, an abrupt and jarring croak shattered the tranquility, slicing through the air like a knife and sending the songbirds scattering in a whirlwind of feathers and startled tweets.

The raucous sound persisted, an unwelcome cacophony that had plagued Gabriella's mornings for several days. With a groan that echoed her irritation, she finally disentangled herself from the blankets, arms stretching wide in a dramatic yawn.

Emerging from her nest of comfort, she looked like a vision from a classic painting—wild, tousled hair cascading around her, eyes still glassy with sleep, and rosy cheeks blushing against the morning's chill. Yet, the only discord in this idyllic portrait was the scowl etched on her face, aimed squarely at the source of her disturbance.

Determined to reclaim her peace, Gabriella tugged open the window. The cold morning air rushed in, wrapping around her like a chilling embrace that sent goosebumps racing across her skin. She leaned against the window sill, savoring the invigorating bite of the frost-kissed breeze. Her gaze fixed on a dark figure perched just beyond—the crow.

In a moment frozen in time, the crow halted mid-squawk, tilting its head to regard the vexed young woman with beady, obsidian eyes. Its demeanor was unsettling, and an eerie caw bubbled forth from its throat, a sound that hinted at knowing more than mere feathered instincts should.

"See you've yet to become someone's dinner, Morfeo," Gabriella remarked coolly, masking the tremor in her hands, which were not merely from the chill.

"Ah, and you've yet to learn basic manners, I see," the crow rasped, its voice a harsh grating against the background of the morning. "But I won't quibble over a good morning." It flapped its wings, the movement unsettling, and its eyes glinted with a strange, sinister intelligence. Despite its small stature, the crow emanated a foreboding aura that filled the space around them.

Morfeo, the ominous Therak beast, took pleasure in haranguing this particular human. After a two-month hiatus, it had returned, its mistress sending the creature with designs that were undoubtedly wicked.

Hiding its glee, the crow delivered its message with somber gravity.

Gabriella's complexion paled as each word fell from the creature's beak, her fists clenching white-knuckled on the windowsill as the gravity of the task weighed heavily upon her.

"...his life before the third full moon," Morfeo concluded, the finality of its words echoing in the silence that enveloped Gabriella.

In a moment of urgency, she darted to the door, peering down the deserted corridor on either side for any signs of life. Only when she confirmed the solitude did her racing heart begin to settle.

Returning to the window, a silence enveloped her mind, pressing on her like the cold air that filled the room. She wanted to refuse, to unshackle herself from this binding command. Although she had triumphed over past assignments, this was a grim step—taking another's life weighed too heavily on her conscience.

The truth clawed at her; she was but a puppet, a pawn to one of the most malevolent forces across the Planes. It was with boiling anger and bitter self-disgust that she cursed the day she had allowed herself weakness, becoming ensnared in another's servitude.

Savoring the tempest of emotions that traversed Gabriella's face, Morfeo seized the moment to chime in, "Know that Mistress has you in mind every single day. She worries for you and hopes you make the right decision." There was an edge to the crow's voice, one that cut through Gabriella's simmering frustration.

"You possess intelligence," it continued mockingly, "it should be abundantly clear if you can refuse. If you successfully retrieve—"

Gabriella, frustration bubbling over, cut it off mid-sentence, "I don't wish to hear your empty and unnecessary promises. I demand an audience with her Evilness." The chatter with the crow, one of her many puppets, was wearing thin.

Morfeo's eyes darkened with a cunning awareness, piercing her with an unsettling disdain that made her skin prickle. Its next words dripped with malice, echoing a bitter truth as if delighting in her turmoil,

"His life or yours. You decide."

Gabriella was no martyr; she had never been one to embrace the mantle of self-sacrifice. She understood all too well the limits of her own empathy, a gentle facade masking the steely resolve of survival beneath.

The knock on the door gently pulled Gabriella from her thoughts, and she felt a flutter of anticipation as she turned to look at it.

Gabriella had intended to chase Morfeo away but found he had vanished without a trace, leaving her momentarily relieved. She decided to open the door, mentally preparing herself for whatever was waiting on the other side.

"Of course; it had to be her," she thought with a hint of exasperation.

Having just wrapped up a rather trying conversation with the crow, Gabriella felt that being summoned to breakfast by her astute sister was more mental gymnastics than she anticipated for the day.

"Oh." Gloria quickly assessed her sister. "Well, you're a bit disheveled."

'Blunt as always,' Gabriella mused.

"To be fair, I'm not really a morning person. I'll be down in five minutes," she explained, attempting to block Gloria's view of her room.

"You'll need more than five minutes to sort yourself out—"

"What are you doing?" Gloria's discerning gaze, accentuated by her glasses, scrutinized Gabriella.

"You're particularly inquisitive this morning. I'd like a little privacy while I get ready," Gabriella said, closing the door to create some space.

"You know, this just raises more eyebrows," Gloria called out from the other side of the door.

With a roll of her eyes, Gabriella focused on freshening up.

Once ready, she passed through the hallway and paused before the standing mirror. Studying her reflection, she took a deep breath.

Ordinary.

She resembled countless others one might encounter on the street, yet her lips—a beautiful feature—glistened with the promise of something unique.

As she moved toward the kitchen, the sound of Gideon clattering pots and pans reached her ears, adding a familiar rhythm to the morning atmosphere.

"Our dashing young master Gideon is not only handsome and gentle but also a delightful conversationalist, excelling in all his 'wifely' duties. And let's not forget, he's a culinary wizard!" Genevieve gushed at the dining table as Gideon emerged from the kitchen, triumphantly carrying a pot of steaming, aromatic protein porridge.

Gabriella settled into her seat beside Gracelyn, who was engrossed in the morning edition of Primeria Today, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"But when will such a man, straight out of a fairytale, bring home a stunning sister-in-law?" Genevieve continued, and the excitement in her voice matched the warmth of the porridge as she ladled her share into a bowl.

Gideon shot Genevieve a playful stink eye, causing her to stuff her mouth full and clamp her lips wisely shut.

"Where's the bread?" Gabriella inquired, scanning the table expectantly.

Gideon removed his whimsical chef's hat. "Ah, that. Well, let's just say we've run out of flour, among other essentials."

Genevieve's curiosity was insatiable. "Other essentials like what?"

Gideon smirked as he dug into his meal. "Oh, you really don't want me to list them all, do you? Let's see… eggs, sugar, oatmeal, potatoes, rice, barley… the list goes on."

Gloria, taking stock beside the creaky old wooden dining table, removed her glasses. "We're running low on funds," she explained, her voice steady. "Our winery is struggling. There's a myriad of financial details I could delve into, but…" her voice trailed off, the gravity of the situation evident.

With her hair hastily pulled back in a ponytail and her simple yellow dress blending into the background, Gloria hardly looked like the noble lady she was.

The air thickened with the weight of their circumstances.

"What's the paper say today, Gracey?" Genevieve asked, eager for any distraction from their grim reality.

Gracelyn bit her lip, her expression darkening. "Amelia Longwood's in the paper. She shared her thoughts about the ball this evening.

Gabriella exchanged a glance with Gideon, both sighing in unison. Amelia Longwood was Gracelyn's fierce rival, both vying for the royal family's attention to win the Crown Prince's heart.

Gracelyn was set on marrying the Crown Prince of their continent, yet the once-proud Gael family had seen their status wane over the decades, now teetering on the edge of middle-class obscurity. As a lowly orphaned aristocrat, Gracelyn's chances of marrying the prince dwindled.

"You're so obsessed," Gloria observed bluntly, donning her glasses once more. With a weary sigh, she excused herself from breakfast. As she trudged upstairs, she muttered, "Get a life," clearly fed up with the swirling drama of royal aspirations.

The air crackled with tension—a mixture of dreams, rivalries, and unspoken hopes all colliding in their modest home.