Chapter eight

The South, they said, was paradise. But it reeked of blood.

It had been a week since Crimson had been made a servant in this manor , a full, dragging week of cleaning chimneys, and answering to the clipped commands of cold voices with bowed head and bitten tongue.

A fortnight since she'd left behind the smoldering ruin of Windshire , her village, her grandmother's limp body swinging in the firelight like something out of a nightmare.

A five-day journey, half of it spent crammed into a carriage with half-dead girls, the other half being traded like livestock by two smirking men with hungry eyes who'd used the vampire distraction to capture some women.

Lara.

Her heart clenched. She hadn't seen Lara in two days. They'd arrived together, sold together , separated at the gates of the manor.

And here, in the warmth of the South, where sunlight spilled like gold over the white-stone walls and flower vines climbed happily along balconies, Crimson only felt the chill grow deeper in her bones.

Because this wasn't salvation.

This was a cage made of silk and silver.

The manor was massive, a palatial sprawl of arched corridors and candlelit halls, each one eerily quiet. She'd never seen a building so large in her life, and to think, it belonged to one man.

A vampire.

A Lord, the other servants whispered. A powerful one. Wealthy. Ancient. But also… absent.

Apparently, he'd left on "business." That's what the servants say.

And speaking of the butler...

He'd been the one to buy her and Lara. He was a man, a vampire who looked to be in his late middle age, with graying black hair slicked back, a perpetual frown tugging at the corners of his pale lips. His eyes were a deep, unnatural crimson, and though he spoke in soft, measured tones, there was something beneath them, something sharp and watching. Always watching.

He never gave his name. They just called him the Steward.

No one liked the Steward. Even the older maids avoided his gaze. His rules were absolute: no entering the West Wing, no speaking unless spoken to, no leaving your quarters after nightfall, and under no circumstances were any servants allowed to enter the Master's Study.

Crimson had committed all of these to memory.

She'd also memorized the names of the others. Maire, the head cook who cursed in three languages. Annah, the quiet lady who is known to only speak little. Jolene, who used to be the daughter of a noble house of a 'neighbouring kingdom' , used to, before her father gambled their family into debt. Now she scrubbed floors beside Crimson like the rest of them.

But none of them spoke much about him. The vampire Lord.

Some said he only drank from crystal chalices. Others said he preferred his blood warm, straight from the source. One girl claimed he had once torn out the tongue of a maid who woke him too early.

Crimson didn't know what to believe. She didn't care to believe.

All she knew was that she was now sleeping in a narrow bed inside a servants' dormitory beneath.

She was now cleaning the home of the monsters who destroyed her village.

She hadn't told anyone what happened to her village. Not that they cared to know.

She kept it all locked up inside.

That, and the handkerchief.

It was still hidden in the lining of her cloak, now washed and stiff from the dry heat. She didn't know why she'd kept it through the massacre.

The stranger with the hat and soulless green eyes. Was he one of them?

She honestly couldn't believe it, every single servant in the manor was human.

No vampires dusting furniture, no undead scrubbing chamber pots, not even a single half-blood sweeping the floors. Apparently, the arrogant bloodsuckers thought it beneath them to serve one another. Not even their own kind.

Thud.

Crimson flinched as the heavy wooden bucket slammed onto the cold stone floor beside her, soapy water sloshing over the rim and dampening the hem of her already worn dress. She looked up sharply, only to meet the sour expression of Maire, the head cook.

"Get to it, then," Maire barked, wiping her hands on her apron. "I want that chimney so clean I could lick it myself... and don't think I won't."

Of course she didn't. Maire never joked. Her voice grated like an iron pan scraped raw, and she seemed to have made Crimson her personal target since the day she arrived. Red hair always seemed to offend someone.

Crimson clenched her jaw and forced her aching knees to move. She dipped the brush into the bucket and returned to scrubbing the soot-stained brick wall. This was her life now. Scrubbing chimneys. Clearing out the bones of firewood in over a dozen hearths scattered throughout the manor. The ash stained her skin, and even after washing, she smelled faintly of smoke.

In contrast, Lara had been given the less backbreaking task of dusting shelves and wiping down furniture , a small mercy Crimson didn't envy.

But of course, someone had to be the coal girl.

And today, the kitchen was full of eyes.

The smell of stew filled the air, mixed with flour and smoke. Servants milled about, some chopping vegetables, others preparing trays for god knows who, because the Master of the manor wasn't around. And at the far end of the room, standing too comfortably against the counter with her arms crossed, stood Ferra.

"Don't forget to polish it till your reflection smiles back at you, Crimson," Ferra drawled with a smirk.

"Honestly," Ferra went on, voice loud and deliberate, "I always wondered why she was named Crimson," she said, stretching the word like taffy. "It's such a... peculiar name for a human, don't you think? Sounds more like a meal than a person."

The other servants nearby snorted or giggled, emboldened by Ferra's smirk.

"She should've just been named 'Blood,'" added another maid, "since that's what she'll be good for. "

Crimson kept scrubbing. Harder this time.

Maire didn't even bat an eye. She was too busy stirring a pot of something thick and meaty.

The others snickered, except for two. Jolene, who stood by the pantry checking inventory, and Annah, who leaned silently against the far wall, arms folded and face unreadable as ever.

Jolene slammed the pantry book shut. Her voice, though calm, cut through the room.

"At least she's working. Unlike some who spend more time flapping their tongues than using their hands."

Ferra turned toward her with raised brows. "Careful, Jolene. You'll make us think you miss your noble manners."

A few laughed again, but this time with less certainty.

Jolene stepped forward, head high. Her curly brown hair was pulled back neatly, framing her deep brown skin and the determined set of her mouth. "I may have lost my name, but I didn't lose my spine. You want to laugh at someone who's doing your dirty work while you idle and sneer? That says more about you than it ever will about her."

The room quieted. Ferra's face twitched, but she said nothing. The others looked away, returning to their tasks with sudden interest in cutting onions and peeling carrots.

Crimson kept her head down, but her throat tightened.

She didn't need kindness. Not here. Not in this place.

Maire clanged a spoon against the side of a pot. "Less chatter. More work. Or I'll have all of you out scrubbing soot before the next bell tolls."

Everyone moved faster.

Crimson wiped the sweat off her brow with a sooty sleeve, her arms aching. Her fingers were raw, nails cracked from scraping charcoal that refused to loosen.

___

Crimson finally dropped the soot-blackened brush into the bucket with a wet splat. Her shoulders sagged.

Done.

The hearth in the kitchen was spotless now, cleaner than it had likely been in years, gleaming faintly beneath the dull light of the sconces. Maire would still find something to complain about, she always did, but Crimson didn't care. Not right now.

She straightened slowly, grimacing as a sharp pain pinched between her shoulder blades. Her spine ached, her knees throbbed from crouching for hours, and her palms felt like they were rubbed raw.

She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, stretching her arms overhead until she heard a satisfying crack from her spine.

"Gods," she muttered under her breath, "this place will kill me before the vampires get the chance."

Leaving the bucket behind, she stepped into the corridor, adjusting her servants cloak tighter around herself. Despite being in the South, the manor's inner halls were still cold, silent, and oddly still, like a forgotten tomb polished to perfection.

Other servants moved about with quiet efficiency. Crimson passed them quietly, her boots scuffing against the stone.

She found herself wondering how Lara was doing. The few times they caught sight of each other were little more than fleeting moments: a glance, a nod, a shared look of exhaustion.

She slowed her steps as she neared one of the tall, draped windows lining the corridor. The heavy velvet curtain was pulled halfway shut, but just enough light bled through for her to catch a glimpse of the world outside.

She reached out and gently pushed the curtain aside.

Beyond the glass, the world looked... still. The wide manor field stretched out like a sea of green, the sky above a dull wash of pale gold. A few birds fluttered across the treetops, but otherwise, silent. There were no carriages, no people, no signs of life at all. It was beautiful. And eerie.

Her breath fogged up the window.

She blinked.

From this height, the land looked like a painting: still, distant, unreal. As if she weren't staring at the world, but a memory of it.

A slight chill ran down her spine.

She stepped back, letting the curtain fall gently back into place.

And she wasn't alone.

Behind her, a whisper of motion.

Soft. Fluid.

Unseen by her, from the far corner of the hallway, something moved.

A shadow, long, thin, deliberate, stretched across the edge of a wooden chest, then receded with impossible silence. It curved along the legs of an armoire, hugging the stone, shifting as if breathing.

It lingered. Watching.

Waiting.

But when Crimson turned around, frowning faintly as if sensing something, there was nothing. Only dust, polished wood, and the faint creak of a shutter rattling against the wind.

She shook her head.

As she walked away, the curtain behind her rippled ever so slightly. As if something had passed through the corridor… unseen.