Virellen Elown Cyradis

Virellen Elowen Cyradis was born in the outskirts of Caerwyn, the daughter of a once-prominent merchant family that fell into ruin after a fire devoured their estate. With debts to clear and pride to preserve, Virellen took matters into her own hands.

She trained at one of the capital's elite servant academies—an institution that trained housemaids not just in etiquette and maintenance, but in reading the moods of nobles and adapting with precision.

Though she graduated at the top of her class, Virellen never quite lost the gleam of rebellion in her eye, nor the crooked grin that betrayed her disdain for stuffy formality.

She worked a handful of noble households, always fired for "personality clashes"—a polite way of saying she was too quick-witted, too sharp-tongued, and far too good at uncovering secrets people wanted hidden.

When she was purchased—no, hired—by Alaric, she expected the usual: cold arrogance, condescension, an endless rotation of orders.

What she found instead was a master whose golden eyes saw past masks, yet asked nothing she did not already offer.

The rumors about Alaric being a child not long ago? She scoffed at them.

"People say all sorts of things when they're jealous,"

She'd muttered once to herself.

"No one that graceful has toddled in diapers recently."

She has never been touched, nor had her heart stirred by anyone before—and though she'd never say it aloud, there's something about this household, this strange bond between master and mistresses, that makes her sometimes pause in quiet wonder.

***

Virellen first noticed the marks on their necks a few days after she moved in.

At first, she had mistaken them for tattos—some eccentric noble fashion, perhaps. But when she'd caught Serineth brushing her fingers against it with a strange reverence, and Aurevia tilting her head just slightly when anybody passed by, realization settled in.

Slave seals.

Not just any binding spell, but the kind that marked a soul in submission, tied them irrevocably to a master.

Her first reaction was a confused blend of disbelief and discomfort. How could they—those elegant, powerful girls—wear them like regalia? She remembered standing in the hallway, watching

Cellione laugh softly as she adjusted her collar to reveal the seal more clearly, catching Alaric's passing gaze like a kitten trying to impress its keeper.

And yet... Alaric never treated them as lesser. Virellen saw it in the way he moved among them—no command in his tone, no cruelty in his gaze.

There was dignity in how he addressed them. Respect, even adoration. And the girls? They responded not with fear, but with a kind of fierce pride, as though being bound to him wasn't servitude but salvation.

Still, Virellen couldn't make sense of it. Not yet.

One night, as she cleared the dishes, she caught Aurevia quietly whispering to Serineth,

"To wear his seal is to belong to someone who would never break us."

And just like that, the mark no longer looked like chains.

It looked like a promise.

***

Night had long since fallen.

Moonlight threaded through the gauzy curtains of the manor's quiet corridor, washing the polished floor in silver. The world outside slumbered, save for the wind sighing gently through the trees. But within the manor, not all was still.

Virellen stood alone in the hallway, arms folded, her back leaning lazily against a wooden pillar. Her maid uniform—sleek, dark, practical—was only half buttoned at the collar.

A small candle lantern rested beside her foot, casting flickering shadows upward across her face. She wasn't on duty now. Not really. But sleep hadn't found her yet.

And then came the soft rustle of footsteps.

Aurevia appeared from around the corner, graceful and effortless even in her casual robe. Her white hair shimmered like fallen starlight, and the faint crimson of her eyes reflected the lantern's flame.

Virellen raised a brow.

"Midnight stroll, Mistress?"

Aurevia's lips curved gently.

"Just… needed a breath."

"Same,"

Virellen murmured, pushing off the wall.

"Couldn't sleep. Maybe it's the silence after today's madness. Or maybe it's the way the air still tastes faintly of Master's light. It's hard to explain."

Aurevia stepped closer, standing beside her.

"You're trying to explain it anyway. That's something."

A pause lingered—comfortable, not cold.

Then Virellen tilted her head, mischief only half-hiding something deeper.

"So… do you three really like being called slaves? You flaunt those seals around like medals."

Aurevia turned her eyes toward her own collar. The mark shimmered faintly in the dark—an arcane symbol etched in divine gold. Proud. Unyielding. Her fingers brushed against it with reverence.

"I'm not a slave in the way the world defines it,"

She said softly.

"None of us are. We chose to belong to him. That seal is not a chain. It's a vow."

Virellen studied her.

"And if he told you to do something… wrong?"

"He wouldn't,"

Aurevia said instantly, without hesitation.

"That's the difference. Our loyalty isn't born of compulsion. It's… earned. Slowly. Deeply."

There was no need to argue. No bitterness, no pressure. Just the strange, unshakable calm of someone who believed with her entire soul.

Virellen gave a short laugh.

"You talk like a priestess, not a swordswoman."

"Perhaps,"

Aurevia said.

"But I know what I believe. And I believe in him."

Virellen looked away. Not out of shame—she wasn't built for shame—but something in her felt… unsteady.

"He really was a child, then,"

Dhe muttered.

"The rumours were true."

"Yes,"

Aurevia nodded.

"But not in the way you think. He was never just a child. He was always… Alaric."

"…Well, that explains a lot."

A longer silence fell. Virellen leaned back against the wall again, exhaling.

"You know,"

She said,

"I used to think you were all under some kind of spell. But now I'm starting to think… maybe it's me who's out of step. Watching from the outside."

Aurevia glanced at her, warm and patient.

"Then step in."

Virellen blinked.

"…What?"

"You're not outside, Virellen. Not unless you choose to be."

The maid turned her face slightly away, mouth twitching upward—but her eyes were no longer sharp. They were distant. Vulnerable.

"…Don't tempt me, Mistress."

The lantern flickered between them. The hallway stood quiet.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

In the Days That Followed

It began as a word. An idle flourish in Virellen's voice, spoken lightly between bows and breakfast trays.

Yet somehow, it lingered—Mistress—weaving itself like silver thread through the girls' daily rhythm. Not demanded. Not imposed. But ever-present.

Aurevia never acknowledged it aloud. She was too composed, too proud to chase meaning in trifles. But she stood straighter when Virellen said it. Her eyes would narrow slightly, as if measuring a weight placed on her shoulders—not burdensome, but ceremonial.

When she sparred in the courtyard, blade humming through morning air, her form bore a hint of something more than skill. Authority. As if she had begun to carry not just a sword, but a station.

Cellione, ever the defiant one, scoffed the first few times. Rolled her eyes. Muttered under her breath. But her reactions dulled, softened, like frost melting under sunlight. Eventually, she stopped correcting Virellen. Perhaps she realized it wasn't mockery.

Or perhaps—though she'd never admit it—she found something satisfying in the word. In the notion of being his, yes, but also theirs. Of standing beside the others, not in competition, but in shared identity.

And Serineth… sweet, quiet Serineth. She was the slowest to speak, but the quickest to feel. Her gaze would flit toward Alaric when Virellen used the title, searching his face for reaction.

There was never any. Not disapproval. Not amusement. Just calm acceptance. That silence became its own permission. And so, Serineth began to hum softly when she brushed her hair. She asked Virellen for ribbons one morning.

Blue, to match her eyes. There was a gentler pride in her movements now, like a flower blooming toward the sun it hadn't known it needed.

None of them said it aloud. Not even to each other.

But a shift had begun.

The title they had once resisted now hung around them like a veil of silk. Still strange. Still uncertain. But warm, and real. Not because they demanded it—but because they were becoming it.

They were not just girls Alaric had saved, nor merely companions on his path.

They were his.

And slowly, wordlessly, they were beginning to live as though that mattered.

Alaric himself said nothing on the matter. He offered no approval, nor rejection. He observed, as he always did, like a still lake reflecting the moon.

But when Cellione brushed a stray leaf from his shoulder without comment, when Aurevia wordlessly adjusted his cloak clasp, when Serineth leaned her head lightly against his arm without flinching—they saw no hesitation in his eyes.

Only a quiet welcome.

Even Virellen, who watched from the periphery with all the shrewdness of a cat in a sunbeam, never pressed further. She had said what she said. The word was hers no longer. It belonged to the girls now.

And they wore it—not as a crown, nor as a chain, but as something in between.

Something sacred.

-To Be Continued