4

"Mffgh… that's it right there. You're really good at this." Lindy murmured, her voice muffled into the linen.

A quiet smile touched the maid's lips, though the pale scar slashing across her right cheek remained unmoved.

"It has been a while since you've had this much tension in your shoulders," she said, kneading into the muscle with her strong fingers, the fabric of her uniform stretching slightly over her generous bust as she leaned in.

"You carry too much, Milady. Let us handle the paperwork, just for a while."

Lindy sighed, "The company needs my full attention now. One of our stockholders pulled out a while ago. Their investments were propping up half the East division. If I don't patch the breach soon, my brother will smell blood."

"Laurel," The maid arched a brow, her scar caught the warm light from the lamp as she adjusted her stance, bare arms flexing with the movement

"He'd tear apart everything just to wear your father's crown.".

Lindy shifts her head slightly to the side. "The SMITH is eyeing Millard like vultures. They're using the Fort Kilo disaster as leverage to push their own agendas."

The maid's ponytail brushed against her shoulder as she tilted her head. "But I thought you secured the partnership contracts?" she asked, her tone quiet but not without bite. She moved to Lindy's lower back.

"I did. But contracts are just ink when politics are involved. They want monopoly over Millard. And if they get it, if they turn the Verschollen into another limb of the Monarchy, then we lose everything we stood for."

The maid's full chest rose with a slow inhale as she straightened up slightly, letting her hands rest gently on Lindy's sides. Her uniform rustled faintly. "Why does His Majesty allow this?"

"His Majesty... my uncle, has no reins on the Monarchy. He governs through his advisors who were lapdogs of the government. Uncle saw Fort Kilo not as a tragedy, but as a convenient excuse. An excuse to eliminate the Verschollen." A dry and bitter laugh came out of Lindy.

Her knuckles tightened briefly as she resumed the massage

"The Control had something to do with that breach. Reinforcements were supposed to arrive hours before they get overrun. They never did."

"You and Max were once part of the Control before," Lindy said after a moment, her voice quieter. "Do you still have contacts?"

"Not since Lysander took the second-in-command," she said, voice dipped in steel. "After what he did at Kurtz… we severed everything. That man poisons everything he touches. And now the Control? It's rotten. Beyond repair."

"I never imagined it would come to this… chaos blooming in every direction. But I won't let go of Millard. Not now. Especially not for the children."

The maid's tone softened, her posture relaxed "The twins… I saw one of them earlier this afternoon at the garden. That little girl looked elated, look happier. Brighter."

"They've finally been enrolled in the Sullivan Academy. It took almost no time for reassurance and they're less hesitant about it. Probably because they're teens now. And they're starting to reintegrate themselves into society."

The maid folded a warm towel and gently laid it across Lindy's shoulders, her tan hands careful, reverent even.

"You're a mother now, you know," she said with a teasing smirk. "You may not say it, but they see you as one."

Lindy let out a low laugh, finally rolling onto her back, draped in a silk sheet.

"Me? A mother? I barely remember how to take care of myself."

"That's what makes it real," the maid said. "You care more than you let on. That's the beginning of it."

Lindy gazed up at the ceiling, the faint lines of tension in her brow beginning to soften. "Well… I still have a lot to learn."

"You'll figure it out, you always do."

The feather duster moved in delicate circles, sending soft puffs of dust into the still air. Natasha hummed under her breath. Her steps were light, almost musical, as she worked her way across the dressing table's carved wooden surface. A porcelain perfume bottle caught the glint of the lamplight, and she paused to adjust it with care, making sure it was perfectly aligned.

Her room smelled faintly of rose oil and old cedarwood. Warm. She moved toward the window, her bare feet standing over the floorboards. Her dress shifted with her movement, starched white sleeves rolling just above her elbows. With a small grunt of effort, she unlatched the heavy windowpane and pushed it open. A cool breeze drifted in, brushing against her skin like a sigh from the cold night. The curtains billowed gently behind her as she leaned forward, resting her arms against the windowsill.

Outside, the forest spread out like a living sea. Moonlight spilled across the canopy, painting every treetop in silver-blue. The shadows below were deep and velvety. In the distance, the pine trees glinted like a serpent winding between the trees. Crickets sang in the hush. Somewhere, an owl called a long hoot that seemed to echo across the branches.

Her smile, painted lightly on her face from the comfort of routine, began to melt. Wonder took its place. Her eyes, a soft gray like overcast skies, widened slightly as she took it all in. There was something holy about the moment.

Something untouched. She'd dusted this room a hundred times, opened this same window a hundred more, but tonight the view felt… different. More alive. Her breath caught in her throat from the aching beauty of it all. She didn't speak. She didn't move. She only stood there, arms resting against the wood, eyes drinking in the moonlit forest like someone who had just remembered what it meant to dream.

And far below that dream-- within the same forest her gaze had drifted toward,

The air stirred.

Underneath the towering pines a few meters away from the mansion on the other side of the road, ten boots barely disturbed the leaves. Two units. Ten soldiers. Each of them was clad in matte black composite armor plates molded to the body, lightweight armor but nearly impenetrable. Their helmets were sleek, with integrated HUD visors that flickered softly with infrared and thermal scans. Tactical gloves gripped silenced pistols and compact knives.

The soldiers crouched beneath the pines, breath fogging in the cold night air. The mansion loomed in the distance. Their radio comms crackled to life.

"Your primary target is Maximilan Schonberger. No confirmed location. Last intelligence places him somewhere inside the main estate, likely the west wing, possibly the upper floor. Encrypted transmission came through a vetted channel. Schonberger's in there. Best course of action, clear the perimeter and regroup. Worst case he's being kept inside the barracks, off the schematics. That's a fallback scenario. Foxtrot One takes the ground floor. Sweep fast, quiet. Foxtrot Two handles the second floor. Offices, quarters, private gallery, check everything. Kill on Sight."

The first group moved quietly, crossing the street at the far left of the mansion walls covered in thick bushes where the outside guards refused to bother looking at.

Leading them was a commissioned officer of the Monarchy. His armor bore subtle silver insignia marking his rank as Captain and unit, though under the night's cloak it was invisible.

Beside him, a bulky soldier with powerful arms sheathed in reinforced plating, flexed his fingers near his wrist console, ready to deploy grappling hooks. His visor reflected the faintest glimmer of the distant mansion. The other three followed silently, their helmets tracking every movement.

The second group advanced quietly along the eastern wall. The Captain turned slightly and spoke into his radio.

"Foxtrot One, on me. We're scaling the eastern wall and dropping into the garden path beneath the trellises, keep exposure minimal. Foxtrot Two, take the west approach. Move past the barracks and breach through the south, servant's wing. Timers are synced. Ten minutes."

The soldiers gave little more than a slight nod. The bulky soldier launched the grappling hook, sending it soaring over the mansion's towering walls until it landed firmly among the neatly trimmed bushes near the trellises, anchoring securely into the ground.

The Captain gave the rope a sharp tug to check its stability. Satisfied, he climbed up, scanned the area to ensure no patrols were nearby, then slipped over the wall and dropped down into the dense bushes below, holding his silenced machine gun as he rolled. The rest moved after him, silent and precise.

As the soldiers slipped into the gardens and shadowed paths, their HUDs revealed heat signatures moving silently inside the mansion. They halted behind the bushes near the entrance. Two Verschollen guards stood watch-- one visibly yawning, while the other remained alert and still.

The Captain gave the order: "Take the one on the left. I'll handle the right. In three... two..." They raised their weapons, sights locked on their targets.

"One... dropping."

The guards tumbled down the stairs, their bodies rolling into the garden below.

"Move!" the Captain commanded, leading the way as the other two stayed behind to conceal the bodies in the bushes. Once at the front doors, they quickly disabled the nearby lamps, plunging the entrance into darkness.

The second group crept cautiously through the garden bushes, inching past the patrolling soldiers outside the barracks. "Halt," the squad leader signaled silently as two soldiers passed nearby. Once the area was clear, they resumed their approach, advancing quietly toward the mansion and peeked through its windows. It was dark, only a few lights illuminating the inside. It seems that the people inside are already sleeping-- a perfect opportunity.

Inside Lindy's bedroom, the maid stood beside the bed, gazing down at the woman she had served for years. There was something almost childlike about her when she slept, as if the world finally gave her permission to rest. The silk sheet had slipped down one shoulder, and with care, she tugged the blanket up over her with a tenderness that felt foreign on her rough hands.

Hands that had once wielded knives. Hands that had broken ribs and snapped necks. Hands that had been blessed once with blood.

She hesitated before pulling the covers fully up, just for a breath, just long enough to let the moment settle. Then she drew the blanket over her mistress' shoulders and tucked it gently beneath her arms.

The lamp on the bedside table cast an amber glow across the room. She reached out and turned the knob slowly until the light faded into nothing. 

Her footsteps made no sound as she padded toward the door, the hem of her black-and-white uniform brushing lightly against her thighs. In all of a sudden, her scar itched... and she knew, it is always a sign that something was off. She paused by the threshold.

And frowned. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn't made by sleep, but by something far more deeper. Something is wrong. Her tan skin prickled with the instinct she'd buried over the years, the one that had saved her life countless times. The silence wasn't just silence. It was curated. 

A chill kissed her spine. The corridor beyond the door was swallowed in shadow, but it wasn't the dark that unsettled her. It was the stillness. The guards should've been rotating shifts in the west wing by now. The hallway usually buzzed with faint footsteps, low voices, the distant clink of cutlery being cleaned. But now… nothing. Her breathing slowed.

Her hand slid instinctively to her side, where a blade used to rest. She cursed herself for leaving it in her quarters. Old habits had softened. Her shoulders squared. She turned to Lindy's bedroom, it was peaceful.

The silence deepened.

And then… she felt it.

Not sound, not sight. Just presence. Somewhere beyond the dark corridor, watching, waiting.

The second group crouched silently near the windows, their eyes scanning methodically in both directions. Their squad leader reached into a side pouch and pulled out a glimmering, oval-shaped device about the size of a plum. It had no buttons because none were ever needed.

He gently pressed it against the tall pane of reinforced glass, nearly twice the height of a man. The device fused seamlessly to the surface, forming a micro-vacuum seal.

No sound. No crack. No hum.

Then, with slow precision, a flawless circle carved itself into the glass. The device detached on its own, lifting the glass disc outward as if removing an eye. He caught it carefully with both hands and set it aside. One by one, the team slipped inside.

Quietly, one operative moved to the front doors, skillfully picking the lock. As it swung open without a sound, the first group entered with ease.

Inside the mansion, darkness reigned.

The halls were lit only by faint night lamps, their glow barely touching the edges of the room. The wall sconces were extinguished, the chandeliers above them doused, leaving deep shadows everywhere. Their boots met velvet carpet instead of marble, muffling their steps. The second group's leader muttered over comms,

"Feels like a mausoleum."

The Captain raised his rifle, eyes sharp.

"I'd take a graveyard over this."

They moved cautiously, eyes scanning the walls lined with portraits of nobility. Some familiar, most unknown-- gazing down at them with stern expressions and chests heavy with medals. The air was scented and too clean. A sharp blend of synthetic roses and citrus.

They proceeded.

The first group had breached through the northern corridor, now positioned behind a heavy oak doorway, the entry to a wide hallway filled with half-lit sconces and glass cases of military antiques.

"Clearing first floor. Sweep from north to the atrium. Secure corridors and comms hub. Minimal engagement. Confirming no hostiles"

The second group stood still just above them on the landing of a grand staircase, flanked by a massive chandelier and stone balustrades carved with lions.

"Ascending to second floor west wing. No movement yet. We'll push through the offices to the upper servant's wing. Copy your sweep."

At the first floor, the Captain led the way. Their HUDs mapped the hallway as they advanced-- curving corridors and flanking side rooms. The walls were thick, likely layered with mesh, blocking wide scans. They had to clear room by room. 

"This must be storage and archives," the Captain muttered in the comms.

They proceeded through a trophy gallery which walls lined with ceremonial blades and faded banners from the Civil War, twenty years ago. One caught the Captain's eye: a blood-red standard stitched with a silver triangle. The Verschollen's crest.

He paused.

No dust on this one.

The second team above them glided across the carpeted hallway. Ahead, the doors to the upper servant's wing stood a door, slightly opening. The leader held position with his weapon raised, watching the corridor through thermal lens.

He whispered through the comms,

"No heat. No traces. Place might as well be a tomb."

"Or a spring-loaded one." replied the Captain.

Then all of a sudden, behind them, the chandelier above them. The metal chain twisted.

The leader looked up, just in time to see a shape leap from the ceiling above the stairwell. A glint. A flicker of movement.

Then the comms cut. Static flooded his HUD.

"Foxtrot Two!"

But the line was dead.

The Captain swore under his breath, signaled hard to his team. "Sweep faster. Regroup at the entrance hall. Foxtrot Two is compromised."

The last soldier of the second group fell, his neck spewing blood like a fountain-- no scream, just the quiet, chilling splash of blood against the marble floor.

Over the bodies stood a figure in a white shirt, now soaked and streaked with blood. His hair was stark white, clinging to his face in damp strands, and his eyes are bloodshot, burning red glowed with something feral. Blood spattered across his cheeks and jaw, his breath steady, almost calm, as he stared down at the fallen soldier.

The Captain slammed a fist into the wall.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

His squad didn't answer. They melted into the shadowed corridor, retracing their steps, weapons tight, senses sharpened. The mansion's walls seemed to close in. Every footstep echoed too loud; every breath felt like a countdown.

As they neared the grand hall entrance, the air shifted. A cold presence brushed their nerves, sharp, watching. Without warning, the chandelier overhead trembled, then crashed down with thunderous force, shattering wood and stone.

From the shadows stepped a figure-- not a nightmare, but a little girl. She couldn't have been older than them. Twin-tail hair bounced lightly with every step, tied in silky pink ribbons. Her eyes are glowing, bloodshot-red. She wore oversized bear pajamas, soft and plush, with buttons shaped like paws and a drooping hood that rested on her back like a deflated costume. In one hand she held the chains from the chandelier. The other hung loosely by her side, smeared with fresh blood. Her feet were bare. She didn't make a sound.

She smiled a devilish, crooked grin, wide and unblinking.

The Captain stunned. "What the hell is--"

She moved.

One heartbeat, and she was in front of him.

The next, her fingers were buried in his armor. Just a gentle press, like a child poking at a toy. The next thing the other soldiers behind him sees, was her hand coming out of his back, drenched in blood.

The Captain screamed once-- then fell, convulsing.

"Fall back! FALL BACK!" screamed the others, but it was too late.

She skipped forward, dragging the chains across the wall, humming some twisted nursery rhyme under her breath. They fired, threw a flashbang. They tried pinning her in with suppressing fire. None of it mattered.

She was everywhere at once.

Her crimson red eyes, her devilish smile never fading. Like a doll possessed.

The last soldier crawled back in horror but before he knew it, she's standing behind him, head tilted.

"You shouldn't have come here, Mister. But don't worry, not just yet... let us play for a bit..."

The chains clinked to the floor. Everything went black.

And somewhere in the darkness, a single scream echoed. Long and lonely.

Then, nothing.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR