Morticia.

"As confirmed by Ministry scryers and appraisers, the one-year-old infant found in the remains of a massacred under-dweller tribe possesses an exceptionally high affinity for the [Death] element.

Though speculative, the prevailing belief is that the infant was directly or indirectly responsible for the tribe's demise. Consequently, the council unanimously ruled for her execution or lifelong sealing.

However, following the intervention of Archmage and Duchess Mimetic De Lune, the sentence was annulled. The child's current status is unknown."

—From the records of the Department of Thaumaturgic Health and Social Care, Case AO-827. Now destroyed under the Royal Secrecy Act. 

"Is something the matter?" A clear, feminine voice said beside me. "Your highness?"

It was a maid. The second character I had ever created; back then, I'd rightfully called her the Maid.

She was a slender woman in her early twenties with long, silver-blonde hair, glistening hazel eyes, and a calm, peaceful expression. She wore a full-body maid uniform that clung to her curves, making for a gorgeous silhouette.

I knew her. I knew her as Varian did, but I also knew her as her creator.

To Varian, she was a serious, emotionless maid, dependent on orders for everything. But also excellently capable and dedicated to him.

To me, she was a comic-relief character and the ultimate maid.

Her name was Morticia.

And in my story, she served as the absurdly competent personal maid who could get anything done. 

Whenever Varian needed something complicated or tedious handled—that were ultimately irrelevant to the plot—he would ask it of her, and she would accomplish it off-screen without complaint. I'd also written in a few anime-style comedic scenes where, if anyone dared to insult Varian, she would glare at them with a dark expression until they nearly pissed themselves.

She was also the only character who was absolutely loyal to Varian.

In my story, under the right circumstances, everyone backstabbed Varian. His allies, friends, family—even Varian himself would develop an alter ego to sabotage his efforts in volume 11.

But not her. 

Not when she was tortured for five centuries by the Demon King himself, not when an archlich resurrected her corpse and mind-controlled it to work against her master, and not when an outer god threatened to erase her and Varian from reality itself.

She never failed him once.

In essence, she was a psychotic yandere who believed in the absolute obedience and servitude of a maid to her master.

That was a terrifying thought, one I desperately hoped wasn't true. I-If it was, if it was…I had to confirm it. Right now.

"Your name is Morticia, yes?" I asked.

"Yes, your highness. I am honored you recall this lowly maid's name."

"Of course I do," I said, offering her a gentle smile. "Your excellent and devoted service has not gone unnoticed."

Is it just my need to believe that she's more than a programmed robot seeing things, or did the cheeks of the ever-serious maid actually flush? I thought, both surprised and expectant. I have to probe further.

"You are beautiful, Morticia," I said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I am honored that my body is to your liking–"

"Shh-shh-shh," I hissed softly. "Henceforth, I forbid you from using the word 'honor' or anything else so formal when speaking to me in private. Respect me, but not so much that it sounds pretentious."

"I understand, your highness." Morticia bowed her head immediately, not questioning the strange order even for a second.

I expected her to raise her head, but she didn't. She simply held the bow.

Unsure of what else to do, I raised my hand and stroked her straight, silver-blonde hair.

"Excellent. It's good to be so well understood," I said, smiling at her. I noticed a definite shade of red forming on her cheeks.

Now, I was almost sure she wasn't as extreme as I had written her. In my story, the number of times I'd described her as anything other than blankly emotionless was exactly zero after all.

Just one final push. If she verbally or physically resists, this will all be over for good.

I leaned closer until our noses were almost touching, my eyes glued to hers. My other hand came to rest on her hip, ready to pull away at the slightest sign of resistance.

She twitched but didn't speak.

Frowning slightly, I slid my hand down her back until it was resting on the curve of her bottom.

Still, she said nothing. She just stared up into my eyes with a forced calm. 

Come on, just tell me to stop. You know you can't be forced; peer pressure and job insecurity aren't real for you, you can resist, so resist! Prove me wrong! Prove my character descriptions wrong!

The atomic red blush on her cheeks was a dead giveaway to her inner feelings, but she refused to break the norms I'd set for her character.

Frustrated, I tightened my grip while dropping my other hand to deliver a stinging spank to her other cheek.

She flinched, but she didn't fucking resist.

"It can't be, no," I whispered, despair filling me as I backed away. "Oh, god, no."

Her inability to deviate from the character traits I'd given her had terrifying implications. It meant that everyone here was a puppet I'd dreamed up. It meant the characters I'd made evil for the sake of being evil were truly irredeemable. And it meant so much more…

But none of that was my immediate concern.

I looked at Morticia with grief and pity I had never felt before.

When I wrote her, she was meant to be comic relief. Not human. Not real. What have I done!

What was funny in fiction was horrifying in reality. 

Morticia wasn't born with these obsessive qualities; she didn't choose to be like this. She didn't even think of these traits as anything other than her nature.

However in reality, these qualities were inscribed into her being by the one who created her world.

By me.

I had turned her from a human into a soulless husk, unable to connect with anyone but me.

"Your highness," Morticia said, wrapping her hands around mine, "are you unwell?"

I felt a lump form in my throat, and my eyes blurred with moisture.

"I-I… Morticia… Forgive me," I stammered, clasping her hands. "What I've done is unforgivable… I am s-so sorry."

"Your highness," Morticia tilted her head in confusion. "Have I done something wrong? Please, punish–"

Unable to control myself at the sight of her panic, I confessed, tears streaming down my face.

"I am the reason you are like this, Morticia," I said. "I am the reason you are broken, you hear me? I don't deserve to be your master. Nobody does. You are your own person. You need to go out there, explore the world, find purpose and love—not stay here and slave away for someone else's sake."

"Your highness," Morticia said, looking down. "What do you mean by broken? Are you referring to the excellent pedigree I received to become your maid? Or the incomprehensible resources my lady and I spent to train me for this role?"

"That's not–"

"If I may be so bold as to interrupt, my lord, I would say it is true that nobody deserves me. Nobody but you, your highness."

"Y-you don't understand, Morticia," I choked out. That's exactly the problem.

"With all due respect, I am but a tool in your arsenal. I exist to serve you. There is no more need to consider my opinions than to consider those of a hammer or a chisel. Merely existing in your presence is more than enough to satisfy me."

Morticia's own voice trembled, her eyes welling with tears. "However, if you must know my opinion, then I would say that the very purpose of my existence is to serve you. And, you are the lo-love of my life, m-master."