Journey to Bertium (1)

Rachel sat by the fireplace, wrapped in a warm wool blanket. In her hands was a mug of hot drink. She watched the flames dancing on the logs with quiet fascination.

Even though this was just a ship's cabin, it didn't lose to the chambers of a castle in comfort or grandeur.

A large bed stood in the room, framed by luxurious tapestries woven from silk and wool. The furniture was crafted from expensive, raw wood, inlaid with gold and ivory. The air was filled with a sense of nobility. At times, it even felt strange that the servants didn't call Rachel Princess Commander.

As soon as their ship left the shore, the weather took a turn for the worse. The sudden cold and storm at the end of April felt like divine punishment — as if the heavens themselves were furious with Rachel and her very existence.

It was clearly not the best day to sail. But they had no time to waste: the annual underground auction was drawing near. Missing it meant waiting an entire year.

Outside, the rain was pouring down in torrents, and the temperature had dropped below freezing.

— Mistress… — a grim face appeared in the dim light of the oil lamp. One of her maids.

— What? — Rachel asked calmly without turning around.

— One of the humans acted indecently and broke the rules... I had to kill him. — There was a bloodstain on the maid's face, and her eyes glowed with a red light.

— You... what did you just say?

Rachel turned her head slowly, her voice soft — almost gentle. The kind of gentleness that made the maid tremble.

— I'm sorry… You told us not to kill anyone... — the maid lowered her gaze with guilt.

— That's right. I said not to kill anyone, — Rachel nodded, her voice dropping to a whisper. — So... why did you disobey your mistress?

Her crimson eyes glowed brighter.

— Forgive me... she was acting too violently, and I...

— So you decided you could break a direct order? On your own?

— N-no...

— Fine. Forget it. It's okay, — Rachel waved her hand dismissively, her tone unexpectedly softening.

— R-really?! — the maid looked up, stunned.

— Yes, it's fine. You apologized, after all, — the guild leader's lips curled into a mocking smile.

— T-thank you... I truly am sorry...

— If that's all, you may go, — Rachel nodded toward the door.

— Yes, of course...

The maid clearly believed she had gotten away with it. She bowed and turned to leave...

Of course, she was wrong.

Rachel's expression darkened. In the next instant, she was standing in front of the girl — her eyes blazing red.

With a swift motion, her fingers closed around the maid's throat.

— Kkh… khh! — the maid gasped, eyes wide in shock.

— Oh, forgive me... — Rachel said coldly, tightening her grip. Veins popped beneath the maid's skin.

She was truly angry. The girl had killed one of the humans she needed — something Rachel would explain later.

— I truly am sorry, — she repeated with a dry, bitter smile.

— Please... have mercy... I promise it won't happen again...

— That's what I think too. You knew I needed them alive, didn't you?

— Y-yes... ha... ha... — the maid could only choke out the words.

— Then you deserve the same fate.

Rachel didn't hesitate. Her fingers slid effortlessly through the skin, and with a short, sharp cry, the maid's body crumbled into ash.

— You disobeyed my command — so I killed you. Sorry. I really am. I'm sure you can understand, right? I did apologize, — Rachel said into the now-empty room, pouting her lips slightly.

(How convenient that vampires turn to ash after death. No need to hide the body…) — the thought passed through her mind as she returned to the fireplace.

Just another ordinary day. Nothing special.

Only a day had passed since they set sail.

Today, at last, the weather had cleared.

Rachel stood in the ship's galley, humming a quiet tune. She'd decided to cook something herself — something she did only on rare occasions.

She had sent all the servants out of the kitchen, much to their confusion. None of them could understand why the head of the guild would want to cook — especially since, as a vampire, she didn't need food at all.

But Rachel enjoyed it. Her hypocrisy and arrogance didn't stop her from finding joy in mixing batter for cupcakes.

— Hmm… I need to add a bit more flour, — she muttered, licking a bit of chocolate from her finger.

She poured another glass and dipped her finger back into the pot.

"Vanilla, with sugar," she muttered.

Opening the sugar jar, she measured a tablespoon. Then she took the jar of ground aromatic vanilla.

"Lady Roxberg!" — a man resembling a mercenary burst through the door.

As expected, the calm was quickly over.

"What?" — turning her head, Rachel said with slight contempt.

"One of the people is acting out again. He's shouting and demanding to see you…"

"Oh?" — a smile appeared on her face, and she squinted.

Most likely, she was irritated. After all, she had been interrupted from such a pleasant activity as cooking.

"Then I will come out."

"W-what? You?.." The man clearly did not expect such a quick reaction and raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Yes. After all, I helped them cross the border," she said, shrugging as if what was happening didn't concern her at all.

Then she cast a sorrowful glance at the unfinished cupcake dough, sighed quietly, and went out onto the deck.

The sea breeze immediately hit her face along with the sunlight. Surprised, she squinted and shielded her eyes with her hand.

Her gaze immediately focused on her target — the man shouting loudly and insistently. He stood on the lower deck, while Rachel looked down at him from above as if assessing an insect.

"I heard you wanted to see me. Sorry I didn't introduce myself yesterday — I was feeling unwell and couldn't greet the honored guests," an ironic smirk appeared on her face, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

Of course, her excuse about feeling unwell was a lie. The only reason was that she hated rain and storms.

"Y-you! We all saw how you ordered that woman's death!" he shouted. "She died at the hands of your dirty subordinate!"

(What… what does he mean? Ah…) — for a few seconds Rachel couldn't understand what he was talking about and just stared silently at the shouting man.

The thing was, the maid whom she had killed yesterday had disobeyed orders — she had indeed killed someone. As expected, consequences were inevitable.

"Oh, forgive me. My maid behaved too harshly then. Don't worry, she received a terrible punishment," remembering this, the girl clapped her hands.

"She was my wife! You think an apology can atone for death?! You will pay for this!" The man angrily rushed upstairs to the ship's captain, but his hands were quickly restrained by mercenaries working for Rachel.

"Tuna."

"W-what?" He froze, staring at the blonde as if she had said nonsense.

"You, like the other guests on this ship, are illegally leaving the country. But… to others, we're just a fishing vessel catching tuna."

"So you think the sea won't take back another… dead tuna? I think it's deep enough to accept one more."

He looked at her with hatred, grinding his teeth.

"Just stay in the hold — and you'll be fine. Or… have you decided to become that tuna?" squinting, she spoke sweetly and seductively, like a tempting demon.

No answer followed. At her signal, the guards forcibly led the man back to the hold.

Yes, all the people Rachel took on board were leaving the country illegally.

Whether impoverished nobles, thieves, murderers, or just people with endless debts — they all dreamed of starting a new life.

Foolishly hoping someone would accept them just like that, demanding nothing in return. Especially on a ship where half the crew were vampires. Demanding rights in such a place was like signing a death warrant.

But don't get me wrong — Rachel didn't touch a single hair on the guests' heads.

They were lucky to be in a spacious, though locked, hold with several oil lamps. They were fed bread twice a day and given water.

Modest, but quite bearable for five days.

Turning away as if nothing had happened, Rachel simply wanted to finish baking the cupcakes.

And so the days passed, one after another. Five days went by.

The ship sailed over the waves like a sea horse. They were lucky again — the sea was windy but calm.

It was the last day of the journey to Bertium.

Nothing unusual happened. Rachel baked cupcakes with different flavors, read books, and in the evenings watched the sunset with boredom. One or two times she touched the damned work papers that had followed her here.

Time flew by unnoticed.

Today was the day X. The day of arrival. By evening they should reach their destination.

Rachel sat at the glass-topped desk reading documents about the upcoming deal. Wrapped cozily in a blanket, she rocked in a creaky rocking chair, slowly inhaling the fresh scent of lemon tea.

There was a polite knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"Lady, everything is ready," Annelise appeared in the doorway and politely curtsied deeply.

(She's so respectful… Not like her.)

Rachel pushed the thought away and just shrugged.

"Good. Let's go."

Dryly responding, she carefully put down her cup, set aside the papers, and took off the blanket.

She wore a long white robe. Following just behind the maid, she walked intently and silently.

They stopped in front of a door. It creaked, and Rachel saw the hold.

The people who had been there were now lying motionless, covered with white sheets. Pale as chalk.

"Everything ready?"

"Yes, lady," grinned a muscular man. He and another man stood in the dim room. Annelise was with them.

With a light motion, Rachel lifted one of the sheets.

A delicate scar ran along the chest, with medical thread.

The vampire smiled with satisfaction.

"Good work, guys," she said, dazzlingly smiling like an angel descended from the heavens.

Of course, she hadn't taken these people on board just like that. Her real goal was to use them.

The Bertium military empire strictly forbade drugs. But… if the drugs were hidden inside the "tuna" — who would suspect anything?

---

Bertium.

An unknown male figure entered a tavern.

Coins clinked. Receiving the key to a room, he went upstairs without a word.

Entering the rented room, the man threw off his cloak and collapsed on the bed.

Ezekiel Flaiumery.

Who would doubt it?

He naively hoped to meet the head of the information guild, who was currently in this country.

Ezekiel pulled out a crumpled sheet with a portrait of Rachel.

If it were up to him — he would have long ago burned that portrait. But alas.

Lying on the creaky bed, he stared long at the drawing.

"Hah… Damn spawn," he sighed, cursing.

After a while, he slammed the nightstand and carelessly placed the portrait next to it.

(I will kill you. No doubt. At any cost…) — again and again he repeated this threat in his mind. His golden eyes hardened, filled with hatred.

Finally, he wearily closed his eyes and fell asleep.