The training yard was quieter without Nyx's taunts echoing off the stones. Regulus adjusted his gloves as a trainee maid—a girl no older than sixteen with calloused knuckles and a permanent furrow between her brows—bowed before him.
"Mistress Viola assigned me to you today," she said, her voice steadier than her stance. "She said you're to... teach me."
Regulus blinked. Him? The man who'd spent weeks being humiliated by senior maids? But orders were orders.
"Right." He rolled his shoulders. "Let's start with disarming techniques."
However, something strange happened as he demonstrated the first wrist-lock.
Numquam Itineris, which had always whispered how to perform, now whispered how to explain.
"Your thumb goes here," he heard himself say, adjusting her grip without thinking, "because the leverage—" His hands moved on their own, guiding hers through the motion. "—comes from the rotation, not the strength."
The trainee's eyes widened. "I... understand." Not just mimicry—comprehension.
Regulus felt it too. Every correction he offered was refined mid-breath by his skill, each word reshaped into perfect pedagogy. The trainee absorbed it like parched soil to rain.
By noon, she'd mastered what usually took days.
Over bread and spiced tea, the girl bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the table. "Thank you, Sir Regulus."
He waved her off. "This was my assigned training too. No thanks needed."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "But it is. Among my cohort, I'm the slowest." Her fingers clenched around her cup. "Until today. You made it... make sense."
Regulus hesitated, then nodded. "If I need assistance, I'll call for you. Your name?"
"Lilia." She grinned, pointing toward the eastern dormitories. "Laundry and armory duty, usually!"
As she skipped away, Regulus wondered: Was this the "acknowledgment" Nyx meant?
"Correct."
Regulus nearly choked on his tea as Sitri materialized beside him. "Gods! Can you read minds now too?" Panic flashed—had she seen his... other fantasies about certain senior maids?
Sitri's deadpan stare lasted three heartbeats. Then she leaned in, her whisper a blade:
"Pervert."
His poker face shattered. "I—that's not—"
"Even Sister Sonia would blush at your audacity." She straightened, tossing her short braid over her ear. "Fortunately for you, I only read ledgers."
Regulus' face burned crimson. "Miss Sitri! Please simply consider my thoughts as ones of admiration for the beauty of Hebe Familia!"
Sitri's eyebrow arched slowly. "So admiration includes imagining Senior Maid Viola flirtingly referring to you as Master?"
Regulus' mouth snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked. Every possible denial would only dig his grave deeper.
After three excruciating seconds of silence, Sitri leaned in, her braid brushing his shoulder. "You know," she murmured, "if you truly want us to become yours..." Her gloved finger tapped his updated status sheet where 'F-rank Endurance' glowed faintly. "...you only need to do one thing."
Regulus swallowed hard. "And that is?"
Sitri's smile was a blade.
"Survive."
With that, she vanished back into the manor's shadows. The path to becoming a true Master was far more literal than he'd assumed. He might need to revise his definition of 'survival' after tomorrow's poison drills.
Somewhere in the distance, a choir of junior maids began singing what sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.
From the upper balcony, Senior Maid Viola observed the exchange between Regulus and Sitri through half-lidded eyes. Her scarred lip curled as Sitri whispered something that made the boy's ears turn crimson.
Pathetic.
Yet… interesting.
She flicked her dagger, embedding it into the wooden railing beside Lilia's head. The trainee maid yelped.
"Tell me," Viola said, not looking away from Regulus' flustered face, "do you truly believe that one could become our Master?"
Lilia clutched her chest, catching her breath. "I-I think… if anyone could survive the process, it'd be him." She glanced at where Regulus was now muttering to himself about "emotional intelligence." "He's… persistent."
Viola snorted. "Persistent. Right." She yanked her dagger free. "We'll see how persistent he is during tomorrow's arsenic tasting."
Regulus exhaled sharply as Sitri's words hung in the air. Survive.
He watched her retreating back, his mind already analyzing. "I doubt it's that simple, though..." he muttered under his breath. His fingers tapped against his thigh—a nervous habit he'd picked up during poison drills.
Hmm... If I'm going to navigate this viper's nest, he thought, I need to develop my ability to read people's emotions. The idea crystallized in his mind. That might be the key to figuring out what Sonia and Sitri truly intend.
A shadow fell across him. He turned, expecting another teasing maid—only to find Lilia standing there, her hands clasped behind her back.
"Sir Regulus," she said, her voice earnest, "I couldn't help but overhear—well, not overhear, but I saw you thinking very hard just now." She hesitated. "If you want to understand people better... maybe start with the laundry maids?"
Regulus blinked. "The laundry maids?"
Lilia nodded. "We see everything. The stains, the mended seams, the hidden notes in pockets..." She leaned in conspiratorially. "And who leaves what behind."
A slow grin spread across Regulus' face. Intel network unlocked.
Later, as Lilia folded linens in the laundry Yard, her hands moved automatically while her mind replayed Regulus' teaching.
Master.
The word carried weight in Hebe Familia. It wasn't just about authority—it was about belonging. A Master didn't command the maids; they chose him. They bled for him. They—
"Lilia!" A senior maid tossed a bloodstained tabard at her. "The Rakian ambassador's. Note the tear patterns."
Lilia blinked at the fabric. The cuts were too precise for battle—assassination attempt. She tucked the garment away, mind racing.
This was why laundry mattered.
And if Regulus ever became Master…
Her cheeks warmed. Best not to dwell on that.
---
Regulus crept into the washhouse that evening, his boots muffled by suds.
"Right," he whispered. "Intel gathering."
He snatched the first garment he saw—a lace-trimmed—
Wait.
He froze. This was definitely Sonia's.
A shadow fell over him.
"Looking for something?" Sitri's voice was sweet as poisoned honey.
Regulus' grip tightened on the… article. "Hypothetically," he said slowly, "if one wanted to understand a person's emotions through their laundry—"
"Hypothetically," Sitri interrupted, snatching the garment back, "you'd need to survive the next five seconds."
The door burst open. Viola stood there, crossbow loaded.
Oh.
This was a mistake.