The servant quarters were carved from cold stone, dimly lit by floating orbs that pulsed with a soft amber glow. There were no doors, only heavy curtains of wool and fur. No privacy—just silence and survival.
01911 sat at the edge of her thin cot, hands clasped, eyes open.
She listened.
Not to speech—no one here talked unless necessary—but to movement.
Graceful, unnatural, precise.
The first servant she saw was a nymph.
She moved through the halls barefoot, her skin rippling faintly like water over stone. Dust fled from her path as if in fear. She whispered to the stone floor, and the stone cleaned itself. No broom. No hands. Just magic and murmured requests.
The second was a creature 01911 didn't recognize.
A boy with eyes too black and too wide. He polished silverware by placing his fingers on the metal and drawing the tarnish out with a hum that made the air buzz. His back curved unnaturally when he bent. He did not blink.
The third was a banshee, humming while she laundered linens.
Not sobbing, not screaming—just humming. Her hair lifted around her as if underwater, and the sheets folded themselves midair, floating like ghosts before gently landing on polished wooden shelves.
01911 stared from a shadowed corner, unseen, unnoticed.
She had no magic. No humming hands. No elemental whispers.
She only had her limbs. Her eyes. Her silence.
That afternoon, a bell rang three soft chimes.
The steward appeared beside her bed like a shadow made flesh.
"You are to work," he said.
She stood immediately.
He handed her a simple bucket, a stiff brush, and a block of rough soap. "North wing. Floors."
No magic. No shortcuts. Just raw muscle and cold water.
She bowed her head. "Yes, sir."
The hall was long. Her knees ached before she reached the third door.
The other servants passed her without pity.
They floated.
She scrubbed.
They summoned steam and perfumes with a flick.
She chipped at grime with frozen fingers.
They were not unkind. But they didn't help. Why would they? She had no place among them. No spark. No heritage. Just a number.
At one point, the nymph paused near her.
01911 didn't look up.
The nymph spoke softly, her voice like drops in a still pond. "You'll bleed if you scrub like that."
01911 murmured, "I'm sorry."
The nymph tilted her head. "Don't be sorry. Be careful. Blood smells like weakness in the North."
Then she vanished around the corner.
01911 scrubbed slower after that. Not softer—just quieter.
By the time she finished, the sun had set. She returned her bucket. Her hands were raw. Her back hurt. But no one scolded her.
That, in itself, felt like a reward.
She returned to her cot.
Lay down.
And dreamed—not of escape. That would be foolish.
She dreamed of floating silver, of humming sheets, of stone floors that listened when spoken to.
She dreamed of magic she'd never have.