Sayori stood at the threshold of the kennel yard.
The stone pens lay just beyond the barracks, ringed in cold iron and enchanted ash. The hounds here were not ordinary beasts—they were bred for war and nightmares. Bone-white coats, blackened claws, and eyes that glowed with memory.
She hadn't expected to return to them.
Not after the trial.
Yet here she was, with a key in her hand and orders in her apron.
The same hound from the vault—the eyeless one—rose when she entered, silent and watchful. No growling this time. Just breath, and stillness.
She didn't flinch. She knelt.
And fed him.
Scraps, gently. Fingers careful. Words unspoken.
By the time the moon reached the edge of the treeline, the rest of the hounds had eaten. She cleaned their water troughs, changed their straw, and scrubbed the stones. Her body ached from her day's work, and her hands cracked from the cold—but she worked without complaint.
She was halfway through scrubbing a bloodstain off the kennel wall when she heard the voice.
"You listen well, but do you remember what you hear?"
Sayori turned.
Lord Fenris stood at the gate.
He did not wear his court robes tonight. Just a dark cloak, boots of wolf hide, and gloves with no ornaments. His hair was pulled back, exposing the sharp line of his cheekbones and the stillness in his red eyes.
Sayori bowed quickly, wincing as her back tugged with the pain from the lash marks still healing beneath her dress.
"I remember," she said softly.
He stepped forward, his boots soundless on the snow-dusted stones.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I have a task for you."
Her hands clenched around the rag in her palm.
"You'll continue your chores. Feed the hounds. Clean the kitchens. Polish the stone. Let them ignore you." His eyes met hers then, burning like dying stars. "And while they do, you'll listen. Watch. Remember what's whispered behind closed doors. What servants say when they think they are alone. Which noble makes late-night visits. Who flinches at whose name."
Sayori's mouth parted—but no sound came out.
"You are not strong," he continued, "not fast. You have no claws, no spells. You are forgettable. And in this castle, that is the sharpest blade I can wield."
Her voice, when it came, was quiet.
"You want me to be your spy."
"I want you to be my shadow," he said. "You'll tell me what I need to know. You'll report to me in the hound pens, or when you bring me tea, or when no one is watching at all. And in return—"
He reached forward.
For one terrified second, she thought he'd strike her.
Instead, his gloved fingers touched her chin. Tilted her face up.
"I will protect you," he said. "So long as you serve me well, no one touches you. No one silences you."
Sayori searched his face for cruelty. For mockery.
There was only steel.
And perhaps something older, colder. A loneliness as old as the mountains.
She swallowed hard and nodded.
"I'll do it."
"Good," he said again, letting her go. "You'll start tomorrow. The kitchens first. I hear gossip stews better than broth."
He turned.
Then paused at the gate.
"I named you Sayori because it means 'little lily' in an old tongue," he said without looking back. "Something small that grows in darkness."
Sayori didn't move.
"And lilies," he added, "are often overlooked… until they're the last thing left blooming on a grave."
And then he was gone.
The Bone Hound pressed its head against her side.
Sayori reached out, trembling—but stronger than yesterday—and stroked its fur.
She had a name.
A purpose.
And in a castle full of monsters, she was about to become the most invisible threat of them all.