Aiden’s eyes fluttered open. The silence of the mansion held its breath—but his mind didn’t.
A symphony of notification rings chimed like bells of conquest inside his skull, each one sharp and jarring, drilling into his temples like the horns of a divine mockery. It felt like judgment.
It felt like victory dressed in pain.
He blinked hard, his pupils adjusting to the ghostlight glow of the system interface blooming above his vision like a blue halo. Names appeared—single lines at first, then doubling, tripling—until it became a flood.
[Louis has been charmed.]
[Alina has been charmed.]
[Lena has been charmed.]
[Shela has been charmed.]
[Conish has been charmed.]
[Lela...]
[Vo...]
[S...]
[...]
[...]
[...]
It didn’t stop.
He sucked in a slow breath through clenched teeth, chest rising against the weight of the velvet sheets—and against the woman tangled at his side.
Akidna.
Her skin, flushed and damp with fading heat, pressed against him in sleepy surrender. Her breath tickled his ribs. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow like a crown of midnight serpents.
She didn’t stir—too deep in sleep, too drunk on whatever spell he had carved into her blood the night before.
Or maybe, he thought, she doesn’t want to wake up. Maybe she wants to live here—inside this illusion—forever.
Another name flashed. Another life now tethered to his.
He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the chamber—the noble suite. This wasn’t the cell he was assigned when he first entered the mansion as a peasant.
This room was tailored for someone respected. Trusted. Desired. Its walls wore silk and deep mahogany, its floor polished to an obsidian shine. The fireplace had burned low during the night, and the stone hearth still radiated a dying warmth.
It was beautiful.
It wasn’t his.
Not yet.
He exhaled, slow. Measured. And then the thought came—unbidden, cold.
’So many people charmed..This is just the servants...’
His jaw tightened.
He hadn’t even laid a hand on the high-ranking staff yet. Like Akidna. the trained maids, the ones who dressed nobles and poured wine. Not the butlers with royal etiquette polished into their bones.
For now Just the nameless ones. The broom-pushers. The fire-feeders. The invisible workers of the mansion.
And yet—dozens. No—hundreds. Falling.
Like dominoes. Like a wave crashing against rotten wood.
They weren’t servants anymore.
They were pieces.
And the board was finally moving.
Atlas smiled.
"...a good morning indeed."he muttered in pleasantri.
Akidna stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly. She shifted closer, her lips brushing against his chest. Her hand, still resting on his abdomen, curled like it didn’t want to let go.
"Mmm... kiss... meee..."
The words were warm against his skin—soft, breathy, blurred with slumber. Her lips sought him in her dreams. He almost hated how sincere it was.
He leaned down, brushing his lips across her forehead, slow and deliberate. Not a kiss of love. Not yet. But one of promise. Of control. The kind of kiss you gave something you already owned.
Her sigh was blissful. She smiled in her sleep.
And Aiden slowly pulled her fingers from his skin, careful not to wake her. Her warmth was reluctant, her palm dragging against his flesh like it was pleading to stay.
He stood, dragging on his pants with quiet precision.
The cold air bit at his back. The room was rich, but the stones beneath still remembered winter.
As he tightened his belt, something pulled at him.
Not a thought. A memory.
A cold room. A metal cot. His own blood spreading beneath him like ink spilled across marble. His hand, gripping the edge of his vision. Darkness, heavy and absolute. And a voice—
...it’s done. He won’t last the hour....
His jaw tensed. He blinked. The vision vanished.
’What the fuck was that...?’ He thought.
The mansion was still asleep. Almost. As the early morning was dark. The sun still sheathed by the hills.
Somewhere deeper in the hallways, the sound of kneading hands and the low thud of dough hitting marble echoed faintly.
The bakers were up. The scent of flour, yeast, firewood, and roasting embers rose like incense through the stone corridors.
But beneath it—another scent. One he knew too well.
Blood.
Aiden moved like a phantom, letting his footsteps disappear into the breathing shadows. His hand brushed along the cold stone wall as he made his way toward the kitchens.
He wanted to escape before anyone’s notice. As he was a servent. And servants weren’t allowed until given permission. His pace inching toward the exit until, just before the corner—he paused.
Voices. Familiar. Low. Cloaked in urgency.
He crept closer and pressed his back to the wall. The torch near the butchery door had long since burned out. Only a sliver of flickering lantern light from within the kitchen cast a thin line across the floor.
He tilted his head. Looked through the crack.
Gail.
Stripped of his armor. Dressed in a dull gray cloak. The proud knight no longer radiated law or honor. His shoulders were hunched, his expression shadowed in fury.
"...He’s still alive? How?" Gail snapped.
Across from him, Conish stood. The butcher. A man who once offered Aiden stale bread on his second day here. Now, the man’s apron was dark with new stains, his knuckles raw, eyes trembling in sockets too tired for lies.
"You had one job," Gail snarled, voice dropping venom. "One. Fucking. Job."
"I-I did, sir," Conish stammered, slicing meat without looking up. "I stabbed him. Yesterday morning. Pierced the chest. There was blood. So much—"
"Then why the hell is he still breathing?!"
The slap of a knife slamming against the cutting board made the carcass twitch.
Gail leaned in. "I want that peasant dead, butcher. I want him rotting before Lady Flora ever hears his name again. Do you fucking understand me?"
He pulled a blade from beneath his cloak. It wasn’t like the others. No sigil. No noble mark. Forged for utility. For silence.
He laid it on the table. Conish stared at it.
"Do.you.FUCKING.understand?" He voiced again.
The butcher nodded, his gaze down.
Then Gail turned. Cloak swishing behind him like a judge’s robes.
Footsteps faded.
Aiden didn’t breathe. Not yet.
Conish.
It clicked, bitterly, beautifully. The coward. The traitor.
The one who’d thought him dead.
And now... he’d be worse than dead.
Aiden sneered.
Not because of revenge.
But because he had time now. He had leverage.
He had Conish. And according to his list of charmed individuals.
[Len...]
[Shela has.....]
[Conish has been charmed.]
[Lela...]
[Vo...]
He was one of them.