The morning hit the Nyxilith estate like a Pinterest board having a spiritual awakening.
The front gates—those tall-ass black things laced with silver filigree and probably cursed in three languages—their intricate designs glowing under the kiss of the early sun.
Beyond them stretched the absurdly long driveway—seriously, someone could run a marathon on this thing and still not reach the house—so damn long it could host a Netflix original series. Lined with ancient trees, their leaves whispering secrets to the breeze, the path led to the estate, where the golden morning light bathed the entire compound like a royal blessing. The mansion itself? The place looked like something out of a billionaire's fever dream.
The sun slid across it like butter on a griddle, hitting the mirrors of the estate in sparkly little beams that screamed, "Yeah, we bougie."
Live statues dotted the lawn. Live. Not like "animated CGI" live—these stone babes could straight up breath when no one watched.
The compound was sun-kissed like it had a skincare routine. Cream walls, dark roofs, arched windows so clean birds avoided them out of respect. Behind the estate, a forest loomed all shadowy and ancient, the kind that probably had hidden altars, forbidden tomes, and at least one talking tree who smoked. Mist still curling around its roots, the occasional bird call breaking the silence.
Inside, the living room barely let anyone breathe with how extra it was. Black marble floors gleamed like liquid night, reflecting the golden trims that lined the walls— the marble floors were so glossy you'd swear they were polished by angels on roller skates. Plush, oversized couches sat invitingly, waiting to swallow anyone whole in luxurious comfort.
A fireplace crackled subtly—because of course, even in modernity, a touch of old-school warmth never hurt.
The first thing that hit was the sound. The rhythmic chop-chop of a knife hitting a wooden board, the clatter of plates in the kitchen, the faint hum of a fridge door opening and closing.
Then came the smell—hell, if heaven had a scent, this was it. Butter sizzling, something garlicky and rich filling the air, a hint of freshly brewed coffee working its magic.
And then the kitchen itself—bigger than some restaurants, sleek black and gold, glowing LED trims making it look futuristic. The island in the center was massive, its polished surface reflecting the overhead lights. Cabinets lined the walls, each holding ingredients and utensils in a level of organization that would make a Michelin-star chef weep.
Naomi was in there, right at the center like she owned the sunrise. Maid uniform? On point. Apron? Tied tight. Hair up. Face glowing. She was smiling so wide it was giving Disney princess energy, minus the small talk with rodents.
She moved like a blur. But not like "I went to the gym" blur—nah, this was shadow-core blur. Her powers kicked in mid-chop, mid-stir, mid-flip-a-damn-egg-over-your-shoulder-onto-a-plate-without-looking kind of vibe. One hand cracked eggs. The other summoned a spatula.
A third shadow-hand adjusted the burner. Girl was multitasking like a caffeine-fueled octopus.
Elena stood off to the side, managing toast, and honestly? Just trying not to get flash-fried by Naomi's breakfast dance routine. She had a bowl in her hand, some fancy fruit mix going on, and every time Naomi whooshed by, her hair fluttered like she was in a shampoo commercial.
Naomi hummed as she cooked—something upbeat, borderline illegal in cuteness. "Breakfast is gonna slap today," she said with a wink, flipping another pancake so high it almost qualified as air traffic.
"I swear to the gods, Naomi," Elena muttered, ducking a rogue shadow that tried to season the eggs. "One of these days, your food's gonna hit escape velocity and punch a hole through the ceiling."
"Worth it," Naomi beamed. "That's the flavor leaving the mortal plane, cariño."
The skillet hissed louder.
The shadows twisted in sync with her hands, catching a falling pepper shaker like it was nothing. She caught it mid-spin and tossed it into a cupboard without looking.
Elena just sighed, fighting a smile. "You're gonna wake the boss."
"Good." Naomi grinned. "This man's been brooding in his sleep. Even his nightmares need brunch."
She turned, hips swinging, smile unfazed, eyes dancing with sparkly little "I made this for you, now eat it or suffer" energy.
Naomi stood at the stove, a vision of efficiency and speed. Her shadow flickered unnaturally, stretching and shrinking as she zipped from one station to another, flipping pancakes one second and stirring a rich sauce the next, her feet barely touching the ground.
Elena, on the other hand, was starting to deal with groceries—large-ass bags that looked like they should require a forklift, yet she handled them like they were filled with cotton. She dropped them onto the counter effortlessly, arching a brow at Naomi.
"Damn, you look like you're about to fly away with all that happy energy."
Naomi, mid-spin while grabbing a pan, beamed. "I fucking should! You know how happy I am. Do you know how long I dreamed of owning a motorbike? Something I never thought of ever owning. And not just any motorbike—a customized beast. I swear, our boss either has no concept of money to even spent millions on that thing! Though I'm not complaining."
Elena chuckled, shaking her head. "He's treating us more like family than employees. Yesterday, he offered me some fancy-ass car, better than the Range Rover saying the Rover was for house work. Can you imagine?"
Naomi paused, wide-eyed. "And you said—?"
"Nope. The Range Rover's enough for me. Instead, I asked him to take us off the company and make us fully independent employees."
Naomi froze, her shadow momentarily still before she turned. And then she moved—too fast, too sudden. Before Elena could react, Naomi hugged her from behind, squeezing tight, her chin resting against Elena's shoulder.
"You serious? That's what you asked?"
Elena smirked. "Mhm. What, scared I sold us to the devil?"
Naomi huffed a laugh and kissed Elena's nape in thanks. "I wanted to ask the same thing, but I didn't have the balls. You did it for us. Thank you."
Elena giggled, turning to wrap her arms around Naomi in return. "Then do a good job for our boss if you're that thankful."
Naomi groaned, rolling her eyes. "Of course, you dutiful Battle Maid."
Elena's eyes glinted mischievously. And then—flick.
One little tap to Naomi's forehead and bam—the girl was airborne. She yelped, flailing dramatically before crashing into a stool, knocking over a stack of neatly folded napkins.
She groaned, rubbing her forehead. "OW. What the fuck was that for?! How did you just throw me—WITH A FLICK?!"
Elena smirked, crossing her arms. "Gotta toughen you up, princess."
Naomi, still on the floor, squinted at her like a betrayed anime protagonist. "You monstrous Battle Maid."
Elena just laughed, walking past her to start unpacking groceries. "Damn right."