Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the year 4930—a time stained in war, famine, and fractured loyalties. Across the land of Amphoreus, kingdoms bled, and the people cried out for order.

The once-united Dawn Council Party, leaders of the realm, struggled to hold their fragile grasp—torn between internal betrayal and the eyes of foreign opportunists circling like wolves.

Yet amidst the ruin, one city still glimmered with a brilliant hope: Okhema.

A jewel of architecture and innovation, it stood untouched—resilient—beneath the growing storm. But the people whispered that Okhema’s fortune was no miracle.

At its heart stood a lavish gothic mansion, its tall windows always curtained, its halls echoing with unseen steps. Within those cold stone walls lived a woman cloaked in myth:

The Golden Countess.

They said she pulled the strings of the city—its economy, its nobles, its underground dealings. A lady of unmatched beauty and cunning. A noble by birth, a merchant by ambition, and something far colder beneath the surface.

Some say she bought her wealth with gold. Others say she traded something far more precious.

The day began as Aglaea’s eyes fluttered open. Her soft turquoise gaze swept across the dimly lit chamber as she lay nestled beneath velvet sheets. Golden strands of hair spilled over her pillows, catching the light of the sun that bled through the edge of her curtained windows.

A faint clink of porcelain sounded beside her.

She recognized the figure immediately—a tall silhouette cloaked in black, his movements precise and soundless. The young man poured chrysanthemum tea with practiced elegance, placing the delicate cup onto a silver tray, along with cream scones, still warm.

The butler.

Anaxagoras.

With a courteous bow and that ever-neutral expression, he greeted her softly.

“Good morning, my lady.”

He approached with elegance unmarred by the hour, placing the tray at her bedside with mechanical grace.

Aglaea sat up slowly, the weight of sleep still lingering. Her vision remained blurred, distorted at the edges—a cruel reminder of the glaucoma that clouded her once-perfect sight.

She reached for the teacup but paused, her voice a whisper behind dry lips.

“What is the news today?”

Anaxa stood silently at her side, the morning paper unfolded in his gloved hands. Without needing to be prompted, he began to read.

“The Okhema Gazette opens with your fashion house’s newest line, my lady,” he said, voice composed and velvet-edged.

“Several branch stores have reported overwhelming pre-orders—particularly from upper district women. As instructed, the advertisement has been placed prominently… front page, lower right.”

With practiced grace, he reached for the silver tray.

A scone was sliced cleanly, the cream spread without flaw. He brought it to her lips with one hand, while the other—still gloved—rested carefully, shielding her nightgown from any stray crumb. His movements were fluid, meticulous.

His expression remained unreadable, save for the single, sharp eye that glinted beneath a cascade of mint green hair. The other was obscured beneath a sleek, fitted eyepatch, the fabric blending into the dark uniform he wore with unnerving precision.

Aglaea accepted the bite passively, her blurred gaze drifting toward the window, though her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“In less favorable news...” he continued, lowering his tone. “Whispers persist about the disappearances. Girls. Young women. Ages twelve to eighteen. Another vanished two nights ago—seventh this month.”

A hush settled in the chamber.

Aglaea chewed slowly, then spoke, almost absently:

“The scones… they’re too sweet today.”

Anaxa’s visible eye narrowed slightly.

“Shall I prepare another batch?” he offered, voice as sweet as the sugar she disapproved of.

Aglaea exhaled softly, her tone cool but unbothered.

“No. And do stop scowling. You’re a butler, aren’t you? Take the critique as it is.”

For a beat, he was silent. Then he bowed, precise and smooth.

“Of course, my lady.”

The tray was light in his hands, though Anaxa carried it as if it were weightless. The scones, half-eaten, remained arranged in neat disarray—just as she’d left them. He gathered them without comment, setting them back onto the silver service as he cast a glance at the bed.

Aglaea Goldweaver.

Still drowsy, still regal. Draped in silk and indifference, her golden hair tousled by sleep, her eyes veiled by that ever-blurred turquoise haze.

She looked the part of a saint—young, delicate, impossibly beautiful. And yet, Anaxa knew better.

A golden countess wrapped in steel and venom, he thought, lips unmoving.

He loathed her. Every breath she took seemed designed to test the bounds of civility and patience. But he obeyed nonetheless, as the contract demanded.

Her gaze didn’t even turn toward him as she murmured a command, soft and wordless—barely more than a twitch of the fingers.

He moved to the bed and reached for the knotted ribbon of her nightgown, his gloves never daring to graze skin. With a fluid motion, he undid the silken knot, then crouched to the floor.

A smooth, pale leg slipped into view, too slight, too fragile-looking for a woman who moved cities behind veils and smiles. He offered a single hand to steady her and placed her indoor slippers gently before her feet.

“Careful,” he said, tone measured.

She said nothing, but allowed herself to be guided to the bath chamber. The scent of rose and elderflower had already filled the room. Steam curled like ghostly fingers beneath the gilded archways.

Inside, Castorice was already waiting—head bowed, hands folded. The silent girl moved without sound, her steps light across the marble as she took over her lady’s care.

Anaxa did not wait to watch. He turned and exited without ceremony. He had no fondness for morning rituals, nor the softness they pretended to uphold.

The day had only just begun, and there were tasks to prepare. Today, a guest would arrive. Not just any visitor, but one from overseas—an emissary from beyond the borders of Amphoreus.

A woman named Himeko.

Representative of the Astral Express.

A railroad diplomat with a reputation as fiery as her hair. And trade—true, lucrative trade—was finally on the table.

He walked the gravel path of the eastern garden, his boots barely disturbing the dew-dappled stones. The early morning light poured through the vines and iron-laced trellises, but Anaxa did not look at the flowers.

A smile, thin and practiced, curved on his lips. The kind that meant nothing. He let it fade just as quickly.

The scent of broth and herbs began to rise faintly in the air, guiding him toward the kitchen.

Inside was, as expected, a picture of controlled chaos.

Phainon, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, was fumbling with a cluttered drawer of silverware. The poor boy muttered under his breath as he squinted at the forks, uncertain which belonged to which course.

Across from him, Hyacine stood on a small stool, effortlessly stirring a steaming pot with one hand while checking the roast chicken through the oven glass with the other. A sheen of flour dusted her cheek.

Anaxa stepped inside and set the tray down with a precise clink.

“Status,” he said plainly.

Phainon nearly dropped a ladle before scrambling to attention.

“W-We’re almost done, sir! Just... trying to decipher the—uh—the dessert fork from the seafood one.”

He held up two nearly identical pieces with a helpless expression.

Hyacine, without turning, answered calmly.

“Soup will be ready in twenty minutes. Chicken’s another ten. Bread’s warming.”

Anaxa’s lone eye narrowed slightly.

They were too few for a proper reception, but time was now thinning.

With a quiet sigh, he unbuttoned his outer coat and reached for an apron. In one fluid motion, he tied it around his waist and slipped in beside them, taking up a knife and beginning to slice lemon with surgical precision.

“Our guest is not some pompous Okhemian merchant. She is representative of the Astral Express. I expect you both to behave accordingly.”

Phainon straightened up, hastily setting down the wrong fork.

“Yes, sir!”

Hyacine nodded with a smile, never missing a beat in her stirring.

“We’ll be good, Mister Anaxa.”

He gave a small hum of approval—nothing more—and resumed his task. The clock ticked steadily above them, and the morning stretched forward with the scent of citrus, thyme, and the weight of something important about to arrive.

With precise speed and calculating movements, Anaxa moved like clockwork, guiding Phainon and Hyacine through the finishing touches of the breakfast spread.

Every plate aligned, every piece of silverware placed with intention. The napkins folded in the Goldweaver sigil. The porcelain tea set—white, gold-rimmed, with faint floral etchings—set precisely at the head of the table.

The mistress’s table.

Once satisfied, Anaxa pulled off his apron and straightened his vest, not a thread out of place.

He made his way toward the upper wing, boots silent against the carpeted floor. Before her chamber doors, he stopped. From his coat, he produced a slender pocket watch, polished silver, the inner cover engraved with a complex sigil.

7:45 sharp. Exactly as scheduled.

The door creaked open just as he closed the watch. Castorice stepped out, startled slightly to see him already there. “Ah—Mr. Anaxa. Were you waiting long?”

He shook his head once, expression unreadable. “Is the lady ready?”

Castorice gave a small nod, her voice gentle.

“She is.”

Anaxa gave a subtle motion with his hand.

“Then assist Hyacine in the garden. The flower beds need tending.”

She dipped into a graceful bow and moved down the corridor, her quiet footsteps fading into the distance.

Only then did Anaxa raise a knuckle to the door and knock, once.

“My lady. May I enter?”

Without waiting long, he stepped inside.

The chamber was awash in filtered morning light. The velvet curtains drawn back just enough to kiss the marble floor. There, standing beside the ornate dressing mirror, was Aglaea Goldweaver.

Clothed in a flowing white business dress, the skirt layered with embroidered trims and silk petticoats that shifted like whispers when she moved. Her posture was as poised as it was commanding. In her hand, she held her noble court staff—a slender, ornamented cane of silver and ivory, its head shaped like a blooming lotus.

A symbol of status. And necessity.

Her face was already adorned with the day's makeup: subtle yet flawless. Her golden hair swept up and pinned intricately, not a strand out of place—a result, no doubt, of Castorice’s steady hands, guided by his instructions.

For a moment, he simply observed. Not with admiration. Not with awe. But as a craftsman might regard the finishing touch on a carefully constructed mechanism.

“You look presentable, my lady,” he said, tone flat but not unkind.

Aglaea turned her head slightly toward him, a slow smile curling on her lips.

“My, was that supposed to be praise?” she said, voice laced with amusement. “How generous.”

Anaxa’s single visible eye glinted faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in what passed for a smile.

“If you’d prefer, I could revise it,” he said smoothly. “Shall I call you Her Eternal Radiance, Illustrious Patron Saint of Petticoats and Pretension instead?”

Aglaea let out a light, dry chuckle.

“You’re insufferable.”

She tapped her staff once against the polished floor and took a poised step forward. Without needing to be asked, Anaxa offered his arm, and she accepted it, gloved hand resting lightly upon his sleeve.

As they entered the dining hall, the light from the tall, latticed windows spilled across the long table dressed in pale linens and fresh-cut garden lilies. The clink of silver met soft footsteps.

Anaxa halted, then turned with a practiced motion, guiding Aglaea to her seat. With gloved precision, he pulled the chair and lowered her into it with the same care a jeweler might reserve for placing a crown upon velvet.

He stepped around the table and, with a flourish, opened the silver tray cover before her.

“Today’s breakfast course,” he announced calmly, “Soft-poached quail eggs atop brioche, with truffle hollandaise.”

A delicate warmth rose from the plate, the earthy scent of truffle mingling with toasted bread and golden yolk. Aglaea took a quiet breath through her nose and gave a slight nod of approval.

“It smells wonderful.”

Anaxa handed her the utensils, their polished handles catching the light. She took them with practiced grace and began to eat—measured, refined, as always.

As she did, Anaxa remained standing at her side, hands folded neatly at his back.

“You have a couple of hours before the Astral Express delegation arrives,” he informed her, voice smooth.
“Until then, you may wish to examine the new Aidonian silk shipment—the fabric’s tension and sheen suggest it will be ideal for your next design line.”

Aglaea dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and glanced in his direction, her expression unreadable but attentive.

“Bring it to me later,” she said simply, nodding once.

“As you wish,” Anaxa replied, already turning with silent efficiency.

The Goldweaver fashion line was more than a family business—it was a legacy.

Passed down through generations of noble artisans, it had become an institution within Okhema. Its silks, patterns, and refined silhouettes were more than just clothing—they were status. Wealth. Identity.

In a city once fractured by war and uncertain futures, the Goldweaver name wove stability and beauty into the lives of its people. It dressed the noble courts and merchant houses, and its rise paralleled that of Okhema itself, now one of the most prosperous cities in Amphoreus.

Though the company’s reach extended far, its focus had always remained distinct: Fashion designed for women—crafted to empower, to seduce, to shield, and to declare.

At the heart of it all stood its current head and face:

Aglaea Goldweaver.

Known to the public as the Golden Seamstress.

Though her sight was clouded, the world learned long ago that vision came in many forms.

Where her eyes failed her, her sense of touch guided with startling precision.
The feel of silk grain, the weight of beadwork, the shift of hem and thread tension—Aglaea could read fabric like scripture.

Under her guidance, the Goldweaver Company grew larger than it had ever been—a house of luxury and quiet power, cloaked in embroidery and stitched in influence.

The reputation of Goldweaver extended far beyond the marble streets of Okhema.
To ambitious merchants and noble houses alike, it represented not just fashion—but influence.

And so it was no surprise that many businessmen and women, especially from distant cities, sought audience with its enigmatic heiress. A partnership with Goldweaver was more than profitable—it was political gold.

One such visitor stepped now through the carefully manicured garden path outside the estate.

She moved with purpose, her tailored heels barely disturbing the stones, her crimson coat billowing slightly in the morning breeze. In her gloved hand, she carried a sleek black suitcase, stamped with a polished emblem: the sigil of the Astral Express Railway Company.

Himeko. A representative from beyond Amphoreus, and today, a guest seeking opportunity—to export Goldweaver’s influence beyond national borders. To let its elegance travel by rail and silk-lined carriages across the continent.

She approached the grand doors just as they opened.

Waiting there, as though time itself bowed to schedule, stood a tall man in black. His posture perfect, expression unreadable. A single eye met hers, while the other was hidden beneath a sleek eyepatch that gave him the look of a soldier dressed in etiquette.

“Welcome to the Chrysos Mansion,” he said with a low bow.
“I am Anaxagoras, butler to the house. The mistress is expecting you.”

His voice was calm, refined—and not without the faintest note of danger, like a knife hidden under velvet.

Without hesitation, he stepped aside and extended his arm, guiding her into the entry hall.

Beyond the towering doors, the mansion breathed with quiet luxury, the scent of polished wood and floral oil lingering in the air. Gold-trimmed drapes danced slightly with the breeze, and portraits of women dressed in decades of Goldweaver history lined the marble corridor ahead.

The door to the private guest room opened with a muted creak, revealing a chamber draped in soft velvet and gilded trim. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, casting faint patterns on the polished floor.

Himeko stepped inside, her presence composed but unmistakably assertive.

At the far end of the room, already seated upon an ivory-lined sofa, was Aglaea.

The Golden Seamstress herself.

Dressed in pristine white, with her noble staff resting at her side, Aglaea exuded an effortless elegance—one untouched by haste, expectation, or need for spectacle. Her turquoise eyes, though clouded, found Himeko’s presence with uncanny precision.

“Lady Himeko,” she said smoothly, a faint smile on her lips. “Welcome to Chrysos Mansion. I trust your walk through the garden was pleasant?”

Himeko dipped her head with professional grace.

“It was. Your garden is... unexpectedly peaceful, considering the rumors I hear about Okhema’s politics.”

Aglaea’s smile sharpened by a fraction.

“Peace, like fashion, is carefully cultivated. And just as easily torn.”

With pleasantries exchanged, the two women turned to the matter at hand. Himeko produced her black case, unlocking it with a click, and drew out neatly arranged documents, ledgers, and blueprint folios.

“As discussed by correspondence,” she said, “the Astral Express Company wishes to initiate a cross-border export arrangement. We’d like to offer distribution lines for Goldweaver’s upcoming fall line—beginning in Carinae, then extending outward.”

Anaxa, ever silent at their side, poured ambrosia tea into two delicate porcelain cups—each rimmed with gold, a faded chrysanthemum design blooming at the base. The scent of honey, citrus, and elderflower filled the air.

He handed one cup to Aglaea, the other to Himeko, his movements smooth, his expression unreadable.

“Your tea, ladies,” he said softly, bowing slightly.

Himeko brought the porcelain cup to her lips, inhaling its delicate aroma before taking a sip. Her eyes widened slightly.

“This is… wonderful,” she said, voice touched with genuine surprise. “I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. Sweet, with a strange—exotic—clarity.”

Aglaea offered a polite smile, her expression refined yet warm.

“I’m glad it suits your palate. The tea is grown in our garden—cultivated by hand. Every leaf is tended to… with care.”

Her head tilted slightly toward Anaxa, who remained motionless beside her.

“My butler takes great pride in the process. He’s meticulous, almost to a fault.”

Himeko turned her gaze toward him, offering a smile of approval.

“Then I must commend your skill, Mr. Anaxagoras. A man of many talents, I see.”

Anaxa bowed faintly, his expression as composed as ever.

But before he could offer his customary quip—

CRACK.

A sharp snap rang out, followed by the shattering sound of ceramic.

The teapot split open, hot ambrosia spilling across the polished table like golden blood. A hairline fracture streaked across the nearby window pane, catching the light.

The room froze.

Himeko flinched, eyes darting toward the window, breath caught in her throat. Her instincts sharpened.

Anaxa was already moving—calm, precise, his lone visible eye narrowing as he examined the damage. The now-broken teapot, chosen deliberately by him earlier, had absorbed the hit.

Aglaea, by contrast, had not moved at all.

Her posture remained regal, unshaken. She simply sipped from her cup, as though the sound had been no more than a fallen branch.

“Hmm,” she murmured, her voice unreadable. “Is there a ‘rat’ about…?”

She turned her head slightly, her clouded turquoise gaze fixed toward the direction of the crack—neither alarmed nor surprised.

Himeko remained still, her eyes fixed on the fine crack across the windowpane, the scent of spilled tea still rising faintly between them. Her hand lowered the teacup slowly, controlled, though her brows twitched with sharp curiosity.

Before she could speak, Anaxa turned to her with a smile—calm, courteous, and ever so faintly amused.

“A minor nuisance,” he said gently, then turned his attention to Aglaea. “It does appear there may be a ‘rat’, my lady. I shall attend to it... just as soon as the cream puffs arrive.”

His eye flicked discreetly toward the far corner of the room.

Castorice, who had been standing quietly in the background, gave the faintest of nods and exited silently, her soft steps already fading down the corridor toward the kitchen.

Himeko narrowed her gaze toward the window, then back to the shattered remains of the teapot.

“Forgive me,” she said, carefully, “but was that a bullet? Or just a very well-aimed rock?”

Anaxa, already retrieving his coat with practiced precision, gave the briefest pause as he fastened the top button.

“No need to trouble yourself, Lady Himeko,” he said with a polite tilt of the head. “Enjoy the tea. I’ll see to the rest.”

And with that, he turned and exited the room, the door clicking shut behind him like the closing of a safe.

A brief silence hung in the room.

Then Himeko gave a soft chuckle, leaning back into the sofa with amused disbelief.

“Your butler multitasks,” she said lightly, “to the point of handling... house pests?”

Aglaea, still seated with poised calm, offered only the faintest smile.

“He’s just a butler, after all.”

Chapter Text

Aglaea was born into privilege—a daughter of nobility, raised within the golden halls of an influential court. Before her parents' passing, her life had been one of warmth and silken shelter.

She was protected with the care one might give to a fragile heirloom, or a favored pup. Trained meticulously in the ways of court etiquette, she learned how a proper lady should walk, speak, smile, and bow. Her days were measured in tea ceremonies, embroidery lessons, and rehearsed pleasantries.

On rare occasions, she accompanied her father to the council chambers, where he conducted negotiations and trade meetings. She sat quietly beside him, wide-eyed and obedient, unaware that she was watching power at play.

Oblivious—then.

That innocence shattered when she was abducted at the age of seven.

The men who took her sought ransom. Her family name was valuable, her lineage lucrative. But what they didn’t anticipate was the depth of transformation that would unfold in that shadowed corner of the world.

She was dragged from her gilded world and thrown into a damp, fetid room, lit only by a flickering bulb and the dull glint of rusted chains. There, she encountered reality—not the one with doilies and porcelain, but one soaked in fear and filth.

She wasn’t alone.

The room held other children. Some were silent, some cried until their voices cracked. Some lay limp from hunger. And some—smaller ones—were kept in cages, their futures sealed in cold, whispered deals.

Aglaea, deemed a household good of premium stock, Her captors intended to return her for a price, after all.

But none of that mattered to her.

What struck her wasn't her own condition—but the others. Children with hollow eyes, skin pulled too tightly over their bones. Children who flinched at footsteps. Children who didn’t speak at all.

This, she realized, was the world no one spoke of in the court.

By a stroke of chance—or perhaps fate’s cruel design—Aglaea escaped.

One evening, as the abductors busied themselves yelling, moving crates, and dragging sobbing children toward an unmarked truck, they left her door unlatched. Just for a moment.

It was enough.

She ran barefoot through back alleys and thorned underbrush, bruised and breathless, following only the fading memory of city sounds. The moon lit her path in pieces. Somehow—miraculously—she made it back to the gates of her family estate.

Her return was nothing short of a miracle.

The city celebrated her resilience. The nobles called it a tale of strength. Her father embraced her in tears, her mother wept into her lap. But Aglaea felt none of it.

What she couldn't comprehend—what never left her—came days later. The morning paper arrived with bold headlines. The police had located the abductors. A raid had taken place.

And every single child she remembered in that room—was dead.

“Killed during the hostage negotiation,” the article said.

She read the words again and again, hands trembling, tea gone cold beside her untouched breakfast. No names were listed. Just numbers. Seven children. All deceased.

None returned home. None ran like she did.

And something inside her fractured.

From that day onward, Aglaea withdrew. The young countess of golden eyes and noble manners grew colder, quieter, more composed.

The warmth in her voice faded, replaced with steel-laced courtesy. Her smiles became sharp. Her expectations, precise. Her tolerance for corruption, nonexistent.

She no longer entertained the comfort of “gray areas.”

To her, there were only two kinds of people: those who built a better world—and those who would let it burn.

For the latter... she offered no compromise.

And so, Only minutes after Aglaea had concluded her conversation with Himeko, the parlor doors opened once more with a soft click.

In stepped Anaxa—silent, composed, his coat faintly tousled by the breeze outside. No words passed his lips.

But Aglaea didn’t need any.

She recognized that look. That cold flicker in his eye, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture. The “job” was done. No further discussion required.

“Castorice,” she said smoothly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “please escort Lady Himeko to the guest wing. She’ll be staying the night. I imagine the walk has been tiring.”

From the corner of the room, Castorice bowed without a sound, already moving to the side of their guest.

Himeko rose, offering a nod to Aglaea with that same professional poise—but her gaze drifted once more to the cracked window. A faint hole nestled near the upper edge, too precise to be coincidence. She said nothing, but her fingers brushed her coat where her own firearm was likely tucked.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said calmly, though her eyes lingered a second longer on Anaxa.

“Of course,” Aglaea replied, her tone the same as it ever was.

Himeko followed Castorice without protest, though a quiet weight settled over her thoughts. Something more than tea had been brewed in that room—and she knew better than to ask.

Anaxa moved soundlessly beside her, offering his gloved hand. Without a word, Aglaea took it—her grip delicate, yet unyielding.

He guided her through the silent corridor, their footsteps echoing faintly off the marble floors. The air was still, almost reverent. Through blurred vision and golden lashes, she could barely make out the flicker of candelabras lining the wall.

At last, he opened a door.

A private chamber. Quiet. Unlit save for the faintest gleam of sunlight filtering through a half-closed curtain.

Inside, even in her weakened sight, Aglaea could see two dark shapes sprawled across the rug.

Bodies.

One slumped awkwardly near the corner—arms limp, unmoving. The other… was unmistakably missing a head.

The scent of iron clung faintly to the air, hidden beneath layers of incense.

Without prompting, Anaxa guided her to a nearby sofa, seating her carefully. His movements were gentle, precise—eerily practiced. “They were lurking near the trees at the southern perimeter,” he began, his tone no different than if he were reading the day’s weather. “One carried a small-caliber pistol. Traced the trajectory—he’s the one who cracked the window.”

He stepped forward, gloved fingers effortlessly unfastening a black cloth sack lying nearby. From it, he produced a severed head—hair blood-matted, expression twisted in its final gasp. He held it up without hesitation.

“The other resisted.”

Aglaea didn’t flinch. She merely exhaled through her nose, adjusting the folds of her dress, the faintest furrow forming between her brows.

“Must you always be so... barbaric?”

Anaxa gave a short, amused chuckle, letting the head drop back into the cloth with a wet thud.

“I was simply following standard procedure, my lady,” he said smoothly. “You know how we operate within the Goldweaver household. Clean hands at the table. Dirty work in the dark.”

She turned her head slightly toward him, her voice dry. “I wonder sometimes if you enjoy the latter far too much.”

He offered no denial. Only a faint smile that did not quite reach his eye.

Still seated on the edge of the sofa, Aglaea kept her posture composed, hands folded delicately over her lap. Her expression remained unreadable, as if this were simply a matter of routine—another stain to be washed out of the household’s silk.

She tilted her head slightly toward the lone surviving intruder.

The man lay crumpled near the corner, face bruised, breath ragged, one eye nearly swollen shut. He kept his silence, trembling with every breath—until Anaxa stepped closer.

The butler's voice was smooth, detached.

“If you’d prefer, I can start removing your organs one by one while you’re still breathing. I’ve had centuries to refine the art.” His single eye glinted coldly.

That was enough. The man’s voice broke in panic.

“We were hired!” he gasped. “Me and the other guy—we’re from Gharta. Contracted. To take out the mistress… and her guest. We were told it was scheduled. That today was the only window—before security tightened.”

Aglaea’s lips barely moved. “And who gave the order?”

The man hesitated. His mouth opened—then shut again. He shook his head, eyes wide with pure terror. “I-I can’t… I can’t. If I name them… they’ll kill me. And not just me. My family too. They’ll—”

“If you don’t,” Aglaea interrupted, her voice light as a feather but colder than winter, “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee what my butler will do to you.”

She didn’t raise her tone. She didn’t need to. Her fingers gently adjusted the hem of her sleeve.

Anaxa’s gloved hand flexed, ever so slightly.

The man’s eyes welled up. His body trembled. And finally, with a choked breath, he gave in. “It was… someone from the Goldweaver board…” he whispered. “N-Not the lady… not you…”

He swallowed hard, then broke into sobs.

“A man… one of the group board members… said it was time to put the old blood down. That the company needed new leadership. Said you were too dangerous… and that the ‘guest’ was a threat to their expansion.”

A pause.

Aglaea’s lashes lowered, her gaze drifting toward the muted wall—though her eyes could not see, her thoughts stirred behind them like smoke behind glass. She sat in still contemplation, the weight of the intruder’s confession settling coldly across the room.

“Anaxa,” she said quietly, “during the last board meeting…Was there anything unusual? Any shift in tone? Words chosen too carefully?”

Behind her, Anaxa let out a slow breath, brushing a speck of dust from his glove. “You’re asking the wrong person,” he replied smoothly. “I was there merely as your escort. I wasn’t listening.”

Aglaea tilted her head slightly in his direction. Her voice was even. “So you’re deaf. And useless.”

Then Anaxa laughed—a dry, elegant chuckle like a dagger drawn across velvet.

“Entirely, my lady.”

The man on the floor is silent as he watched the two exchange. He shifted with a pained grunt , dragging his battered body into a more upright position. Blood stained his torn collar, and his limbs trembled from exhaustion—but still, he found the breath to speak.

“Now that I’ve told you everything,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, “may I… go?”

The room fell still again.

Both Aglaea and Anaxa turned their heads slowly in his direction.

Aglaea’s expression was unreadable, the gentle tilt of her head almost inquisitive—as if the request were a curious little thing crawling across the rug.

“And how,” she said softly, “am I to know if what you’ve said is true?”

“You trespassed into my home. Attempted to assassinate me and my guest. You do realize what that makes you?”

Her voice didn’t rise. She didn’t need to shout. Her calm made the words heavier.

“You will, of course, be handed over to the city authorities. That is… if you survive long enough.”

The man’s composure broke further. He crawled toward her, reaching out with bloodied hands—only to be yanked back by the collar with a violent jerk.

Anaxa’s gloved hand tightened around the back of his shirt, lifting him just enough to choke off the desperation in his throat.

“Please!” the man cried hoarsely. “Spare me… I have a family—children! I didn’t want to do this—I needed the money, I needed to feed them! I was just doing my job—so they could eat!”

His voice cracked as his face hit the cold tile. He sobbed into the floor.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Anaxa leaned in, still holding the trembling man by the collar. His expression softened into something eerily sweet—like sugar laced with poison.

“You do realize,” he murmured gently, “that if you return home without my mistress’s head, you and your family will be next on your employer’s list.”

The man’s breath caught. His bloodied hands twitched, his eyes wide and gleaming with fresh terror.

Anaxa continued, tilting his head just slightly.

“So allow me to offer you a proposition.”

“Tell us the name—the real name—of who sent you…”

“Or die right here, as nothing more than a discarded failure.”

There was silence.

The man’s gaze darted between them—between the cold noblewoman seated with hands folded like marble, and the demon in human skin who smiled while holding death in his grip.

A long, broken sob escaped his throat. Then—

“Amalthea,” he choked out. “It was…from the  Amalthea family.”

Aglaea’s lashes lowered slowly.

The name rang familiar, not just as a board member—but as a rival, a face behind forced smiles and carefully veiled contempt.

Amalthea: A household of status. Older. Cunning. Known for the fierce protection of domestic holdings and her conservative stance against foreign expansion.

And more importantly…

The wife had protested—loudly and consistently—against the Astral Express trade. Claiming it would jeopardize the regional freight contracts that she and her circle had built their fortune on.

Aglaea’s hand moved to adjust the golden clasp on her dress collar. Her face remained still.

“She always did fear change,” she said coolly. “And now she’s resorted to blades instead of ballots.”

Anaxa released the man, who collapsed like a wet sack to the floor—gasping, sobbing, whispering apologies to no one in particular.

“Shall I prepare a statement for the board?”

“No,” Aglaea replied. “Not yet.”

Aglaea rose from the sofa with the grace of someone preparing for tea, not vengeance. Her fingers glided across her walking staff as she turned toward Anaxa, voice calm but resolute.

“I will speak to her. Privately.”

Anaxa arched a brow, folding his arms behind his back with faint amusement.

“You're going to Amalthea’s estate? Alone? Why not just hang a sign around your neck that says ‘I want to die elegantly’?”

She didn’t flinch. She simply adjusted her gloves and replied coolly: “You’ll be coming too, of course.” Her voice was edged like a honed needle. “If there are obstacles… you’ll remove them.”

Anaxa gave a slow, indulgent chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s still a foolish idea,” he murmured. “Bold, but foolish.”

But his smile betrayed the truth: he’d already accepted.

Behind them, the battered man—still slumped on the floor—blinked up in disbelief, as though watching a conversation that had long since moved beyond him.

“W-Wait… you’re really going to—”

A sudden, wet crack cut him off.

The man’s eyes went wide as his body stiffened. He looked down.

There, emerging from his chest like a flower plucked from the root—was his own heart, pulsing faintly in the gloved hand of Anaxa. Red bled through his shirt, slow and blooming.

“You’ve served your purpose,” Anaxa whispered gently, his tone almost pitying. “I’ll let you sleep peacefully now.”

The man’s mouth opened, as if to speak—but no sound came.

He slumped sideways, breath fading, eyes glazed. Blood pooled across the rug beneath him in a silent, crimson bloom.

Aglaea didn’t look away. She only turned slightly toward Anaxa as he let the lifeless organ drop onto a waiting cloth with clinical neatness.

“Damn demon..Have the room cleaned.”

“As always, my lady.”

That night, the halls of Chrysos Mansion were cloaked in velvet silence, disturbed only by the faint hum of warm pipes and the soft rustle of linens.

Inside Aglaea’s chamber, Anaxa meticulously prepared the bed. He fluffed each pillow with practiced precision, aligning every fold of the blanket with the eye of a man trained for perfection.

From behind him, a quiet voice broke the stillness.

“The lady is calling for you,” Castorice said softly as she stepped out of the adjacent bath chamber, steam trailing at her heels.

Without a word, Anaxa adjusted his cuffs, gave a half-nod, and approached the bath door.

He knocked once.

“Come in,” came Aglaea’s voice, dulled by the warmth and rising mist.

He opened the door.

The chamber was thick with floral scent—too sweet, too rich, like a meadow drowned in perfume. Anaxa's nose twitched immediately. He coughed, lips curling slightly in distaste.

Inside the sunken marble tub, Aglaea lay amidst a sea of bubbles, her golden hair cascading over the edges like molten silk. The water shimmered with oils and petals. The air itself was heavy with lavender and rose.

Aglaea turned her head lazily, catching his expression through her blurred gaze.

“You’re not fond of flowers, I see,” she mused, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “At least you don’t smell like a wet dog anymore.”

Anaxa rolled his eye. “High praise, coming from a woman who bathes in a garden.”

She lifted one pale arm from the water, flicked a few bubbles off her shoulder, and made a languid gesture.

“Shampoo. And massage, if you please.”

With a soft sigh that was mostly theatrical, Anaxa removed his vest and gloves, folding them neatly before approaching the tub. He crouched behind it, sleeves rolled, hands dipping into the warm water.

Gently, his fingers slid through her hair, gathering it as he began to lather the shampoo into her scalp with slow, careful motions.

Aglaea let out a breath—not quite a sigh, but something close.

He didn’t respond at first. The room was filled only with the soft rhythm of fingers through hair, the occasional drip of water, the warmth curling around them. Then he said, almost idly: “You could’ve asked Castorice to do this.”

Aglaea’s lips moved into a faint smile, barely there. “I could have,” she whispered. “But she… lack the strength.”

At her soft admission, Anaxa smiled.

Not kindly or cruelly.

Just a faint curl of his lips—a shape too practiced to be warm, and too intimate to be empty.

His fingers paused for the briefest moment… then slowly resumed. But now, his grip tightened, just slightly—fingertips pressing firmer into her scalp, circling with slow, measured pressure.

Aglaea’s eyes fluttered open, pale turquoise clouded by her weak vision, yet sharp beneath the surface.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she asked, voice light, almost bored.

Anaxa gave a quiet hum.

“Perish the thought,” he said smoothly. “Why would I harm someone I’m still bound to?”

She snorted, leaning her head back with a tilt that revealed the fine line of her neck above the water. “Such a loyal hound.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, she shifted slightly beneath the floating petals, letting the warmth cradle her a moment longer before lifting one hand lazily from the bathwater.

“Tommorow. Prepare the carriage.”

Anaxa raised a brow, pausing as he reached for the towel. “You’re really planning to walk into Amalthea’s den,” he muttered. “With your vision half gone, no guarantee of her hospitality, and every reason for her to finish what her dogs failed to do?”

Aglaea reached for the towel with a pointed flick of her wrist. “I'm not planning to die,” she said, voice low and distant, like smoke in the wind.

“I'm simply wants to set an example.”