A week has passed since Laya, Lyndis, Rin, and baby Archus settled in the Drachenstein Mansion.
The once-quiet halls had begun to breathe again—growing warmer with each passing day as footsteps echoed softly through marble corridors.
That morning, Lyndis returned from her usual weekly market run, a woven basket tucked neatly against her side.
As she approached the mansion gate, she caught sight of Rin sweeping the path, her wings fluttering faintly in the morning breeze.
But just as Lyndis reached out to press the sigil, a low, cold voice cut through the air.
"I've pressed the sigil three times. Yet no one came to meet me."
She froze and turned sharply.
Standing beside the gate—almost lost in the shadows—was a man clad in a perfectly pressed butler's uniform. His posture was rigid, back straight like a statue carved from stone.
Sir Otto von Mannerheim.
Though age had touched his hair with streaks of white, his steel-gray eyes remained sharp and penetrating. His very presence radiated cold discipline, like winter wrapped in flesh.
"Sir," Lyndis greeted, bowing her head slightly.
He stepped forward, his gaze inspecting her like a commander assessing troops. Then, with a faint sniff of the air, he muttered under his breath, barely moving his lips:
"The air's changed. Something feral clings to it."
The atmosphere tightened. Lyndis straightened instinctively.
Hearing the commotion, Rin paused her sweeping and approached the gate cautiously.
Mannerheim clicked his tongue in disapproval as he brushed gloved fingers along the golden gate bars, checking for dust.
"Standards have slipped in my absence."
His eyes flicked past them—settling at last on Laya, who had emerged from the house with Archus swaddled against her chest.
Archus squirmed uneasily in her arms, as though the weight of Mannerheim's mere presence pressed down on his tiny chest.
"Lyndis Farne," Mannerheim said with a voice colder than ever, his eyes still locked on the child. "So the mansion has become a nursery."
Lyndis met his gaze briefly. "Apologies, sir. My subordinate was tending to her child."
He wrinkled his nose faintly. "It reeks." Then with a dismissive flick of his wrist, he moved on.
"I'm not here to scold. I bring a message from the Governor-General."
He reached into his coat and retrieved a sealed letter, which he handed to Lyndis.
"A VIP will arrive before the year ends. Prepare accordingly."
The words dropped like a stone into a still pond. No elaboration. No farewell.
He turned on his heel and walked away, boots clicking crisply against the path until they faded into silence. But the chill he left behind lingered.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Even the wind seemed to still.
Lyndis stared after him, her expression unreadable. One hand clenched tightly around the envelope. Her knuckles turned pale beneath the pressure.
Rin broke the silence first. "He's… colder than I imagined."
Laya rocked Archus gently. "He's always been that way. But something's different."
"He didn't even step inside," Rin said quietly. "It's like… like we weren't worth the effort."
Lyndis tucked the letter into her belt and turned toward the house. "He's no longer our concern. We have work to do."
But her voice lacked its usual edge.
Archus, nestled against Laya's shoulder, peeked in the direction Mannerheim had gone. He couldn't explain it—but something about the man felt wrong. Not evil. Not cruel. Just… distant.
Like he'd carved out a piece of his soul long ago—and left it behind without ever turning back.
As they re-entered the house, Rin glanced at the door still slightly ajar from Mannerheim's visit.
"Miss Lyndis, what did he mean by pressing the sigil three times?" she asked. "Is that some kind of noble code?"
Lyndis shook her head as she carried a basket full of dirty linen.
"No. The sigil is a magic device—an invention from the Empire. Crafted using refined crystals from the mountains here in Philippos. It's said they contain a unique energy called mana—the only source of its kind in this world."
Rin blinked. "You mean like those enchanted lamps?"
"Far more advanced," Laya replied, gently smoothing the blanket over Archus. "Each sigil is attuned to its owner's blood. If someone authorized presses it, the gate opens automatically. If not, it sends a chime inside the house—like a magical doorbell."
"That's… actually kind of impressive," Rin murmured.
Lyndis gave a small, tired nod setting the basket outside the laundry room. "It is. But it's also expensive—only the influential have them. Nobles, merchants tied to the Empire… Governors."
Rin glanced toward the gate. "Then why didn't we hear anything when he tried?"
"Because our sigil is old," Lyndis said flatly. "Worn from years of disuse. The chime no longer works. That's why we post someone near the gate in the mornings."
Understanding dawned on Rin's face. "So… he really did press it. And no one answered."
"He took it as negligence," Lyndis replied with a low voice.
There was a beat of silence.
"Miss Lyndis… you spoke like you knew him. Did you work with him?", Rin asked.
Lyndis was silent as she began to soak the linens on the wooden basin.
Laya answered instead. "Lyn worked here back when the mansion was full of staff. Back then, Mannerheim wasn't just a visitor—he ran the estate."
Rin's eyes widened. "Wait—he was the head butler?"
"Enough chatter," Lyndis said, her voice rising slightly. "We have a house to run."
The other two maids shared a glance but didn't argue.
Rin took to the air and began dusting the chandelier, while Laya sweeps the floor silently.
The mansion exhaled. Its rhythm returned.
Quiet. Steady. Alive.