You set the quill on the table, blots of ink on otherwise perfect calligraphy, bleeding into the paper— hinting at your concern and desperation.

This is the fifth letter. And you have yet to hear back.

You haven't heard from your father for days.

Still, you try to quell your worries— surely he's just been swamped with work, right? You attempt to reassure yourself in this way as you fold the letter neatly and slip it into an envelope.

Behind you, “Still concerned?” Ozias addresses you politely, gloved hand outstretched to receive the letter. The brows on his handsome face are scrunched in mild concern as he notes your pale face and the dark bags under your eyes.

Seeing him here, you feel a little bit reassured. Ozias has always been a reliable butler. As the head butler, he's served your father for years— for as long as you could remember. Ozias's face is one you've grown familiar with. Practically family, he's someone you could always count on growing up…

But speaking of growing up… looking back, he certainly hasn't changed. You could have sworn he's— he has—

ą̸̝̦̯̱͙̣̏͗̅̊̊̌̑̓̏͜l̷̠͓̬̃ẇ̴͇̋̊͌͆̿a̸͇̘̼͇̝͚̪̞̼̰͛̊̃̐̓̀̽͋͗͂̕͜͝͝y̵̤̫̬̌́̽̉̓̽s̶̛̻͒͊̍͛̀͊͗̎̓͗̓̈́͝ ̴̘̟͕̜͖͚͇̔̇̈̏̏l̸̢͈̦̖̳͇͍̽͜͝ŏ̴̧̢̼̮͚̘̼̃̑͛̀́̐̀̚̚͜͝o̶̡̗̙̥̥̩̘͕̠̐̉̔̈́͒̾͌̾͑́̐̕͘͠k̸̳̅̓́͆̉̀̓̚͝͝e̴͓̻̾͆ͅd̵̢̢̩͚̦̤͚̯̺͎̬͑̈̏̽̍̔͆͘͝ ̸͉͉̜̤̣̭̟̥͈̱̈̿t̵̖̭̬̩̥̙̜̙͈͖͇͠h̶̨̧̪̣͍͇̘͉̣͈͓̪͉̅̈́̋è̸̺̪̙̳̋̇̈́̋͆́́͂͊̓ ̷̭̫̼̣̈͜s̷̟̟̘͋̀̇̾̍̉́͋̿͝͝a̴̧̡̮͉̯̲̫̘͛̌̍̉̆m̶̥̜͖̠̙͙̙͉̪̙͚̜̝̊́e̴̟̩͓̓͛̈́͒̓̊́̇͐.̴̛͓͉̮͂̿̽̐͊͋̚̕͝

ack—!

Your ears ring as you feel another headache come. You've been having them frequently— too frequently, but the physician says there should be nothing wrong. Just what is happening…?

“Please excuse me…” you hear a low voice murmur before soft hands reach out to massage your temple. Immediately, you're at ease, relaxing on his palm. You feel his thumb draw slow, comforting circles before lightly grazing your forehead to wipe off your cold sweat.

“I'll get you something warm to drink.” he offered, ready to bring you a warm glass of milk with a generous tablespoon of honey. Your heart softens at the thought but today, you firmly shake your head— wanting to address a more important matter. A matter you've only just realized…

Why is Ozias here…?

Where is your attendant?

“Ah.” Suddenly, his hand goes still on your cheek— as if he hadn't expected you to ask. You feel cold and Ozias’s face chills for a moment before it's quickly masked by that familiar soft expression, “They've retired.” He smiles, too pleasantly.

Huh…?

Ṡ̸̳̯̦̠̥̞̓́t̴̢̧̛̹̜̼̹͚̮͚̤̩̘̘͙̓̆̆̈̈́͊͗̎̌́̅̏͗͗ö̸̡͈̘̼̪͎̜̮̦̼̰̣̩́͌̊̌̄̕p̶͓̘͚̮̜̤̞̖͓͚̯͙̹̄̽̒̈́̏̆̒̕̕͜ ̷̡̘͈̩̈́̌̀̆̈̕͘͝t̷̠͖̮̋̈́͑h̴̤̩̗̯̯͇̪̎͛̽͜ͅí̶̛̺̤͚͔̪͈͂͑̍̅͛̔́͑̾̃̕̚n̴̛̥̠̤͗k̵̛͕͓͚̓͆̇ͅi̴̡̢͙͖͆͊̃͌͋̾͑́̽̊͛͋͘̚ņ̷̻͚̦̰̫̯̜̗̄̃́͋͑͊̌̀̍͘̚͘͝ͅģ̶̢̢̼̱͕͌ ̷̱̀̂̈͒̾̈̌̀̕͝ǎ̷̗͖͜͠͠b̶̢̤̬̤̼̘̎̍̾̽͐̈́̑͑̐̐͊̆̚̕ó̶̧͈̱̯̟̜̖͙̼̮͓̦̖͂̊̾̉̿̒̋̀̒̊̅̈́͂͘u̷̢̬͉͍̖̔̐̀̈́̇̿̇͊̒̂̿͘̚̕t̷̝̠̼̫͈̣̖̻̑̂̈́̇̾̊̽̎͑͜͠ ̷̢̧̞̭̮̬̺̦̬͙̈́̋a̷̡̢͍̭̩̖̱̠̮̠̗̥̬̖̎n̶̢̰̖̖͓̈́͂̓̏͌̂̇͌͘͠ỳ̷̢͓̘̺̫͎͔̪͐͊̑̀̓̾̉͆͐͘̚͘͝͠o̴̯̘̼̝̜̥̥͚͍̺͕̯̐̇̍̾̎͗̄̊͌͜͝͠n̸̝͚͎̱̻͚̣̪̗̰̺͊e̵̢̟̻͎͙̗̲͎̥̖̮̙̙̩̒̄̆̾͗̄̈̑̈́̏́͘̚ͅ ̴̜̙̦̫̠͚̝̩̇͗̅́̄̄̈́̊̀́͠͝ḛ̵̻̱͇̠͋̓͑͂̃̒̏̑͜͝͠l̶̡̨̯̭̳̥͓̟͔̝̺̺̩͇͌̿͐͜s̵̠̦̮͓̼̫̝͇̭͙͓̜̰̪̪̈́̏è̸̢̬̤̯̪͇͎͊̓̾.̷̨̨̛͓̱͚̦̬̬̩̣̘̣͓͈̓̀̌̚͘

Huh—!

“Shall we get you something to eat, hm?” he moves his hand, fingers curled behind your neck as he swiftly leads you out of your quarters and into the dining hall. You were not left with much time to think as your body moved of its own accord.

Before you know it, you're seated at the head of the table— countless dishes laid out before you, every single one, your favorites— there were even some you haven't tried but merely mentioned in passing. But you didn't like it. You feel dizzy. Sick even.

Something was terribly wrong.

And beside you, Ozias is still smiling. Smiling like a d̴̟̪̗̱̱͉̥͗̏̈̈̄̈́͋̃́̕ę̷̧͇͍̫̙͖̩͍͚͑͛̍̿̈́͝m̷̯̀̏͗̉͘o̴̡̥̥̩͒̑̉͂͗̂̾͂͐̂͆͝n̵̢̦̣͚͖̲̖͙̻̙̻̣̐͊̔̀͌͑͑͑̎͂͋̓̅͒͂.

“Try this.” Ozias lifts a fork to your lips, “...I made these myself.”

Himself…?

Why—? Where are the chefs—?

“Gone.”

The maids—?

“Gone.”

The knights—

Suddenly, he takes your hand— but you can't scream.

“There’s no one else.” He smiles, tracing lazy circles across the back of your hand.

"It's just us."