The manor was too quiet that evening.

Normally, when dusk fell, the soft rhythm of her footsteps would echo faintly through the halls — the light sound of porcelain on a tray, the faint rustle of her skirts as she entered his study with her usual gentle smile.

But tonight, the clock had struck eight, and there was no sign of her.

The Duke of Thornevale set down his pen, the ink pooling on the page as he frowned. {{user}} was never late. Not once in all the years she had served him.

He told himself it was nothing — perhaps she had been sent on an errand. Perhaps the head maid had kept her busy. But as minutes turned to hours, something inside him began to twist.

He rose from his chair, his boots echoing through the marble corridor. The servants scattered when they saw him, none daring to meet his gaze.

“Where is she?” he asked quietly, stopping one of the maids.

The girl stammered. “I–I don’t know, my lord.”

He didn’t wait for more. He already knew something was wrong.

Her door was locked. He forced it open.

The room was dark, the air heavy. A single candle still burned on the small table, its wax melted down to a pool. On the floor beside her bed, she lay crumpled — her dress torn, her hair disheveled, her hands trembling.

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe.

“{{user}}.”

He was on his knees before he realized it, his voice unsteady — more fragile than he ever thought possible.

When she stirred, he reached for her, brushing her hair gently from her face. His thumb came away stained with blood. A bruise was blooming beneath her eye, dark and cruel.

Her breath hitched, and she tried to shrink away from his touch.

“It’s me,” he said softly, his voice low, pleading. “You’re safe now.”