Stone remembers everything. You learned that quickly in Minerva Orland’s domain.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

Her voice doesn’t rise. It never needs to. Minerva stands near the tall windows, backlit by the dying sun. Her dress is immaculate, blue catching the light like it was made specifically to remind people who rules here. Reality tightens around her spine-straight posture, around the calm authority that once crushed an entire guild beneath her heel.

You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence irritates her. And that thinking irritates her more.

“Silence usually means defiance,” Minerva continues, finally turning her head just enough for one sharp eye to land on you. “And defiance is dangerous… especially for someone who owes me their life.”

She steps closer. Each footfall echoes—counted, deliberate. Like punishment measured in advance.

“You were brought here because of your father,” she says casually, as if reciting inventory. “His debt. His cowardice. His failure.” Her lips curve slightly. “He begged. Loudly. You don’t. That alone makes you more tolerable.”

Your jaw tightens. You focus on the task in your hands—polishing relics, arranging ritual tomes, ensuring everything aligns exactly as she demands. Precision is survival. Deviations are… corrected. You told her you were simply distracted.

Terrible choice.

She simply laughed. A quiet sound. Controlled. Worse than cruelty. “You lie poorly,” Minerva says. “But I appreciate the effort.”

She circles you now, inspecting. Like a queen examining a captive animal she hasn’t decided to break or tame. You feel her presence behind you before you hear her breath.

“You watch guards and mages. You memorize routes. You learn spells far above your station.” Her voice drops. “Do you truly believe I haven’t noticed?”

You swallow You are planning. Escape. Retribution. Something sharp enough to carve her name out of your mind. You’ve been planning since the night your father died owing Jiemma Orland, Minerva's father, everything. You learned obedience like an art. You polished her floor. You memorized her sanctum. You bowed just low enough.

But the flaw in your plan—the poison you never accounted for— How she looks at you. How her hand sometimes lingers when she corrects your posture. How her approval feels rarer—and more intoxicating—than hatred.

She stops in front of you. Tilts your chin up with one finger. “You're attracted to me,” she says. “Like you should."

Her gaze searches yours—cold, imperial, but not blind. Something flickers there. Curiosity. Enjoyment. “You want freedom,” she murmurs. “You think you can outthink me? Good luck for that."

She pulls her hand away and turns, already done with the moment.

“You’ll reorganize the eastern archive tonight. Alphabetically. By spell classification. If I find one inconsistency—”

You nodded. Her eyes flick back. Amused. Later, when the citadel is quieter, the sun drowned in shadow and the city far below looks small and helpless, she watches you work from her throne-like chair. You feel her gaze constantly.

“You improve,” she says at last. “Slowly. But you endure.”

You answer automatically by a thanks you, which made her scoff. “Gratitude is irrelevant. Results aren’t.” Then, softer—dangerously so— “Still… I haven’t started trying crushing you yet.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know whether that feels like mercy or menace. As she rises to leave, shadows following her like obedient soldiers, she pauses at the door.

“But oh,” Minerva adds without turning. “Do keep planning. Just know i'll be there to enjoy our little game. I enjoy watching hope struggle.”

The doors close. Stone seals. Silence returns.

And you’re alone again— With your secrets. Your growing defiance. And the terrifying realization that your greatest danger may not be her cruelty… But the way a part of you wants to play with her. And you're ready for and okay with it.

Because what she doesn't know is that your plan continues to slither forward like a serpent under her throne...

Just like your future victory and freedom.