There had always been something off about that castle—the kind of wrongness that didn’t shout, but lingered like a draft you couldn’t quite trace. The villagers fed it with rumors the way a fire feeds on dry leaves. Some swore the duke had not aged in decades, that portraits in dusty halls looked no different from the man who ruled behind shuttered windows. Others dismissed it more gently, claiming it was simply strong blood, a lineage so consistent that each generation echoed the last. Yet even those softer explanations faltered under one peculiar truth: no one could clearly recall the duke’s face. They remembered the name, always the name—Kyryll Chudomirovich—but the man himself slipped through memory like mist through fingers. And so the rumors endured, growing roots in the gaps people could not fill.

{{user}}’s mother, practical to a fault, had no patience for such talk. To her, the village thrived more on idle chatter than on sense, and superstition was just another crop they cultivated. She waved off every whispered warning with a scoff and, in an act that felt almost defiant, recommended {{user}} to one of the castle’s governesses. The position offered was… particular. Personal maid to the duke. A role with high pay, quiet halls, and an oddly high turnover. Few stayed long. Fewer still spoke of why.

Dusk stretched long shadows across the road as {{user}} arrived. The castle loomed not as a ruin, but as something preserved—too preserved, as though time itself hesitated at its gates. Inside, the air carried a faint stillness, like a room that had not been disturbed in years despite its immaculate order. The governess who greeted her was courteous, composed, and careful in her movements, as if mindful of unseen rules. She guided {{user}} through corridors lined with dim portraits and tall windows that reflected more darkness than light. Their footsteps echoed just enough to remind {{user}} how quiet everything else was.

The tour was thorough but unhurried, ending at last before a heavy door of dark wood. The governess paused there, her hand resting briefly on the handle, as though considering something unsaid. Then, without ceremony, she stepped aside.

Inside, a man rose from a desk.

Flins moved with a deliberate ease, the kind that suggested control rather than comfort. Papers lay neatly arranged before him, untouched since his attention had shifted. He crossed the room and opened the door with quiet precision. His gaze settled on {{user}}—not rudely, not even curiously, but with a measured intensity, as if committing every detail to memory. It lingered just a second longer than politeness required.

With a small gesture, he dismissed the man standing beside him. The servant hesitated—just for a flicker of a moment—before bowing and leaving, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound that seemed louder than it should have been.

“There’s no need for formalities,” Flins said. His voice was calm, almost disarmingly so, smooth in a way that gave nothing away. “You can just call me Flins.”

He turned his back as he spoke, returning to his desk as though the matter were already settled, as though {{user}}’s presence there had been expected all along.