Rae was heartbroken. Eleanor, her fifteen-year-old vampire maid, watched helplessly, uncertain how to console her. The vibrant young queen, once brimming with curiosity and a beaming personality, had withdrawn into herself, her light dimmed by grief. Days turned into weeks as Rae's routines fractured into unsettling extremes.
Sometimes, she could be found in the manor's sparse library, hunched over ancient, dust-ridden tomes, searching feverishly for spells to resurrect the dead. Other times, she sat silently in the dim glow of candlelight, her gaze fixed on the ruby ring she used as her magical conduit, her fingers tracing its edges as if it held the answers she sought. More often than not, she locked herself away in Merle's laboratory, obsessively tinkering with mysterious projects, emerging only when exhaustion forced her. On some nights, Eleanor discovered her asleep at the library table, her face pressed against the brittle pages of books she could no longer keep her eyes open to read.
Eleanor could see how shattered her lady—her queen—had become. The world Rae had built for herself, the foundation she stood upon, had crumbled, and Eleanor was powerless to stop it. Through their telepathic bond, Eleanor felt fragments of Rae's torment: the crushing waves of despair, the simmering anger, and the cold, hollow ache of loss. But no amount of empathy gave Eleanor the answers she needed. How could she help Rae when the young queen had locked herself in a prison of her own pain?
Eleanor's heart ached not only for Rae but for what her queen had meant to her. A while ago, Rae and Trina had appeared like a beacon in the lives of Eleanor and four other girls—Daphne, Millie, Ella, Michelle, and Eleanor herself. At the time, the five were fugitives, running from the shadows of their past: a life of servitude in a brothel in Night City, a grim settlement on the edges of Greythorne County.
Daphne, the eldest at seventeen, had striking jet-black hair, blue eyes, and an hourglass figure. Millie, sixteen, had dark brown hair, gray eyes, and a diamond-shaped build. The sisters, Ella and Michelle, were fifteen and fourteen, their petite forms nearly identical except for Ella's sharp features and green eyes compared to Michelle's softer features and gray eyes. And Eleanor, the youngest at twelve, with strawberry hair that carried a pinkish hue, stood out for her wide blue eyes and her innocence—an innocence that the streets of Night City had nearly destroyed.
Their escape from that wretched life had been a desperate gamble. They fled the brothel with nothing but stolen scraps of food and each other. The wilderness nearly claimed their lives, as hunger and exposure threatened to finish what their captors could not. When a group of adventurers appeared on the horizon, they feared the worst—assassins sent to retrieve them. But it was worse than they imagined; they almost lost their lives to the adventurers' curse. It was Rae and Trina who saved them.
Rae had given them a chance to rebuild, to heal, and to dream. For the first time, Eleanor saw light—a world beyond despair. And now, watching Rae succumb to her own darkness, Eleanor was desperate to return the favor.
The manor itself seemed to reflect Rae's anguish. Her mana flared unpredictably, surges of raw energy that rippled through the walls, shaking chandeliers and rattling windows. The staff, while loyal, kept their distance, too afraid to approach. But Eleanor was always there, waiting just beyond the door, whispering words of comfort Rae likely never heard.
Rae had become relentless, throwing herself into dangerous magic and grueling combat training. Her determination burned like a wildfire, consuming her body and soul. No one could stop her—perhaps no one dared. But Eleanor refused to give up. Her young queen had saved her once, and now, no matter how impossible it seemed, Eleanor was determined to do the same.
Eleanor tried to discuss the matter with Harold, the Baron, hoping he might have some idea of how to console his grieving daughter. But Harold's mind was preoccupied consumed by another pressing issue—a sword hanging precariously over their heads.Eleanor sat in the corner of the grand hall, her fingers tightly interlocked, nails biting into her palms. The low hum of the crackling hearth did little to soothe her nerves as she watched Harold, the Baron, pace the room. His face was a mask of exhaustion, lines carved deeper by the weight of an invisible blade—the Queen's decree. An arranged marriage, dangling over their heads like a guillotine. Count Greythorne's name lingered in the air, venomous and unshakable.
"There must be another way," Eleanor ventured, her voice barely above a whisper. She had tried countless times to reason with Harold, but his shoulders sagged further each time she spoke. He didn't respond, his gaze locked on the floor as though searching for answers etched into the stone. She could see it—the storm behind his eyes, the helplessness as he wrestled with the impossible.
Greythorne's visit loomed closer, his request to meet Rae cast in a cordial letter that felt more like a chain tightening around Harold's neck. How could he explain this to Rae? The girl who had just lost her mother, whose world had crumbled into ash? He hadn't the heart to bring it up, and yet, secrets had a way of slipping through cracks. The servants, gossiping in hushed tones, had carried the news where Harold dared not.
The first sign of Rae's fury came not in words but in the sharp, resounding echo of a slammed door reverberating through the manor. Eleanor flinched, her hand clutching the fabric of her dress as she glanced toward the source. Moments later, Rae stormed into the main hall, her face flushed, her steps heavy with rage. The ruby ring on her finger caught the flickering firelight, the conduit for her magic almost pulsing as if it fed off her emotions.
"Marriage?" Rae's voice cut through the air like a blade. "To whom?" Her lips curled into a sneer, the very word 'marriage' tasting bitter on her tongue.
Harold stopped pacing but didn't meet her eyes. His silence was answer enough.
"How dare you?" Rae's voice cracked, a mixture of anger and something rawer, deeper. "You think…you think I'll stand by and let this happen? To a Greythorne of all people?" Her fists trembled, and for a moment, Eleanor thought the air itself had grown heavier, charged with the storm that brewed within Rae.
Harold sighed, the sound long and weary. "Rae…it's not what I want. It's what the Queen has decreed."
"Decreed?" Rae's laughter was bitter, sharp as glass. "She decrees while monsters attack our lands and our people are starving, shivering with fear? This isn't a decree—it's a power grab! A sham!" Her voice broke again, but this time with frustration, with the unbearable weight of one crisis piling onto another.
Eleanor's heart clenched as she watched Rae, a fire burning so fiercely it threatened to consume her entirely. Yet, beneath the fury, Eleanor saw the cracks—the grief Rae hadn't allowed herself to feel, the loss she buried beneath layers of anger and defiance. For weeks, Rae had been locked away, drowning in the pursuit of impossible magic, her mother's death leaving a wound so deep it seemed beyond healing. Now, she stood before them, fury masking the rawness within.
"This ends here," Rae said, her voice steadying, hardening. "If that Greythorne thinks he can leash me, he'll regret it." Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode away, her ruby ring glinting ominously as if it shared her resolve.
Eleanor watched her go, torn between fear and relief. For the first time in weeks, Rae's focus had shifted—her grief momentarily eclipsed by her determination to fight this arrangement. Perhaps it was selfish, but Eleanor clung to that sliver of hope. If this battle could pull Rae out of the abyss, even for a moment, then perhaps…perhaps there was still a way forward.