The walk to the Lady-in-Waiting dormitories was quiet, though the sounds of the Princess candidates' quarters weren't far off—laughter, the light clatter of footsteps, the faint echo of harp strings wafting through the air.
Q kept her eyes trained on Professor Ligarius's back, his long coat swishing as he led the way down a neatly paved path that curved away from the grand castle-like structures she'd seen earlier. Her hands fidgeted with the strap of her bag, her thoughts still tangled with the events of the day.
When the dormitory came into view, her first thought was that it didn't look like much.
Not compared to the sweeping arches and gleaming spires of the Princesses' halls.
The building was a single-story bungalow, its walls pale but unadorned, with ivy creeping up one side and a modest tiled roof that looked sturdy but plain. It was surrounded by a small garden, neat rows of green sprouts poking through the soil. A well sat off to one side, the bucket hanging from the pulley swaying faintly in the breeze. A bird feeder stood near the entrance, a few sparrows flitting around it before darting off as they approached.
It wasn't grand, but it was good.
Q hesitated at the gate, taking it all in. The building might not have the grandeur of the Princesses' castle, but it was still better than anything she'd ever known. The house she'd left behind felt like it might crumble if one leaned on the wrong wall, the roof patchwork at best. Here, everything felt solid, cared for. She shifted her weight, her boots scuffing the gravel path.
"This is where you'll stay," Professor Ligarius said, breaking her thoughts. His tone was as calm and deliberate as always, but there was a finality in his words that made it clear he was ready to move on. "I suggest you get some rest. We'll meet early tomorrow."
Q opened her mouth, a question already forming, but Ligarius was already shifting to leave. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"What's my roommate's name?"
He paused mid-step, his head tilting slightly as though considering whether her question warranted a response. Finally, he half-turned, his gray eyes meeting hers.
"Your roommate," he said slowly, "Is someone you'll meet soon enough."
Q frowned, crossing her arms. "That's not a name."
"It will suffice for now."
"Hey, wait!" Q called after him, jogging a few steps forward. "You can't just drop me off without giving me details! What if they're… I don't know, mean? Or a snorer?"
Ligarius didn't slow, his voice carrying back to her with maddening composure. "You'll survive."
"That's easy for you to say!" Q shouted. "You're not the one stuck sharing a room with someone you've never met before!"
"Miss Q, given your current state of dress, demeanor, and general appearance, I suspect it is your roommate who should be more concerned."
Her jaw dropped. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Without answering, he tipped his head in a faint gesture of farewell and disappeared down the path, leaving Q standing there, fuming. Q sighed after a while, turning back to the bungalow. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her bag as she made her way to the door. It wasn't locked, but she knocked anyway, her knuckles rapping against the wood. She waited a moment, her ear tilted toward the door, but no answer came.
"Guess it's just me, then." she muttered under her breath, pushing the door open cautiously.
The house wasn't grand, but it wasn't bare either. The living area greeted her first, a small space with plush velvet cushions tucked neatly onto a simple wooden settee. A modest rug lay across the floor, its colors faded but warm, and a low table sat in the center, a single candle perched on its surface. An arc in the wall led to a tiny kitchen, where a set of copper pots hung above a table just big enough for two. Everything looked worn but well-kept, like whoever lived here before had cared about the place but hadn't been one for extravagance.
Two doors stood on opposite sides of the living room. One was plain, its surface completely barren, the wood slightly scuffed around the edges. The other had a small chime hanging from its knob, the kind that jingled faintly with even the slightest motion.
Q lingered in the doorway, her bag still hanging from her shoulder. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that made her feel like she was intruding. She glanced at the door with the chime, frowning slightly. It was a small thing, but it made the room feel less empty.
"Guess that's not mine." she muttered, turning her attention to the plain door.
The house was fine. It wasn't a castle, but it wasn't supposed to be. She wasn't here to wear gowns or sit on thrones. This was where she was meant to be, and for now, that would have to be enough.
The small larder tucked into the wall of the kitchen felt like a hidden treasure chest. Q's stomach had been growling since halfway through the carriage ride, but she'd been too nervous to say anything to Professor Ligarius. Now, with the quiet of the bungalow wrapping around her and the faint scent of dried fish in the air, she finally let herself acknowledge how hungry she was. Her hands brushed against her stomach as it growled again, louder this time, and she snorted softly, shaking her head.
"Alright, alright," she muttered under her breath. "Let's see what we've got here."
The kitchen itself wasn't much—just a small room with enough space to move without bumping elbows, a table that looked like it had seen better days, and a few shelves holding chipped pots and mismatched utensils. But when Q opened the larder, her grin broke wide at the sight of a dried bass hanging neatly from a hook, its skin golden and taut. She reached for it, the faint, smoky smell hitting her nose like a balm.
"Oh, you'll do just fine." she said, pulling it free and holding it up to inspect. It was nothing fancy, but it was leagues better than what she'd expected to find. The idea of a warm meal after the day she'd had made her chest ache with a strange mix of relief and gratitude.
Her eyes flicked to the small stack of split wood neatly arranged by the stove. It was the kind of thing she'd only ever dreamed about back home, where cooking meant chopping logs until her arms ached and hoping the fire would catch on the first try. Here, the wood was ready and waiting, almost like magic. Maybe the staff stocked it, or maybe her roommate had left it there. Either way, it didn't matter. Tonight, it was hers to use.
She grabbed a pot from the shelf, its surface blackened from years of use but still sturdy. Her hands moved without thought, the motions familiar and grounding as she filled the pot with water from the well outside, then set it over the stove. She hummed quietly as she worked, her voice low and uneven but soothing in the small space.
She was halfway through cleaning the fish, her fingers deftly slicing through the belly, when she felt it—something cold, sharp, and unmistakable pressing against her back. The hum died in her throat, her body freezing as a shiver ran up her spine.
Don't move."
The voice sliced through the quiet, low and razor-sharp, freezing Q in place. Her fingers stilled on the fish, the blade she'd been using clattering to the counter as her breath hitched. For one dizzying moment, she thought she must've imagined it, that maybe her nerves and hunger were playing cruel tricks on her. But then she felt it—the unmistakable pressure of something cold and unforgiving pressing into the small of her back.
Her heart seized.
"Turn around," the voice said, softer this time but no less commanding. "Slowly."
Q's pulse thundered in her ears, her thoughts a tangled mess of panic and confusion. She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the stillness of the room, and forced herself to move. Her body felt heavy, stiff, every muscle protesting as she turned inch by inch.
The dried bass dangled limply from her hand, forgotten, as her gaze landed on the figure in the doorway. Her breath caught.
It was a girl, no older than Q herself, but there was nothing soft or uncertain about her. Her gray hair, pulled into a loose braid, gleamed faintly in the dim light of the kitchen. Her sharp, storm-colored eyes narrowed with a predator's precision, studying Q like a wolf sizing up prey. But it wasn't the girl's stare that made Q's blood run cold—it was the knife.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the girl demanded, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.
Q's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her throat felt tight, her lungs too shallow to pull in more than a shaky breath.
The girl took a step closer, the knife unwavering in her hand.
"I said, what are you doing here?" she repeated, her tone colder now, dangerous in a way that made the hairs on the back of Q's neck stand on end. "And don't lie. I'll know."
The girl's grip on the knife didn't waver.
"Answer me," she said, her tone colder now, her eyes flicking to the fish in Q's hand. "Who are you, and why are you stealing my food?"