Mother of Midnight

Working for Mistress Castillo was, in many ways, the strangest experience of Mera’s life.

At first, it had been the pay that drew her in. A whole gold piece every week, with an extra two whenever it was time to feed the Young Mistress. It was outrageous—enough to make even the steadiest servant blush, and enough to make Mera’s friends green with envy. Most of them wouldn’t go near the Rathik estate, not with all the rumors floating around. Whispers of the monster in the manor, of the Midnight Girl, of what had become of those who ventured too close.

But Mera was desperate. She’d been turned away from three positions in a row—too slow, too loud, too soft—and she’d burned through her savings faster than she cared to admit. So when the job appeared, posted in black ink on cream parchment with no name attached, she didn’t hesitate. Her hands were shaking when she tore the notice from the board.

She expected cold stone halls and blood on the walls.

What she found instead was a strange kind of elegance. Quiet. Tense. But not cruel.

Mistress Vivienne Castillo was intimidating, yes. The woman could freeze a room with a glance. And she looked like something from a storybook—not the kind you read to children. But during the interview, she had been… civil. Reserved, sharp-tongued, clearly used to obedience, but not unkind. She spoke clearly. She listened. She never criticised her for being nervous, only smiling with that sharp-toothed grin.

Arrogant? Oh, certainly. But every aristocrat was. And few of them were half as generous as Vivienne was with her staff.

Which only made things more confusing.

Because when you worked for someone the city called a monster, and they treated you like you mattered—it was hard to know what to do with that.

Mera had grown more comfortable over the past few weeks of her new employment—relatively speaking. The halls of Rathik Manor still had a way of making the hairs on her neck stand on end, and she hadn’t yet mastered the trick of walking past the Young Mistress’s door without holding her breath. But the work was steady, the pay was dependable, and most surprisingly, Mistress Castillo hadn’t so much as raised her voice.

That wasn’t to say Mera was ever relaxed around her employer. No, she still moved a little too stiffly whenever Vivienne entered the room, still kept her eyes low and her responses clipped and careful. But strangely enough, that seemed to please the Mistress. She had a way of smiling—sharp and secretive—whenever Mera stammered or flinched. If anything, Mera suspected her nervousness was part of why she still had the job.

She was on her hands and knees now, scrubbing the grand entryway tiles, sleeves rolled up and hair sticking to her temples, when the silence was broken.

“Ah. Did Mistress Castillo bring blood in again?” came a voice from behind her.

Mera startled so hard she nearly slipped on the wet stone. Her head jerked up, heart skipping, and there he was—Corven, tall and still as a statue, standing just off to her right like he’d been there the whole time.

He always did that. The older Lekine could be terrifyingly quiet when he wanted to be, and he always seemed to want to be. In the few weeks she’d known him, Corven had made her jump out of her skin more times than she could count. Never maliciously. Never with a smirk. Just… appearing.

“Oh! Um, yes,” Mera stammered, clutching the cleaning rag like it might defend her. “Nearly done though. Just the last bit to rinse.”

Corven gave a small nod, his pale blue eyes flicking briefly to the half-empty basin near her feet, then back to her face. No judgment. No approval. Just quiet observation, like always.

“Good,” he said, his voice smooth and low. “She prefers the scent aired out before nightfall.”

Then, without another word, he stepped around her, not so much as brushing the edge of her cleaning bucket, and disappeared through the doorway toward the west wing—silent as a shadow.

Mera exhaled slowly, realizing only then that she’d been holding her breath.

Maybe she was a bit too jumpy for this job. Maybe someone more composed, someone with steadier hands and a stronger stomach, would have made a better servant under Mistress Castillo. But… she had been the one chosen. Out of all the applicants—and surely there had been others, right?—it was her that Mistress Castillo had accepted into the manor. Her and Corven.

That meant something. Had to.

So she held on to that thought like a thread of certainty as she finished scrubbing up the last of the dried blood near the stairwell—black and sluggish, clinging to the grout in stubborn streaks. The coppery scent still lingered in her nose, thick and cloying.

She stood with a wince, her knees stiff from crouching, and grabbed the bucket, sloshing with red-tinged water. Without much ceremony, she carried it out to the garden edge and dumped the contents into the brush. The bushes hissed faintly at the touch, but didn’t die. Not this time. She made a mental note to rinse the pail thoroughly.

Next up: cleaning up after the goblins.

Virdan give me strength, she thought, rubbing her temples.

Goblins weren’t unheard of, but you rarely saw them in large numbers. Most people went their whole lives without seeing one, let alone a group. They were a rare people—small, quick, sharp-eyed, and sharp-tongued, and the world hadn’t been kind to them. That Mistress Castillo not only sheltered them but let them live in the manor was something that still baffled Mera. She’d heard they’d been rescued from Aegis’ clutches—a fact that, once she knew, had sealed her loyalty more than any paycheck could.

She didn’t know much about Aegis. Not really. But what little she had heard was enough to chill her blood. Enough to make her thankful that someone like Mistress Castillo existed, whatever the rest of the world called her.

Some of the goblins helped out here and there—sweeping the halls, fixing old door frames, even patching up parts of the manor with strange, ingenious little contraptions—but for the most part, the daily chores fell to her and Corven. They were the only full-time staff. The only ones expected to be everywhere at once.

And of all her duties, nothing was more exhausting than trying to clean the goblins’ rooms and workshops.

Half of them were territorial. The other half were inventors. And all of them required convincing. Endless negotiating. Promises that their tools wouldn't be touched, that their bones and feathers and scraps of who-knows-what would be returned exactly where she found them. Sometimes it took half a bell just to get one to open their door a crack.

It was like trying to clean the inside of a dragon’s den while the dragon watched.

But it was her job. And she’d been chosen.

So, bucket in hand and shoulders squared, Mera took a deep breath and marched back inside. Toward the east wing.

And the goblins.

A disaster, really, if Mera was being honest—but she supposed the goblins would call it organized chaos. She wasn’t entirely sure how they could find anything in the tangle of gears, parchment, feathers, bones, springs, and strange glowing mushrooms, but they always did. No matter how cluttered, no matter how buried, if you moved one item out of place, they knew.

Still, at least the chaos stayed confined to their wing. Thank Virdan for that. If their particular brand of havoc ever spilled into the main halls, she’d probably have to start cleaning in her dreams just to keep up.

Three bells. That was how long it took to clean just the common area and two of the workshops—with their grudging permission. By the end of it, Mera was sticky with sweat, her apron smudged with oil, ink, and something she really hoped wasn’t goblin glue. Her arms ached, and her patience was worn to a fraying thread.

She needed a break.

The scent of something warm and rich greeted her before she even reached the kitchen. Her stomach growled loudly in response, reminding her she’d barely had more than a crust of bread all afternoon.

Inside, she found Corven already hard at work, methodically tending to pots and pans, the air fragrant with a medley of spices—coriander, cumin, something earthy and a little sweet. The older Lekine moved with the kind of quiet, practiced efficiency she’d come to associate with him, every motion deliberate, clean, precise. Not a drop spilled, not a knife out of place.

Mera grabbed a few leftovers from lunch—some roast vegetables, a chunk of bread, a sliver of cheese—and sank onto one of the stools tucked against the far counter, sighing in relief as she sat.

“That smells good,” she said between bites. “What are you cooking?”

“Something the Mistress called curry,” Corven replied without looking up, his claws expertly slicing through a heap of onions. “She gave me the recipe herself. Said she was feeling nostalgic for it.”

Mera blinked. “She can cook?”

“Quite well, actually.” He moved to the stove and gave the pot a stir, the wooden spoon clinking gently against the edge. “She prepared a small meal last week to demonstrate a few of her preferred dishes. This one is among them. I took notes.”

Mera chewed thoughtfully, watching the mixture bubble in the pot, steam curling up into the warm air.

“I guess I just assumed she wouldn’t bother with something like that,” she admitted. “You know. Being… who she is.”

Corven paused for a moment, then gave a small shrug. “She’s particular. But she’s no stranger to effort. When something matters to her, she learns it deeply. Then does it properly.”

Mera considered that as she nibbled at the last of her bread. She didn’t know what she’d expected—maybe that the Mistress had always lived in some velvet tower, waited on hand and foot. But cooking for herself? Sharing recipes? It was oddly… normal.

Just one more thing that didn’t quite match the monster people claimed she was.

“I just thought, since she… you know… hunts for her own meals, that she wouldn’t bother with people food,” Mera said, her voice trailing off near the end as the words left her mouth.

Corven’s hands stilled for a moment over the cutting board. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her, the flick of his yellow eyes sharp under his brow. There was nothing raised in his voice when he spoke—no anger—but his tone carried weight, the kind that settled deep.

“You shouldn’t refer to your employer as something other than a person.”

Mera froze, halfway through a bite of cheese, and promptly choked. She coughed, sputtering, and waved her hand in front of her mouth as she tried to force the food down. “N-no! I didn’t mean it like that! I just—”

She scrambled to recover, heart pounding. “It’s just, she hunts aether beasts, right? And I’ve heard they taste awful. Some are even toxic! That’s all I meant! I wasn’t trying to say she’s not a person or—or call her a—”

“I understand,” Corven said, setting down the knife with deliberate care. “Just keep a better eye on your language.”

His tone softened a touch, but not much. The reprimand lingered in the air like a scent.

Mera swallowed hard—her food, and her embarrassment. “Right. Sorry.”

Corven gave a small nod and returned to his work, the knife resuming its steady rhythm on the board. The kitchen was quiet for a while, save for the bubbling pot and the soft chop-chop-chop of vegetables.

Mera stared down at her plate, appetite dwindling. She hadn’t meant anything cruel by it—just an idle comment. But in a place like this, around people like her, idle comments could slip into dangerous territory.

She’d remember that next time.

After her break, it was time for the part of her duties she dreaded most.

Her turn to feed the Young Mistress.

Mera didn’t hate the girl—far from it—but the process left her rattled in a way nothing else in the manor did. It wasn’t painful, at least not in a physical sense. She wasn’t forced, either. Mistress Castillo had made it perfectly clear during her hiring that the feeding was voluntary and compensated accordingly. No one had twisted her arm.

Still, the nightmares were awful.

Not as horrific as the first ones. Not like the ones Mistress Castillo herself had conjured up to demonstrate what Liora would be avoiding—Virdan above, those had shaken Mera so badly she couldn’t sleep for days afterward. They weren’t just nightmares; they were real, or at least they felt real. Memories turned wrong. Emotions twisted. Familiar voices turned cruel.

Her idea of a bad dream had never quite recovered from that demonstration.

But the Young Mistress was gentler. The dreams she gave Mera were still disturbing, yes—muddled scenes of drowning skies and rooms that bled—but they lacked the same sharp edges, the visceral wrongness that had clawed at her mind in Castillo’s nightmares. These were bearable. Just enough to leave her pale and slow-moving the next morning, but not screaming herself awake.

A fair trade, she supposed, for feeding a creature like Liora.

She climbed the stairs with slow, measured steps, pausing outside the door to compose herself. Her hand hovered over the wood for a moment before she knocked twice, just loud enough to be heard.

Then she pushed the door open.

The room was dim and heavy with a kind of quiet, pulsing stillness, like sound itself was treading carefully. Liora sat curled on the couch, bundled in a blanket, her pale skin nearly luminous in the low light. Across the room stood Renzia—Mistress Castillo’s personal attendant—unmoving, facing the door as if she’d anticipated Mera’s entrance to the second.

Mera had never seen an automaton before working here, and she still wasn’t entirely sure Renzia was one. The woman—or the thing—moved like a mannequin, stood like a statue, and spoke with a voice that slid between syllables like her mouth hadn’t quite decided where they belonged. It was eerie. Beautiful, but eerie.

“Mera!” Liora’s voice broke through the hush, soft and thin but laced with something close to excitement. The girl’s tired eyes lit up just a little. Her movements were sluggish, but she sat up straighter under the blanket.

Seeing her like that made Mera’s heart lift, just a little. Liora had been so still when she first arrived. Like something left on a shelf too long. But ever since Mera had joined the household, she’d noticed the girl moving more, speaking more, smiling even.

It made all the nightmares worth it.

“Hello, Young Mistress,” Mera said gently, stepping into the room with a small smile of her own. “Are you ready for your supper?”

“Yes! I even asked Renzia to make you a bed on the couch too, so you can be comfortable!” Liora beamed, her thin arms shifting beneath the blanket as if she wanted to gesture to the spot, but her body didn’t quite allow it.

Mera’s chest tightened with something warm and bittersweet. Despite everything—despite the girl’s frailty, her strange diet, and the haunting dreams she shared—Liora always greeted her with open joy. There was no malice in her, no cruelty. Just a soft, aching kindness.

Mera smiled gently. “That’s very kind of you, Young Mistress,” she said, folding her hands in front of her with practiced grace.

Polite. Respectful. Don’t get too familiar. That was the rule.

But Virdan’s breath, she wanted to. Wanted to scoop Liora up into a hug, squeeze her until she squeaked, pinch those tired little cheeks and tell her how proud she was just to see her moving around. But that wasn’t in the job description. Servants didn’t cuddle noble children, no matter how sweet or sickly they were.

Instead, she walked over to the long couch beside Liora’s and looked at the space Renzia had arranged. A soft quilt had been laid out neatly atop an extra cushion, and a pillow waited at one end. Simple, but more than adequate. Probably Renzia’s work—precise, symmetrical, but lacking warmth.

Mera sat down with a soft sigh and eased herself onto her side, letting the day’s exhaustion settle into her limbs. Her muscles ached, especially after the goblin wing ordeal. She still wasn’t sure how one group of tiny women could generate so much filth, noise, and stray glue in a single day. Every time she left their domain, she felt like she needed a holy cleansing and a stiff drink.

She shifted a little, resting her head against the pillow, eyes flicking toward Liora. The girl was watching her, a little smile still clinging to the corners of her mouth.

Mera returned it, softer now, more genuine.

“Thank you again, Young Mistress. I really appreciate the thought.”

Liora’s eyes fluttered, already starting to grow heavy. “You’re welcome… I don’t like it when people have to sleep on the floor…”

Mera chuckled under her breath and closed her eyes, preparing herself for what came next.

“Me neither.”