Chapter 58: How to Care for a Child
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, its dying light painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and blood orange, when I finally reached the dormitory gates. The Academy’s towering spires cast long, skeletal shadows across the cobblestone paths, and their stained-glass windows glowed with the last embers of twilight, like the watchful eyes of ancient, sleeping beasts.
I stepped into the cool, echoing silence of the hall, the heavy oak door closing softly behind me, shutting out the last vestiges of the day. My coat was dusted with dried leaves from my walk through the gardens, and my boots, still caked with the grime of the training grounds, echoed across the polished marble floor as I walked toward my quarters. The day had been a long, draining affair—a whirlwind of political maneuvering, veiled threats, and the constant, gnawing pressure of my own ambition.
"Master," a soft, familiar voice called out, pulling me from my thoughts.
Masha, my ever-efficient maid, stood by the entrance of my room, a silent, waiting sentinel. Her usual uniform was immaculate, her silver hair tied back in a loose, practical braid. Her eyes, usually so wide with a nervous energy, were calm and unreadable as always, her posture a testament to a quiet, unyielding strength I was only just beginning to appreciate.
"Dinner is ready," she said, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet hall. "You may take a shower while I prepare the table."
I nodded, a wave of weariness washing over me as I let the day’s tension roll off my shoulders. "Fine."
By the time I returned, the steam from the hot bath still clinging to my skin and my hair damp against my neck, the dining table in my suite was already set. Two plates, two glasses, two sets of polished silver cutlery. She no longer insisted on standing behind me like some background figure, a silent servant in my solitary drama. We’d been eating together lately—not by her choice at first, of course.
She had refused, her face a mask of horrified propriety, when I had initially suggested it. It was a breach of protocol, a violation of the sacred boundaries between master and servant.
So I had forced the habit, a small, selfish act of rebellion against the lonely, echoing silence of my new life. And now?
It felt almost normal.
As I took my seat, Masha lifted the heavy, silver lid from the main platter, revealing a perfectly roasted slab of thunderbeast steak, its juices sizzling, surrounded by a colorful medley of steamed vegetables and a loaf of warm, crusty bread. A bowl of fragrant citrus broth steamed beside the platter, its scent a welcome comfort.
"Tonight’s menu is simple," she said, her voice even. "But balanced. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You need to replenish your strength."