Ch 8.3

A lone girl crept through the Pavilion, wrapped in nothing but a bedsheet, a knife clenched tight in her hand. She was barefoot, nerves stretched thin, every sound setting her on edge. Nearly a week of working here had etched the layout of the Tranquil Pavilion into her memory; corridors and stairwells burned into instinct rather than thought.

Ben must be in the cellar, she told herself. It has to be down there.

She moved cautiously, hugging the walls, her steps light as she tiptoed through the dim halls. Ahead, a pair of servants passed by carrying trays laden with food and drink, their laughter dull and careless. Chloe froze, ducking behind a marble pillar, holding her breath as they walked past without a second glance.

The moment they disappeared, she slipped out and hurried down the hallway.

At the far corner, she spotted it—a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Her pulse spiked. She followed it, heart hammering harder with each step, until a single door loomed at the bottom.

There was only one place servants were forbidden from entering.

And this had to be it.

The corridor was empty. No footsteps. No voices. Chloe swallowed hard and pressed her hands against the door. It was heavy—far heavier than it looked—and she had to brace herself, putting her shoulder into it as she pushed with everything she had.

The wood groaned.

The door creaked open inch by inch, the sound echoing unnervingly through the stairwell. Chloe slipped inside, breath shallow, knife raised instinctively.

The room beyond was dim, almost swallowed by shadow. She couldn’t immediately make out where she was, only the faint outline of stone walls and the cold, stale air of an underground chamber.

“Ben?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

From within the darkness, a figure stirred.

Then a voice emerged—low, rough, unmistakable.

“What are you doing here?”

Chloe’s breath hitched. A woman. Panic flooded her chest. No—this isn’t the cellar. She spun toward the door and bolted.

The ground shuddered. Stone surged upward with a grinding roar, a slab of earth rising from the floor and sealing the doorway shut in an instant.

“Huh—?!” Chloe squealed, skidding to a halt. A presence loomed behind her.

She whirled around, knife raised with trembling hands, the blade pointed straight ahead. Her back was stiff, her shoulders tight, but she forced her voice to steady. “Miss… I—I have a dangerous weapon,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Please don’t make me use it.”

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness—and then she saw her.

A tall woman stood bare and unflinching, her body wrapped in thick bandages where wounds had yet to heal. Her frame was muscular and solid, her posture relaxed yet immovable, like a mountain that had decided to stand upright. There was no embarrassment in her nudity, no hesitation in her gaze.

Tevu. The earth mage of the Tranquil Pavilion.

She stared at Chloe without a hint of emotion, golden eyes dull and heavy, like stone worn smooth by time. Tevu glanced down at the knife.

“…That’s a butter knife,” she said flatly. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”

Chloe’s eyes flicked to her hand. What—? Her confusion lasted a heartbeat. That was enough.

Tevu moved. She closed the distance in a blink and seized Chloe’s wrist, fingers clamping down with crushing force.

“Ow—!” Chloe gasped, trying to pull free, but it was like struggling against a boulder. “You tricked me!” she snapped, pain and anger flashing together.

Tevu’s expression didn’t change.
“And you fell for it,” she replied coolly, “Not like you’d manage anything with it anyway.”

She twisted Chloe’s wrist and slapped the knife from her grasp. It clattered uselessly across the stone floor. Tevu’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing sneaking around outside your quarters?” she asked. “Looking for your little friends?”

Chloe clenched her teeth and glared back, refusing to answer.

Tevu clicked her tongue. “Thought so.”

She grabbed Chloe, hoisting her up effortlessly and throwing her over her shoulder like a sack of grain. “H—Hey! Let go!” Chloe shouted, kicking and flailing, but it did nothing. Tevu didn’t even grunt.

“I’ll report this to Aisha,” Tevu said calmly. “She was supposed to be watching you.”

With a flick of her fingers, the stone slab lowered back into the ground. Tevu stepped out of the room, Chloe still trapped over her shoulder, the darkness swallowing them as the door creaked shut behind them.

Tevu had just stepped onto the stairs when she spoke, more to herself than anyone else.

“So where is Aisha now—”

“Aaah—!”

A scream tore through the upper floors.

Tevu’s eyes sharpened instantly.

She broke into a sprint, Chloe still slung over her shoulder. The sudden acceleration knocked the air from Chloe’s lungs, her arms flailing uselessly as the stone-hard grip around her legs never loosened.

Servants poured into the halls, following the sound, but Tevu was already ahead of them—feet pounding up the stairs, bandages brushing against stone, moving like a hunting beast that had caught a scent.

They reached the corridor.

The door Chloe had fled from stood wide open.

A body lay sprawled just beyond the threshold.
Half-naked. Trembling. Reeking.

The deerman had somehow dragged himself out into the hall, his movements clumsy and desperate. His face was caked in reddish spice, streaked with tears and mucus, eyes swollen and bloodshot, barely able to open. He gagged and retched between screams, fingers clawing uselessly at the floor.

“Please—! Water—! Please help me—!” he wailed hoarsely, voice breaking.

Servants froze at the sight.

“What happened—?”
“Is that… blood?”
“Gods, his eyes—”

“Move aside,” Tevu ordered sharply.

The crowd parted.

She stepped closer, eyes scanning the man’s condition with a soldier’s detachment. Spice residue clung to his lashes, his nostrils, the corners of his mouth. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving as his body rejected the burning agony flooding his senses.

“Mr. Gother?” Tevu muttered, disbelief flickering across her face.

What the hell happened here…?

Behind her, Chloe shifted slightly on Tevu’s shoulder.

She looked down at the deerman—his trembling hands, his ruined face, the way he sobbed and begged for help.

And felt… almost nothing.

No triumph. No panic.

Just a quiet, distant calm.

She said nothing.