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I drain the rest of the water, then set the cup down. My gaze drifts to her face, searching for any sign of deceit or hidden motives. Humans can be skilled at deception when desperation calls. Yet I find no trace of cunning here, only a guarded spark that suggests she is ready for any cruelty.

I exhale, turning away to signal she’s dismissed. She must read my body language because she steps back, inclining her head once more before retreating from the courtyard. The sense of her presence lingers, leaving a subtle heat in the air even after she’s gone.

Once alone, I stand near the bench, staring at the pitcher. My mind drifts over her features, recalling the composure she showed in the hallway, the smooth cadence of her voice. There’s a hidden reservoir of quiet strength in her, like a coiled spring that never fully relaxes.

A memory of my previous vow washes over me: caring for a human is weakness.

I know this well. Yet I keep noticing small things about her.

The shape of her mouth when she hesitates, the way her skin glistens with a thin sheen of perspiration in the humid air, how her eyes dart as she takes in every detail of her surroundings.

I brush those musings aside with the same force I used to drive the spear.

This is my domain. She is a servant. If I begin to care, I risk old wounds splitting open.

Betrayal once cost me everything—my inheritance, my standing, nearly my life.

I refuse to repeat such a mistake, no matter how intriguing this human might be.

Deciding I’ve had enough introspection, I gather the tray and carry it back toward the manor.

The hallway is empty now, so I place it on a small ledge for another servant to collect.

My estate’s design ensures I rarely have to worry about these small tasks, but performing one myself distracts me from the restlessness in my mind.

On my way to the second-floor balconies, I pass by several closed doors.

Each leads to guest chambers seldom used.

Dust rarely gathers because Sahrine ensures her staff cleans daily, though visitors remain scarce.

I prefer it that way. The last time I invited someone here, they sought to manipulate my territory for personal gain.

At the end of the corridor, a wide balcony overlooks the courtyard below.

I lean against the railing, scanning the greenery that sprawls into the distance.

Kaynvu’s jungles are rumored to hold magical wildsponts—places teeming with chaotic energies—and large swaths remain unexplored.

The humidity clings to my skin, but the breeze at this altitude provides some relief.

From up here, I see Mira again, this time walking around a cluster of tall ferns along the estate’s outer walkway.

She carries a basket of cleaning supplies.

Even from a distance, I notice her measured posture.

It’s the stance of someone who expects trouble.

Part of me admires that vigilance, though I wish she didn’t appear so haunted.

I stand there for a long while, letting the day slip into early afternoon.

Eventually, the sun dips behind the trees, and the warm light takes on a golden hue.

It’s time to finalize the day’s tasks. My mind wrestles with the knowledge that tomorrow, I will see her again, and the next day, and the next.

Each interaction sets me on edge. Yet some part of me—a traitorous corner I loathe to acknowledge—anticipates what small exchange might occur.

I run my hand over the railing, feeling the cool stone beneath my palm.

The world below continues in a hush, only broken by the occasional call of a jungle bird.

A single question echoes in my thoughts: Why does this human, so quiet and compliant, captivate me in a way that disrupts the calm I once cherished?

I have no answer that satisfies me. So, I decide to turn away, stepping back inside.

The hallway darkens as the sun lowers, shadows stretching across the floor.

My footsteps sound louder than usual, as if the estate is reminding me of my solitude.

The staff avoids me unless summoned. Sahrine sees to the household.

Crick manages security. Mira cleans floors and washes linens.

I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of the old stone walls and the faint dryness of the air. The hush that once served as a refuge now amplifies my awareness of her presence somewhere in these corridors.

Returning to my study, I light a lantern.

The golden glow flickers across the shelves and stacks of parchment.

With slow deliberation, I sink into the chair behind my desk.

My tail coils around the base, a reflex of containment.

Despite my best intentions, I know that tomorrow I will watch for her, listen for her footsteps, and wait to see if she lifts her gaze for more than an instant.

A weakness, indeed. One I intend to master before it masters me. Yet I cannot deny the faint thrill in my chest. Perhaps this is the cost of living in isolation for so long—that the smallest hint of warmth or curiosity can feel like a storm building on the horizon.

No matter. I learned how to weather storms long ago. If I can quell uprisings and slay foes who threaten my domain, I can certainly deny a quiet human maid any power over me. Resolute, I lean over my desk, determined to immerse myself in the reports until I banish every thought of her from my mind.

The night stretches onward, the only sounds the distant drip of water from the courtyard fountain and the faint rustle of parchment as I scribble notes.

By the time I set my quill aside, the lantern’s flame has dwindled low.

My eyes ache, and a subtle tension lingers in my chest. Standing, I exhale quietly and gather my robe around me.

I exit the study, passing through the silent halls. A sense of restlessness anchors me to the moment. Eventually, I reach the door to my private chambers. With one last glance down the dark corridor, I slip inside.

My room offers the same hush as the rest of the estate.

A single window high on the wall grants a glimpse of the moonlit sky.

The bed is large, adorned with simple linens in dark shades.

Coiling patterns decorate the walls, reminiscent of ancestral naga artistry.

I shed my robe and ease onto the bed, letting the day’s tension seep out of my muscles.

In the darkness, my thoughts drift back to an image of Mira’s profile, the delicate lines of her face illuminated by morning light, and the careful way she answered my questions.

I almost want to banish the memory, but it remains.

Resentment flickers through me—why should a mere servant occupy so much of my attention?

I turn onto my side and close my eyes, willing my mind to focus on tomorrow’s tasks.

Orc raids, supply management, updates from the boundary watchers.

A swirl of responsibilities. Yet the last thing I recall before sleep claims me is the faint sound of her voice, whispering, “Yes, my lord,” in that quiet tone that pierces deeper than any scream could.

In the end, my resolve stands: caring for a human is a path I refuse to tread. Still, I suspect that vow is already trembling beneath the weight of her presence.