Nord felt the gravel crunch under her worn boots as she and Baal neared the imposing façade of the manor. The air was chilled but mercifully devoid of snow, making each expelled breath visible like whispered clouds.

Nord's eyes narrowed as she saw from the morning haze emerging silhouettes, "Is that the Ashleys?" her voice dipped into a pool of caution, and her steps became hesitant.

Baal exhaled audibly, the sound a subtle blend of impatience and resignation. "Seems like it," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

As they reached the intersecting path where gravel met cobblestone, the elder Ashley's sister broke into a small trot, the enthusiasm evident in her every step. "Good morning, Miss Morningstar," she called out, her voice tinged with a brightness that clashed against the cold air and her usual stern, aged complexion. "Such a pleasure to see you here!"

"You don't say!" Nord met her with a sceptical smile, and her eyes darted to the odd collection of goods the women carried. Baskets filled with an assortment of trinkets, a table in its disassembled state, and various decorative objects balanced precariously in their arms. "Good morning," she finally returned the greeting. "You're out rather early, aren't you? And it appears you've brought half your household."

The eldest Ashley's lips stretched into a practised grin as she closed the distance between them. "We're here to ask a small, tiny favour," she finally revealed the content of the basket, lowering her arms enough for Nord to see the outline of what appeared to be colourful balls and ribbons.

Nord glanced at Baal, catching the scepticism mirrored in his eyes before turning her attention back to the elder Ashley. The gravel beneath her boots seemed to groan in unison with her own silent apprehension.

"A small, tiny favour, you say?" Nord echoed, her eyes falling again to the basket that Ashley was cradling, now slightly more unveiled to display a splash of vibrant colours—reds, blues, and what seemed like strands of gold ribbon. "You've certainly piqued my curiosity."

Ashley's eyes twinkled with what Nord discerned was unease and hope.

"We're organising a Winter Fair," she began, "It's a charity event for the school and the less fortunate in the community."

"It's tradition," interjected the second-oldest Ashley.

The eldest Ashley drew in a curt breath and resumed, "Tear Lake usually freezes over around this season. We would like to set up a workbench by the lakeside. For snacks and refreshments, you see. Both the children and adults partake in various activities on the lake. Ice skating, fishing, and the like. We are still waiting for the snow, but the cold is already here."

"Rosemary, your predecessor, always granted us this favour," chimed in another sister, her tone bordering on nostalgia.

Nord tilted her head, a brow arching with bewilderment. "Why do you need my permission?"

The youngest of the Ashleys piped up, her voice a chirpy contrast to her sisters’. "Miss Morningstar, Tear Lake is part of your estate. We thought that would have been made clear to you when you took over."

A moment of surprise crossed Nord’s face. "It is? I wasn't aware."

The youngest Ashley erupted in soft laughter. "Oh, manners, Ashley! Remember the painting, yes?" She returned her gaze to Nord, softening it just a smidgeon. "Don't mind my rude sister. The estate is extensive, Miss Morningstar. It's easy to lose track of what you own."

Nord glanced at Baal, who was lingering a few steps away. His eyes met hers in a resigned shrug as if saying, 'Why not?'

Smiling, Nord directed her attention back to the Ashley sisters. "If Tear Lake is indeed under my jurisdiction, then by all means, set up your workbench. You have my permission. Is there anything else you require? Additional help, perhaps?"

The youngest Ashley's eyes twinkled with youthful energy as she turned back toward Nord. "If you want to send over some younger helpers, they might enjoy setting up the decorations."

Nord's lips curled into a smile. "Excellent idea. I think Bram and Kirara might relish the chance. And Finnea could help with any heavy lifting."

"Very well, then," the eldest Ashley acknowledged, her voice tinged with reluctant approval, before turning away with her sisters toward Tear Lake.

Baal moved closer to Nord, his voice a hushed murmur. "Doesn't any of this seem odd to you? The Ashley sisters and their seemingly cheerful request?"

Nord chuckled. "What's to find odd? They seem as dangerous as a basket of kittens, and it's for a good cause."

Baal's eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon as if half-expecting to find hidden threats. "There's something unsettling in the air, and it's not just the cold. It’s too calm, like the calm before a storm. Don’t you feel it?"

She leaned closer, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Maybe it's just the allure of a tower walking nearby. I've heard it can evoke strong memories—happy memories," she said, waving her hand in front of their face like a magician.

Her words triggered something in Baal; his eyes darkened for a split second, and he bit his lower lip as though wrestling with some inner turmoil. Then, as if brushing aside whatever had snagged his thoughts, he shook his head. "Never mind. Let's go eat; I’m starving."

But as they turned toward the manor, Nord couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Baal's sudden shift was unsettling. She glanced at him as they walked, his expression now unreadable. What was troubling him? Did she say or did something wrong?

As they neared the manor, the smell of breakfast wafting through the air, Nord made a mental note to revisit this conversation. Because whatever Baal was grappling with, she had a gut feeling it was far from trivial.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

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The kitchen door creaked open, and Perdita rushed in, cheeks flushed, and her tail puffed from the biting morning air. Her eyes instantly fell on Adamastor, whose sleeves were rolled up to his elbows as he pressed an orange half into the squeezer with concentrated effort. A mist of citrus spray filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee beans and freshly baked bread.

"Morning, Adamastor," Perdita chirped, her voice full of warmth despite the chill lingering in her bones. She moved with ease, her hands already seeking the brown eggs in a wicker basket beside the stove.

Adamastor paused, looking up from his task. A small but sincere smile stretched across his face. "Morning, Perdita. You're in a good mood today."

"Always am when the kitchen smells this good," she quipped, cracking an egg into a bowl with a satisfying tap. "Scrambled eggs for room three, and room eight wants their breakfast in the salon. We’re a full house today."

"Ah, very well." Adamastor's eyes followed her movements as he dropped the spent orange half into a bowl and reached for another. "Nearly done here."

Perdita glanced at the glass pitcher filling up with the gold liquid of fresh orange. "That for Miss Morningstar?" she asked, pausing to beat the eggs in the bowl, her wrist making quick circles.

Adamastor's blue eyes softened, a look of sentimental yearning overcoming the usually stoic lines of his face. "Yes. Saw her coming back from her morning exercises. Thought she’d appreciate something refreshing."

Perdita noted the uncharacteristic warmth in his tone, and her hands stopped mid-motion. She turned to look at him squarely, catching that lingering look in his eye—a look she'd only ever seen in the pages of the romance novels she sometimes sneaked into her room when Bram was fully asleep.

"Adamastor," she began cautiously, whisk still in hand. "You do know that Miss Morningstar and Mr Berith are sharing the same room? It’s... just tactless; it's asking for heartbreak."

Adamastor sighed and put down the squeezer, placing his hands on the counter as though bracing for impact. "Perdita, it's just orange juice. And tactless or not, we're all human beings first. I mean me and Miss Morningstar; Mr. Berith is not human. And you are…"

“And I’m a Nixbob! What a stupid thing to say,” Perdita looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You may think it's just orange juice. But I've seen that look before, and it never ends well. Not in this house. Not in any house like this. You have just... started! Huh, never mind. You do you."

Adamastor paused, perhaps seeing the genuine concern that flickered in Perdita's eyes. "I appreciate the warning," he said quietly, resuming his work.

Perdita turned back to her eggs. She knew her warning would likely go unheeded, but something about Adamastor's feelings for Miss Morningstar unsettled her. It was like watching someone walk a tightrope above a chasm; even if you couldn't look away, you knew it was a perilous affair. She scrambled the eggs with more force than necessary, as though she could exorcise her worries into the yolk and butter.

As Adamastor poured the freshly squeezed orange juice into a delicate crystal decanter, both of them chose to let the matter rest—each too absorbed in their own thoughts and tasks to broach the subject further. But even as the kitchen filled with the intoxicating scents of breakfast, the unspoken tension lingered, as clear and palpable as the chill outside.

"Don't forget the drops," she reminded Adamastor, her voice carrying a tone of caution.

Adamastor's face twisted into a mild grimace at the thought. "Really? It gives the orange juice a weird salty taste," he complained, clearly unenthusiastic about the prospect.

Perdita raised an eyebrow, her concern evident in her gaze. "You've tasted it?"

Adamastor straightened up, defensive. "I taste everything before it leaves this kitchen. I have standards, you know."

A momentary silence filled the room as Perdita gripped the small vial in her hand. "Maybe skip tasting this one," she finally cautioned.

Adamastor's eyes narrowed, fixated on the vial she held. "Why? What's in that?"

Perdita sighed as though exhaling the weight of a secret she’d long carried. "Vampire poison," she confessed, her eyes meeting his.

Adamastor's jaw dropped, his gaze darting from the vial to Perdita's solemn face. "Vampire, what now? You're joking."

"I wish I were," Perdita replied, setting the vial down on the counter as though it were made of glass too fragile to hold its dark promise. "Imagine, Adamastor, what would happen if you ingested it. You're human; you'd probably die paralyzed or turn into a vampire!"

Adamastor shook his head, still grappling with the bizarre turn of events. "We're serving vampire poison? In this house? Since when?"

"It was your ide—huh, never mind," she cut off, her attention going back to the eggs, now perfectly whisked and ready for the pan.

Adamastor's eyes sharpened his brow furrowing. "Wait, why are we giving this to Miss Morningstar? Does she want to—"

Perdita was quick to interject. "No, Adamastor, it's not like that," she assured him, "It's to build immunity. That's all."

Still incredulous, Adamastor glanced from Perdita to the vial as if expecting it to reveal its secrets.

"Vampire poison," he muttered, breaking the uneasy silence between them. "And this is for Miss Morningstar's own good? As some sort of... preventive measure?"

"Exactly," Perdita responded, a note of resolute finality in her voice. "Think of it as a necessary evil, if you will. We're not poisoning her; we're arming her against a real threat. It was your id—huh, never mind," she repeated, trailing off as if stumbling on a thought she didn't dare to articulate.

Adamastor noticed the odd slip but chose not to press her. His thoughts churned like a tempest, filled with reservations, ethical qualms, and an overriding concern for Nord.

Perdita slid the whisked eggs into a preheated pan, the sizzle filling the room with a comforting aroma that seemed wholly out of place given their macabre conversation.

Adamastor finally picked up the vial, holding it up to the light, contemplating its weighty implications. "And the others? The guests? Do they too…"

Perdita shook her head as she gently scrambled the eggs with a wooden spoon, "No, it is only for Miss Morningstar."

Adamastor's hand lingered a moment too long over the corked vial after setting it aside. He chuckled, a sound tinged with both humour and a shade of something darker. "Sometimes I wonder what in Atua’s snare I've stepped into by working here," he said, swallowing hard, feeling his saliva pool as if in answer to some unspoken yearning.

Perdita caught his gaze, her eyes searching his for a moment. "Trust me, I have the same thoughts. But we're aiding people—people like Miss Morningstar—who are trying to make a better world. A world without the threat of the Hollow."

"And Mr. Baal," Adamastor added, his voice carrying an undercurrent of bitterness. It wasn't just Nord Morningstar who held his attention; there was also the daunting, almost sinister magnetism of Baal. Yet Nord held a different pull, one he couldn't quite put or dared into words and one that irked him for its indefinability.

"Exactly, Mr. Baal, too," Perdita confirmed, setting her empty bowl aside. "Both of them are on the front lines we can barely comprehend. If preparing a hearty breakfast is the least we can do, then so be it."

As she spoke, Adamastor felt a strange tug within him, one he’d been noticing more frequently, especially when handling the vial. It was as if the poison called to him, like a siren’s song drifting in from some obscure abyss. It unsettled him, this lure of a substance so lethal. Yet each time he felt the pull, it was stronger, more insistent.

Salty.

He grabbed a cloth and began wiping down the counter, a feeble attempt to distract himself from the vial’s haunting presence. But as he looked over at the jug where the poison had mixed seamlessly into the orange juice, his mind wandered. What would it feel like to partake? To taste the forbidden elixir that fascinated him so?

"Adamastor?" Perdita’s voice sliced through his thoughts. "Are you alright? You seem lost."

He met her eyes and offered a shaky smile. "I'm fine, just... daydreaming, I guess."