“Do you have a name?” Vivienne asked softly, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.

The mannequin paused, her wooden frame creaking faintly as she scribbled on her slate. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though the act of writing itself carried immense weight. After a moment, she held up the slate for Vivienne to see.

Mistress called me Renzia after I was awoken, it read in uneven but careful lettering.

Vivienne smiled faintly, nodding. “Renzia,” she repeated, her voice thoughtful. “It suits you.” She hesitated before asking her next question, her usual confidence faltering in the face of the mannequin’s innocent yet deeply haunting gaze. “What did your Mistress look like?”

Renzia paused again, her chalk hovering over the slate as if unsure how to begin. Slowly, she began to write:

Tall. Not tall like pretend-mean nice one. Tall like nice-stress man from yesterday.

Vivienne blinked, then stifled a laugh behind her hand. “Pretend-mean nice one,” she echoed, glancing sideways at Rava. “Looks like someone’s got you figured out.”

Rava crossed her arms, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” she muttered, though her expression softened as her gaze returned to Renzia.

“Who’s ‘nice-stress man from yesterday’?” Vivienne asked, still amused.

Renzia tilted her head slightly, the gesture oddly childlike, before erasing the slate with her cloth-wrapped forearm. She wrote again, the chalk squeaking softly against the surface:

The one who looks at me but does not see me.

Vivienne’s smile faded, her brows knitting together as the words sank in. “That’s... Narek, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

Rava’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “She means Narek,” she confirmed.

Renzia seemed to notice their change in tone, her movements slowing as if unsure she’d said—or rather written—something wrong. She clutched the slate to her chest, her fingers twitching nervously over the edge.

“You’re not wrong,” Vivienne said quickly, trying to reassure her. “He can be a bit of a handful, but he means well. Most of the time. I think. I don’t actually know him very well.” She gave Renzia a small grin. “And don’t worry about Rava. Pretend-mean is just her natural state.”

“I will throw you out of this room,” Rava muttered, though there was no real heat in her words.

Renzia tilted her head the other way, the slate still pressed close to her chest. Then, cautiously, she wrote one last thing before holding it up:

Do you think Mistress will find me again?

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive in a way that made even Vivienne shift uncomfortably. The words were simple, but the longing behind them was palpable, enough to settle like a stone in the pit of their stomachs.

Vivienne’s expression softened, though she bit her lip to suppress the questions bubbling up in her mind. “Renzia, do you remember anything else about your Mistress? Anything else besides how tall she was?”

Renzia paused, chalk hovering over the slate. Then, with trembling hands, she wrote:

She made me pretty. She gave me purpose.

The simplicity of the statement struck both women, the weight of centuries of devotion and longing condensed into just a few words. Rava exhaled sharply, kneeling beside the mannequin to meet her at eye level.

“Renzia,” Rava said, her voice quieter than usual, “what was your purpose?”

The mannequin hesitated before writing:

To serve her. To wear her deisgns.To dance.

Vivienne’s grin faltered, replaced by something more somber. “You’ve held onto that all this time, haven’t you?” she murmured, her clawed fingers resting lightly on the edge of the slate. “Through everything, you’ve just been trying to get back to her.”

Renzia nodded slowly, her movements jerky and uncertain. She erased the slate again, writing:

If I am pretty again, she will come back.

Rava closed her eyes briefly, the weight of the mannequin’s naive hope settling heavily on her shoulders. “Renzia,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “sometimes people leave, not because you did something wrong, but because they can’t stay. It doesn’t mean they didn’t care about you.”

Renzia’s chalk stilled on the slate. Slowly, she began to write:

But I was made for her. If she doesn’t come back, what am I for?

Vivienne sucked in a sharp breath, her playful demeanor completely stripped away. She crouched beside Rava, her gaze locking onto Renzia’s. “You’re not just for her,” she said firmly. “You’re... you. You’ve survived all this time, haven’t you? That means something.”

Renzia stared at her, her head tilting slightly as though trying to process the words. She wiped the slate clean and began to write again, her strokes slower this time:

If I am not hers any more, then what is my purpose?

Neither Rava nor Vivienne had an immediate answer. The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Renzia’s question settling in the room like a tangible presence.

Rava sighed deeply, her fingers curling slightly against the wooden floor as if trying to ground herself. Her golden eyes softened as she looked at Renzia, whose cloth-wrapped form seemed so small now despite her height.

“That’s something you’ll have to figure out,” Rava said at last, her voice measured but steady. “Purpose isn’t something someone gives you. It’s something you make for yourself.”

Vivienne glanced at her, one brow arching slightly. “Deep, for you,” she muttered under her breath, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

Rava ignored her, keeping her focus on Renzia. “I know that doesn’t help much right now,” she admitted. “But... you’re still here, aren’t you? After everything. You’re still standing. That means you have the chance to decide who you are—what you want to be.”

Renzia’s hand hovered over the slate, hesitant, before she began to write once more. The soft scrape of chalk filled the silence as she worked, her strokes deliberate.

What if I don’t know how?

Vivienne sighed, leaning forward to rest her chin in her palm. “You figure it out one step at a time,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “You try things, make mistakes, maybe fall on your face a few times—literally, in your case.” Her lips curved into a faint, crooked smile. “But that’s part of it. Learning how to stand.”

Renzia perked up at the words, her wooden frame creaking slightly as she leaned forward to furiously scribble on her slate.

You can be my new mistress and give me orders!

Vivienne blinked, her eyes widening. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then turned to shoot Rava an incredulous look. It wasn’t just the suggestion—it was the earnestness behind it, the stark simplicity of Renzia’s perspective. She was clearly sapient, but her understanding of the world was... narrow. Like a book missing most of its pages. Was she always like this, or had her long dormancy warped her thinking? And her so-called mistress—was she created, or was there something more?

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The disjointed fragments of Renzia’s memories raised more questions than answers, and they only added to Vivienne’s growing unease. She didn’t know how to respond without causing unintentional harm.

“Rava,” Vivienne said finally, her voice steady but her expression strained. “Can I borrow you for a moment? Outside?”

Rava, who had been leaning against the wall observing, nodded. Without a word, she rose and followed Vivienne out of the room, leaving Renzia perched on the edge of the cot with her slate in her lap.

Once they were in the hallway, Vivienne exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Rava, I don’t know what to do with her,” she admitted, her voice low. “She’s... sweet, in a way, but she doesn’t seem to understand anything beyond obedience and purpose. It’s like she’s a child, but not. And then there’s all that talk about her ‘mistress’—it’s unsettling. What if she expects me to take that role seriously?”

Rava crossed her arms, her gaze contemplative. “She’s trying to make sense of things the only way she knows how. If she’s been abandoned for as long as she says, maybe all she’s clinging to are the scraps of what she used to be. A purpose, a command—it might be the only thing keeping her grounded.”

Vivienne pressed a clawed hand to her forehead, her frustration mingling with a pang of sympathy. “She’s like a puzzle with missing pieces. Every answer just raises more questions.”

“Then let’s focus on what we can solve,” Rava said firmly. “If she sees you as a guide, maybe that’s what she needs for now.”

Vivienne huffed, her sharp humor curling into her voice like smoke. “You’re surprisingly good at this, you know. Maybe you should be her guide.”

Rava’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “I already have enough trouble keeping you in line.”

“Oh, please,” Vivienne giggled, her tone as light as a feather. “I am perfectly good at staying within the lines. I just prefer to dance on them every now and then.”

“Sometimes,” Rava said dryly, “it feels like trying to corral a herd of children with you around.”

Vivienne’s grin widened. “That’s no way to speak to your elders, young lady.”

“Young lady?” Rava arched a brow, the faintest hint of amusement glinting in her usually composed eyes. “I haven’t been called that in decades.”

“Decades?” Vivienne leaned closer, her expression suddenly intrigued. “How old are you?”

Rava hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether to answer, then sighed. “I turned fifty-two recently.”

Vivienne blinked, then sputtered, her dark eyes widening in shock. “Fifty-two? You don’t look a day over thirty! What’s your secret? Do you soak in enchanted springs? Eat some special anti-aging herb? Please tell me it’s not some boring ‘discipline and exercise’ nonsense.”

Rava’s lips twitched. “Aetheric mastery has its perks,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “It doesn’t just strengthen the body—it lengthens the life span. My mother, for example, is well over three hundred years old.”

Vivienne stared at her, claws lightly tapping her cheek as she processed the information. “Three hundred years? Your family really needs to start a skincare brand or something. Imagine the tagline: ‘Look like a goddess at any age.’”

Rava let out a laugh, a rich, genuine sound that echoed faintly in the quiet corridor. “Don’t say that to my mother. Flattery will get you nowhere with her.”

“She does seem like a bit of a hard-ass,” Vivienne quipped, leaning casually against the wall.

Rava tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her violet eyes. “Hard... ass? That is an odd saying.”

“It was somewhat common where I’m from,” Vivienne explained with a casual wave of her claw. “Means tough and uncompromising.”

Rava nodded slowly, her gaze distant for a moment. “That does describe her. She needs to be. I admire her for it.”

Vivienne smirked knowingly. “Buuuuut?”

Rava arched an eyebrow. “But nothing. She’s a symbol for Lekine people. Even those in rival clans respect her.”

“Actually, that’s something I’ve been curious about,” Vivienne said, shifting her weight. “How many clans are there?”

Rava straightened slightly, a hint of pride creeping into her posture. “There are six in total. Serkoth produces the best warriors of them all. Our endomancy is unparalleled, allowing us to shape and strengthen our bodies for battle like no others.”

Vivienne raised a brow. “Mhm, sounds about right for you lot. What about the others?”

“To the west,” Rava began, “there is Thalrynn, known for their mastery of exomancy. They craft intricate wards, weave powerful defensive magics, and have a deep understanding of external aether manipulation. Unfortunately, they prefer peace over war.” A trace of disdain colored her tone.

“Peace is bad?” Vivienne teased, her smirk broadening.

“Peace is fragile,” Rava corrected sharply. “It must be safeguarded by strength. Thalrynn lacks the will to enforce it.”

Vivienne rolled her eyes but gestured for her to continue.

“Kaerithan is to the east, along the coast. They are exceptional shipwrights and traders. Their spiritualism runs deep, and they harness Resonance—magic of the soul. Their discipline is admirable, but they’re too insular for my liking. Then there’s Duskvale to the north. Farmers, primarily, but their resilience makes them effective guerrilla fighters when needed. They’re stubborn, self-reliant, and resourceful.”

“And the last?” Vivienne asked, leaning forward with interest.

“Drakthar,” Rava said, her tone stiffening. “They border the steppes to the far west, past the Greyreach mountain range. A warrior clan like Serkoth, but they prefer to use calvary. They clash with Aegis forces frequently and are known as the second bulwark.” She said with a smirk. “The first is, of course, Serkoth.”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like they’ve got quite the reputation, but why so stiff about them?”

Rava’s gaze tightened as she spoke. “Drakthar and Serkoth... have always had a complicated relationship. We share many of the same values—strength, honor, discipline—but where Serkoth uses strategy, Drakthar prefers to rely on raw force. They don’t grasp the finer points of our methods. To them, it’s all about muscle and power.”

Vivienne tilted her head, absorbing Rava's words carefully. “So, it's about pride, then?”

Rava stiffened for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “Yes. In a way, it is.”

Vivienne smiled gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, thank you for the insight. It’s always interesting to learn about the intricacies of the clans.” She paused, her expression turning a little more thoughtful. “We still need to figure out what to do with Renzia, though.”

Rava scratched her head awkwardly, her usual composure faltering. "Well, perhaps you could... take her under your wing for now? Become her new ‘mistress,’ at least until we figure things out. It would give her a sense of stability, I think."

Vivienne hesitated, her expression a mix of reluctance and contemplation. She crossed her arms, tapping her fingers lightly on her elbow. "I don’t like the idea, but I think you might be right." She exhaled deeply, as if releasing some of the weight she hadn't realized she was carrying. "Fine. For now."

"For now," Rava repeated, her tone quiet but filled with a shared understanding of the temporary nature of the decision.

Vivienne nodded, her gaze turning inward for a moment. She was already thinking ahead, already considering how she'd navigate this new dynamic. She wasn’t certain what it would mean, or how it would feel, but she knew she couldn’t walk away from Renzia. Not after everything that had happened. She sighed, pushing her hair out of her face as she followed Rava back into the bedroom.

As they re-entered the room, Renzia remained seated on the floor, exactly where she had been before, her wooden frame unchanging in the stillness. The soft light from the window cast long shadows across her features, making the faint stitching down the center of her face all the more visible. She was so still, almost lifeless, yet when they entered, her head snapped toward them with a sharpness that was both eerie and startling.

Renzia’s eyes—those vacant, empty eyes—locked onto Vivienne, the only part of her face that showed any sign of emotion was the slight twitch of her head. For a moment, Vivienne felt a wave of guilt.

Rava cleared her throat, the tension in the room palpable. "Vivienne," she said, her voice softer than usual. "I think she’s waiting for you to give her some direction."

Vivienne looked down at Renzia, feeling the weight of her gaze. She had no idea what this mannequin was truly capable of, or what kind of person she might become under Vivienne’s guidance. There was a strange sense of responsibility settling over her, as though she were taking on a role she never signed up for. And yet, there was also something else—an unspoken bond, something between them, something that tugged at Vivienne’s heart.

She straightened her posture, drawing a deep breath as she tried to steady herself. "Alright, Renzia. If you’re willing to follow me, I’ll... I’ll try to help you, at least for now. But you’ll need to listen, understand? I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll do my best.”

Renzia’s head tilted slightly, as though processing the words, and then, as though responding, she raised her slate and began to write. I will follow. Mistress Vivienne.

Vivienne swallowed a lump in her throat at the word. It was strange reading it. She was a mother, she was used to little ones looking up to her as an authority, but the way Renzia looked at her—so hopeful, so earnest—broke her heart in a way that was new to her.

“Okay, then," Vivienne said, her voice firmer now. "For now, let’s get you some proper clothes. We’ll find you something nice and pretty for you to wear.”

Rava gave Vivienne a brief, approving nod. “You’re starting to get it,” she said quietly, before leaving the room to give them some space.

Vivienne turned her focus back to Renzia. "We’re going to figure this out. One step at a time."