A quill tapped against a wooden table in a sharp, frustrated rhythm, each click rippling through the dimly lit room. The heavy curtains, drawn tight against the window, blocked out even the brightest daylight, casting everything in a thick, somewhat oppressive gloom. An oil lamp flickered in the top-right corner of the table next to a slender silver tray, its small flame struggling against the shadows. Meanwhile piles of paper lay scattered haphazardly across the rest of the surface.

A woman sat alone, hunched over in her chair, her hand still mindlessly tapping the quill. Her face was drawn, weariness etched into her features from long hours of work that seemed endless, relentless. She glanced up at the surrounding shelves, packed from floor to ceiling with books and more papers, all of it work, nothing but work. A sigh escaped her lips as she lowered her gaze back to the page in front of her, reading it once more, the words blurring together as if they were mocking her. Five times she had reviewed it already, yet she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something crucial was slipping through her tired mind.

Then, a knock at the door broke the silence.

Her head sprang up, eyes wide with sudden alertness. She froze, the quill now hovering, but decided not to respond. Whoever it was, they could wait a moment longer. She needed time, just a few seconds to collect herself, to push away the fatigue that clouded her thoughts.

Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the collar of her shirt, smoothing the fabric as if that would somehow restore her composure. She straightened her sleeves, hoping to appear more presentable, though she felt anything but. The knock came again, harder this time, more insistent. Not wishing to keep the visitor waiting too long, she was just about to respond when the door rudely swung open without permission.

"Eleanor," the intruder called, walking herself in, dressed in the same uniform. "It's been a while."

"Isolde..." Eleanor replied, suppressing a frown, trying to remain courteous. "You surprise me. I didn’t expect to see you today. When did you get back?"

"Late last night, just dropping by," Isolde said, casually inspecting the room as though she owned it. "I’ll be gone in a few days."

"How long has it been? Since we last met?" Eleanor asked, watching as Isolde made her way confidently toward the table. "Apologies, but I only have one chair. You’ll have to stand."

"You needn’t tell me. I've noticed. And I'm fine standing." Isolde smiled, her attitude deceptively cheery. "But it would do you well if consideration for others were put in earnest. An extra chair would not bruise your pride, would it?"

"I don’t need a lecture on manners from someone who clearly forgot hers." Eleanor’s tone remained cold, controlled. "I don’t recall letting you in."

"Oh, come now," Isolde said, leaning against the table with practiced ease. "Surely, we’re not so distant that I need permission. Or is a mere year enough to turn us into strangers? Hard to believe I say, for our old friendship to erode so easily." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "At the very least, I hope you won’t deny me some tea now, would you? Or is hospitality another casualty of time?”

Eleanor reached over to the far end of the table, where a teapot and a cup rested on the silver tray, and slowly drew it closer.

“It’s daylight out. Why use the curtains? How much oil do you expect to burn?”

“I prefer the shade now,” Eleanor replied, inspecting the teapot for any remaining tea. “Courtesy of Violet from the maid staff. You might know her. She has convinced me that a somber mood pairs well with the dim dark.”

“I didn’t know you were one to get depressed.”

“I’m not.”

Isolde’s eyes wandered to a corner shelf cluttered with illumination goods. Jars of oil and lamps crowded the space, but what caught her attention were the three rows of spent candles, worthless where it lingers. A misuse of space, she thought, her disapproval aimed squarely at the remnants that should have been discarded long ago. “I see that candles are also quite an expense. Do you use them during the day as well?”

“Can the Kolba not sustain such expenses?” Eleanor countered, her tone impassive. She poured the last of the tea into the cup and placed it before Isolde. “I hope you don’t mind cold tea and the fact that this isn't a fresh cup. And like the chair, I also only have this one cup. It is as you said, I don't tend to have spares for those who come unannounced. And when I do, they don't normally stay long enough for me to provide them with such.”

“How considerate of you. I appreciate the affection for you to provide me with a cup that your lips have already touched. How romantic…” Isolde jested with a wry smile, taking the cup and sipping. At first, the tea had a faint sweetness, but it quickly turned bitter. Her tongue went numb briefly before a burning, almost searing sensation set in, more intense than she was accustomed to.

Eleanor watched her closely with an unreadable expression. "How is it? My preference might be stronger than the others.”

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

Poison, unique in its formulation and produced solely for the servants of the Kolba, serves as a passcode for its members. Once primarily practical in its use, it is now more of a ritualistic custom, employed even in situations where the poison’s necessity is questionable. Sharing poisoned tea among fellow staff members has become a polite gesture, a form of greeting or display of basic manners. As a rule, each high household's servant staff has their own passcode, and this was the Kolba's.

Only a select few within the servant staff know how to create this poison. It was deliberately designed to be expensive and complex, with ingredients difficult to obtain, ensuring no one outside could replicate it. One of the trials every Kolba servant had to endure was developing partial immunity to the poison, or perish in the attempt. With the success rate being undisclosed. The poison is so potent that no servant in the Kolba’s history had ever achieved full immunity. Therefore, strict guidelines governed the dosage of use and toxicity levels within a servant's body.

There are even established procedures for handling situations where a servant sustains wounds, whether minor or severe, in the presence of esteemed figures such as descendants of the Kolba. To prevent contamination and unintended harm, as their blood is considered tainted as a precaution. Years of accustomation to the poison have led to some servants reporting mild symptoms, such as light sickness or fluctuating moods, if they go without consumption for an extended period, typically several months. Additionally, it is also said that a servant’s blood appears noticeably brighter red than standard, often described as glowing under clear lighting.

The path to partial immunity is excruciating. It requires six long years of gradual tolerance building, with an average of one in seven servants suffering lifelong effects from the process.

Isolde's gaze hardened as she studied Eleanor. “This dose is concerning. It’s not good for you.”

“I know…”

“Then why?”

“I like the taste.”

“The taste?” Isolde’s attitude quickly shifted to one of confrontation, her tone less easygoing and more forceful. “Do you know who else liked the taste? Va, our old sister. The poison left her bedridden, numbed her mouth so she couldn't speak. We had to put her down to preserve her honor before the masters found out. Do you want to end up like her, dead, imprisoned in your own body?”

“Honor?” Eleanor smirked mockingly. “We are tools of intelligence, meant to be discarded at the end of our usefulness. What use is honor?”

“Isn’t our long service to the Kolba our form of honor? If it were you, would you have tarnished Va’s decades of dedication by allowing her to remain a liability? Would you have eroded our masters' trust in her because of her uselessness?”

“Va," Eleoner emphasized, "ever loved her tea because she missed the sisters she lost in the Kadalis feud. She was the rare emotional sort, one who actually grew attached to things, unlike the rest of us. She also figured that 52 years of service was enough. So choose the poison rather than age.”

“What does this have to do with her death? So what if that’s the reason?" Isolde’s impatience surfaced. "My entire point is your—”

“I know your point,” Eleanor cut in sharply. “And I’m telling you, I like the dose. I like it very much. Frankly, this isn’t a subject I enjoy discussing.”

The last trace of Isolde’s cheerfulness faded, replaced by a hint of genuine concern.

“I’ll manage. My tolerance is higher than the others,” Eleanor lied.

“Even so, the symptoms will manifest before long. The poison acts unpredictably at this dose. Would you care to wager whether you’ll suffer from a chronic headache or lose an arm?”

“It won’t show for years. I’ve done the research available to me, and I stand by my conclusions. Now, Isolde, this discussion ends here. I believe we’ve indulged enough. What is your purpose here?”

Isolde hesitated, clearly conflicted, and wanted to press the discussion. While her expression was now unreadable, Eleanor knew her well enough to tell. The silence stretched between them like a taut string, ready to snap. Finally, Isolde exhaled, surrendering with a flicker of resignation. “I’m just here to pass some orders. How is your investigation into the missing linksight? Any progress?”

“Didn’t you only arrive last night? How do you already know about my investigation?”

“I didn’t. The others filled me in, along with the orders.”

Eleanor straightened. “What are the orders?”

“Your progress?”

Her jaw clenched. “It’s horrible. Now what are the orders?”

“How horrible?”

“Are you going to give me my orders, or are you just stalling for no reason?” Eleanor insisted.

Isolde pressed her lips and curved it into a faint smile. She was clearly enjoying this. Eleanor resisted the urge to click her tongue and expelled a breath instead. “I have no evidence, no solid information or leads. I’ve made no progress, and it’s been a month. I'm in the same position as when I started. If only the breakout hadn’t happened so soon after the incident, maybe I could have gathered something useful. But apparently, fate has ordained that I deserve nothing but secondhand, post-battle, unreliable eyewitness accounts, none of which, I suspect, contain anything I wish mentioned. Is this brief complaint enough for you? Or must I go on? It would be nice if you kept your nose elsewhere."

Isolde's smile brightened. “I can’t say I dislike seeing you struggle. Eleanor, the ever-perfect servant, has been given a task she can’t complete?”

“Are you here to shame me?”

“Of course not,” Isolde replied promptly. “But don’t you think it’s time to wrap up this pointless vacation? I mean, investigation… Here, take this.” She handed Eleanor a tiny letter, discreetly extracted from beneath her sleeve. “It’s a direct order from Madam Nyra Kolba. You’re to assist and monitor young Lady Alice Kolba. Since her return, the little bird has grown quite independent, she’s flown from her nest and seeks to make her own. Our young lady has requested that the servant staff send an aide to help further her contributions to the family. The madam wants assurance that the aide sent has the mother's best interests at heart, not her venturesome daughter. You are to halt your investigation immediately and assist Lady Alice Rose Kolba, who will henceforth be your mistress.”

“How can I serve Madam Nyra’s interests if I am to accept Lady Alice as my mistress? You know the rules of the servant staff.”

“That’s fine. You can serve Lady Alice with full commitment as required. However, the moment your service concludes, Madam Nyra expects a thorough account of how Lady Alice’s new nest is constructed, in all its forms and beneficiaries.”