"No!..."
Eve Morgan shot upright in her canopy bed, her body slick with a cold sweat that felt like the icy water of a drowning pool. Her breath hitched, forcing a painful, wheezing cough that scraped her throat raw. The sound of the falling blade and the triumphant echo of Mary's laughter still rang in her ears, a fresh, agonizing trauma.
"Milady!"
A soft, concerned voice brought her violently back to the present. It was Anna, her personal maidservant. Anna, whose loyalty had cost her life cruelly under Mary's schemes in the future Eve had just escaped.
"Anna..." Eve practically leaped out of bed, pulling the small, startled maid into a desperate, crushing hug. She buried her face in Anna's shoulder, taking in the scent of lavender and soap—a scent of life and safety. "Water, please. And… a bath. A hot bath."
Anna gently peeled herself away, her brow furrowed with confusion. "B-but, Milady, it's three o'clock in the morning. The kitchens won't be staffed yet, and the water will be freezing."
Eve managed a brittle smile, the memory of her public execution fading just enough for cold logic to return. "Then fetch the cold water. I insist. A bath will be sufficient. I want to soak myself," she said, though her true reason was unspoken: she wanted to drown the lingering filth of her death. "I want to forget that nightmare."
Anna, ever loyal, simply nodded and hurried off to follow the unusual command.
Eve rose and moved to the wide window. It had been one week since she had woken up here, in her own bed, a week before the date of Mary's long-anticipated arrival. Mary, her golden-haired twin, the favorite daughter, the one who looked exactly like the Duke. The one who had condemned Eve to the executioner's block.
The silver-haired Eve, whose body seemed cursed to retain every scrap of food and whose health had always been fragile, was supposed to greet her sister today. Eve still didn't have the courage to fully accept this second chance, this inexplicable gift of time travel. But she knew one thing: she would not repeat the past.
Anna returned, looking distraught, and escorted her mistress to the washroom. The water was icy, but Eve plunged into it anyway. For two hours, she sat submerged, letting the extreme cold numb her skin and, slowly, her raw nerves.
The Deadly Needle
The next morning, the Duke's butler, David, arrived at Eve's secluded wing.
"I'm sorry, Master David, but Lady Eve is still weak. Her fever has worsened overnight," Anna said smoothly, blocking the door with a practiced ease.
David, a portly man of fifty, nodded dutifully. "Very well. I shall inform the Duke."
Later that day, in the grand dining hall, the family discussed the news. "It's been a week, and she's still sick?" Luke, the Duke's eldest son, questioned, frowning over his poached egg.
Duchess Rosie, a woman whose beauty had faded into a brittle elegance, responded with cold suspicion. "Investigate if she's truly ill, David. Do it discreetly." The Duke, as always, remained silent, his attention fixed on his newspaper.
The world outside of Eve's rooms was bustling with anticipation. But inside, Eve was preparing for war.
"Anna, listen closely," Eve commanded later that afternoon, her tone firm, utterly devoid of the hesitant politeness she used to employ. "Go to the slums district. Find a granny near the river, at a weird shop. Do not say anything—just ask for the 'Deadly Needle'."
Anna's eyes widened, recognizing the name. "Milady, you can't. They say it's a killer's tool, not a medicine."
"It is both," Eve countered, her mind, a vault of perfectly retained information, pulling up every detail she'd ever read about the weapon and its legendary user, the Moonlight Killer. "It can be used in medical treatments, yes, but its unique trait is what we need. In my past, someone used the needle to sever the victim's emotional core, turning them into a living doll. No fear, no grief, no love. No weakness."
Anna looked at her beloved mistress, her poor, constantly suffering mistress. "If you use it, Milady, there's a chance your emotions might never return."
Eve met her gaze, the ruby color of her eyes clear and uncompromising. "It is better than death, Anna. It is better than betrayal."
"Then I must have it too," Anna declared, standing her ground. "I will not serve another mistress, and I will not watch you face this alone. I'd rather follow you, even as a broken doll, than remain a wholehearted slave to those monsters."
With a long, steady breath, Eve smiled a faint, knowing smile. Anna's loyalty was her one true gift. "Very well. I will train you."
The Audience with the Duke
Two weeks passed. During that time, the family celebrated Mary's grand arrival, showering her with affection and gifts. Meanwhile, David confirmed that Lady Eve was indeed ill. Too ill to get out of bed, the report claimed.
On the third week, someone knocked on Eve's door. It was Anna, returning from the courtyard, her posture now rigidly straight, her face a mask of serene neutrality.
Eve was not in her room. She was practicing her swordplay in her own secluded courtyard—a wide, sprawling green field the workers had mistakenly created, believing their frail mistress intended to practice horse riding. The field was far from the main house, a fact Eve thanked her past self for every day.
"Lady Eve. It's time for breakfast," Anna announced, her voice a precise, even monotone.
The transformation was complete. After a tense night of meticulous procedure, Eve had successfully used the "Deadly Needle" technique on both of them. They were still them, but now they moved and spoke with the cold, efficient detachment of well-made machines. Eve, with her encyclopedic memory, had mastered the technique instantly.
"Sure," Eve replied, sheathing her practice rapier. Her demeanor, the cold neutrality in her silver-haired, ruby-eyed visage, lent her an intense, almost frightening aura of nobility and power.
Eve walked into the breakfast hall, a beautiful, striking figure whose appearance was completely unexpected by the family. They were mid-conversation, all attention focused on Mary, who was regaling them with tales of her journey.
"Good morning, Duke," Eve said, her tone sharp and clear, interrupting the chatter.
Her family paused. Eve sat down, ate with quiet precision, and, upon finishing, prepared to excuse herself.
"Sister... where are you going?" Mary asked, her tone sweet but laced with the first hint of suspicion.
Eve turned, facing the table. Her eyes—those striking ruby eyes—held no warmth, no joy, no fear. They were dead, yet piercing. Duchess Rosie gasped, realizing for the first time that there was something profoundly wrong with her eldest daughter.
"I am practicing my swordplay. I have my horse-riding class. I also have a meeting with Sir Konrad about my enlistment. And, oh, I nearly forgot," Eve said, her voice remaining perfectly even, as if listing grocery items. "I have an audience with the King."
The response was a hammer blow. Luke finally looked up, his face etched with confusion. "What happened to you?" he asked, not quite meeting her stare.
Eve tilted her head, a perfect, emotionless gesture of confusion. "What do you mean?"
Duke Morgan finally lowered his newspaper, his usually impassive gaze fixing on his daughter.
"I am going to meet the King now. Making the King wait for too long is not good, right, Duke?" Eve asked, addressing him not as Father, but with the cold, formal title. The simple address nearly made Duchess Rosie fall from her chair.
The Duke only offered a curt, deep "Hmm."
"Thank you, Duke. Then I shall go now." Eve's controlled movements and detached demeanor were unnerving. As she turned, her eyes briefly met Luke's, the eldest son, who felt a genuine, cold shiver run down his spine.
Why… he thought, excusing himself abruptly, his hand shaking. Eve Morgan was no longer his weak, tearful, easily manipulated sister. She was a Killer, and her focus was now aimed directly at the throne and, eventually, at the sister still smiling in her seat.