She was still there, in the room, standing by the window, her gaze resting on me with a calm gentleness, almost a faint smile floating on her lips. The steam danced around her, blurry, almost tangible, like a trembling aura blending warmth and expectation. It was as if the room itself were holding its breath.
She turned slowly, her white hair flowing down her nape like a liquid trail. The servant's dress she wore, too tight for a mere domestic role, clung slightly to her hips, to her thighs. Through the black fabric, glistening with sweat or moisture, her curves stood out with quiet clarity. She wasn't trying to seduce, not consciously, but every movement betrayed absolute control.
— "My Lord," she said in a low, restrained voice, "the bath is ready. It would do you good… soothe the weariness you still carry."
I nodded, unable to find words. An instinct told me to remain on guard. But the other… the other just wanted to sink into that humid warmth, that sticky torpor that erased fear.
She stepped forward. Her eyes never left mine, but it was her gesture that spoke first: she grabbed my belt, slowly undid it, and slid the fabric down my torso until I stood naked, exposed. She didn't flinch. No inappropriate glance, no flicker of unease. Just that ceremonial coldness, almost clinical, but too slow to be innocent.
Then, without a word, she turned on her heels and opened the door to the adjoining washroom.
I followed.
She didn't move. She remained kneeling, head bowed, hands resting on her bare thighs, back straight like a living statue. The steam drew opaque swirls around her, like wings of mist slowly closing.
— "My Lord?"
Her voice carried no doubt, no shame. She was simply waiting for me to undress.
I didn't dare respond. The air was warm, almost sticky, and the silence vibrated between the stone walls like an invisible shroud.
I stepped toward her. Then another.
She finally raised her eyes. Gray. Unfathomable. Fixed on me — but not on my face. On my chest.
— "The mark is ancient. Older than you."
I didn't answer. I had no words. She reached out a hand, without touching me yet, but so close I felt the heat of her palm traverse the space, brushing my skin before any contact.
— "Engraved in blood. Transmitted. It pulses. It calls."
Her fingers touched.
Slowly. At the center. On the seal.
A shiver tore down my spine like a wave. My breath caught. She didn't move her hand, but her eyes lifted to meet mine, this time directly, and I thought I saw something in them — not tenderness, nor desire, but… knowledge. An older bond. A duty sealed in her flesh.
— "You bear the trace of the Original."
— "The Original?"
— "The one who gave you the blood. The one who made you male."
Her hand rose. A centimeter. Then two. It slowly traced the invisible line from the seal to my throat, and every millimeter wrenched a new tension from my body. She wasn't violent. Not even hurried. But she knew exactly what she was doing.
— "Your blood is not that of a man. Not only. It is an interface. A vector. A key."
Her other hand joined the first, resting on my bare side. Her skin was cool, yet burning at once. Her gestures were not lascivious — but their precision made them obscene.
— "As long as you don't activate it, it will sleep. But as soon as you touch… as soon as you take…"
She leaned toward me. Her lips approached my ear. Her voice became a whisper.
— "… it will thirst."
My stomach tightened. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. The contact was no longer a possibility, it was a presence. My whole body straining toward that point of balance — that suspended tipping point.
And then, she slid behind me.
I hadn't seen her rise.
Her hands passed down my back, then to my shoulders, then slowly, very slowly, down to my arms, enveloping me in a sensation of fluid warmth. She knelt again behind me, now in the pool, water up to her hips. I didn't know when she had undressed. I didn't even know if she had.
But her skin touched mine.
Her breasts brushed my shoulder blades.
And her voice, again, like a blade without edge, soft but sharp in its impact:
— "Water activates the body's memory."
Her fingers slowly traced my hips, then returned to my torso, then to the mark. The screen reappeared, almost denser, more real:
[Latent fragment detected – Stimulation sufficient: 78%]Prolonged contact recommended.Unlocking imminent.
My throat was dry. My legs ready to give out. My mind floated at the edge of a vertigo — both desire and refusal. I wanted… I didn't even know what.
And then, the sound split the steam.
Voices. Feminine. Barely muffled by the drapes.
— "So he's awake, the little cat touched him?"
— "Bet she already tasted?"
— "Idiot. She's not allowed. He chooses. If she triggers the fragment, she dies."
— "Or he dies, right?"
Laughter.
Distant. But not enough. My heart skipped a beat.
I turned toward the door. The servant, meanwhile, remained motionless, kneeling in the water, eyes lowered, as if nothing existed outside the contact. But her ears trembled.
I stepped out.
Without thinking. Naked. Trembling. My body still marked by the heat of her hands. I passed through the door. I needed to listen. To see. To understand.
The murmur faded at my approach.
I stood frozen for a moment, in the steamy hallway, still dripping with heat, the drops sliding down my temples and spine, tracing warm trails on my skin that didn't seem to want to evaporate. The echo of the voices had vanished. But the air still vibrated with a dull tension, as if those invisible presences continued breathing nearby, just behind the walls.
Then, without a word, she arrived.
The servant. Naked, or almost — but cloaked in a silence so perfect it covered everything.
She carried a folded cloth on her arms. A black kimono with red highlights, embroidered with symbols I didn't recognize, but which my body, somehow, seemed to understand. She knelt at my feet, once again, and slowly unfolded the garment like an offering.
I didn't move. She looked up at me.
— "You must not face them like this, My Lord. They are… of your blood. But not of your rank."
She rose to her knees, slipped the cloth around my shoulders, tied the belt with a sure, precise, almost tender gesture. Her hands trembled slightly. But they trembled.
— "They are your sisters. Half-sisters, born of the old blood. All marked. All tied to the lineage."
— "My blood…?"
She nodded. A white lock fell from her forehead, slipped down her cheek, damp with steam and shadow.
— "Yours is unique, but they carry its echo. Like incomplete fragments. Reflections. Some draw terrible power from it. Others… something else."
Her gaze wandered for a moment behind me, toward the half-open bath door, as if the memory of the contact still lingered there, between water and stone.
— "You alone carry the source. The Full Seal. That is why they… wait. Why they whisper."
I looked down at the tied belt. At my still-wet hands. I wasn't ready. I knew nothing. Yet everything already seemed to move around me as if the role had been written in advance, stitched into my flesh before my first word.
— "They wait for me… for what?"
She slowly raised her eyes.
— "To choose. To inherit. To consume."
A dense silence settled. Not empty, but saturated. With expectations, with ancient oaths, with sighs held back through generations.
Then she bowed deeply, forehead almost to the floor.
— "I am here to guide you. Until you know what your blood demands."
I remained standing, in the crimson hallway, clothed once more, yet more naked than ever.
And somewhere, behind sealed doors, my sisters waited.