Despite my pitiful stats, I was fairly certain Knight Commander Rose was trying to kill me.
We'd been running for what felt like hours. Endurance stat? Sure, I had it—18, to be exact. But apparently that just meant my body could suffer longer before collapsing.
Good to know I'm not a masochist.
"Not yet," the System chimed in. "Given enough exposure, however, pain thresholds can rewire the brain. When pleasure becomes insufficient stimulus, even agony—"
"Shut. Up," I growled between panting breaths, bent over and using a wooden pole for support. My arms were now cuffed to said pole—Commander Rose's idea of "rest."
She'd disappeared for a moment, leaving me gasping like a beached fish in chains.
Fantastic.
Eventually, she returned—composed, immaculate. Her black wolfcut hair was tied back neatly, not a drop of sweat on her despite the heat. I hated how cool she looked.
Without a word, she unchained me and gestured to follow. I would've flipped her off if I didn't think she'd break my fingers.
She led me to a quieter wing of the manor, this one populated by maids bustling between rooms like cogs in a very clean machine. We stopped in front of a stern, elderly woman whose very presence screamed, I have seen things.
"This is Esther," Rose said. "Head maid. She'll handle you from here."
Esther eyed me like I was a suspicious stain on freshly laundered linen.
"You'll serve the Lady Regina," she said, her voice dry as a desert wind. "Follow me."
My "initiation" into maidhood involved getting forcibly scrubbed like a muddy dog in a noble bathtub by a woman with the gentle grace of a prison warden. Apparently, bathing myself wasn't an option.
"Consent is a luxury, dear," the System offered.
After being scrubbed raw, I was shoved into a French maid outfit so frilly it should've come with a warning label. Boots with enough laces to tie up a ship anchor completed the humiliation.
Finally, I got a good look at myself in the mirror.
Silver-white hair in a tight bun. Pale skin. A modest bust—C-cup, maybe? Not that I'd had time to cop a feel; I had other things to process. Like the fact that I now looked like a doll possessed by the soul of an overworked salaryman.
Esther led me through the hall, listing off my duties with the cold efficiency of a war general.
"Wake the Lady at dawn. Dress her. Clean her rooms. Tend to her moods. Respond to orders swiftly. Never contradict her."
Fun.
When we reached Regina's room, the first thing I noticed was the chaos.
Clothes were strewn across the floor. Sheets half-off the bed. Books, ribbons, vials of ink, and crumbs scattered everywhere.
And there, on the balcony, perched like an artist princess from a fever dream, sat Regina herself.
She was painting a raven mid-flight above a twilight forest, the canvas flecked with splashes of color and charcoal smudges on her wrist. She was dressed in delicate nightwear, her long, chaotic mix of blonde and black hair a tangled masterpiece.
She looked ethereal.
And vaguely homicidal.
Her heterochromatic eyes—one sapphire, one amethyst—finally turned toward me after Esther curtly introduced me and left without ceremony.
Regina blinked once, then said:
"Maid. Clean this mess. I'm finished."
I stood there, stunned.
"The nerve of this child," I muttered under my breath.
"But it is your job," the System quipped.
"Jobs come with pay," I snapped, still quiet enough that only I and the System could hear.
"Responsibilities come with the ability to keep your head," it replied, mock-innocently. "B-plus response. You're improving."
Regina, already ignoring me, slid off her chair and flopped onto her bed, pushing everything onto the floor with aristocratic indifference.
I muttered under my breath, "What a bratty munchkin."
"You'rethesameheight," the System chimed in.