In the Nocturne Era of the Fourth Epoch, year 319, in the time before the Savior...
An eighteen-year-old woman, named Silvie hummed a somber melody — forgetting it was an impossibility, even should fate rob her of all memory.
It evoked the impression of a dream, and yet concealed beneath it lay the purest melancholy befouled with excruciating agony.
She was a maidservant of the infamous Velvet Pavilion, standing before the mirror within her bedchamber.
Attending to the particulars of her disposition, earnestly, the servant dedicated to maintaining a youthful appearance — pleasing to the eyes, more sociable, and something lighter with the helping hand of cosmetics.
She smoothed the strands of her hair and adjusted the small ribbon at her throat.
The mirror faithfully reflected her image without flaw — yet her eyes were curiously estranged, as one might feel when regarding a well-known stranger.
"I am… a servant."
"For I am worth nothing."
Her mind wandered; she resembled an elaborate marionette — pale skin, cascading black hair, and sleepless eyes. She wore an elegant maidservant uniform, completing the guise expected of her.
Yet her heart was racing, and a persistent ringing swelled within her ears. She held her gaze upon her reflection for far too long.
What, exactly, was the servant waiting for? And what unseen weight pressed upon her so heavily that her breathing had grown shallow and labored, with each breath drawn with conscious effort?
Then, as if called by her unease — the sound of the church's toll reverberated throughout the cobblestone streets of the neighborhood.
For those who believed in the ordained fate of Lucidism, it was the time of devotion and submission to divine order, but for those servants of the pavilion, it signalled the harrowing time of inhumane servitude.
"I should go now."
Silvie steeled herself, walking outside her bedchamber through a mahogany door. She was met by a hall lined with various flowers and pottery, more enticing still were the paintings of the feminine anatomy framed with crimson and velvet hues on each wall section.
But in a place like this — you don't have time to dwell in admiration for such works of art. It was sullied by the malevolent implications of a rather disturbing view.
Standing before Silvie were a straight line of girls, all wearing the same carefully tailored uniforms as her own. Each of them was conventionally attractive, groomed to an identical standard of refinement and appeal in accordance to the taste of the Velvet Pavilion.
Silvie did not meet their eyes — not even a simple greeting or a good morning. She merely stepped into place, and without a word, the girls adjusted subtly, making space for her presence.
Then, as one — they all smiled.
It was a smile worn uniformly across every servant's face, A smile that conveyed nothing genuine, existing solely for performative display.
They began to walk.
All together, they moved toward the hall in synchronized steps, their feet meeting the floor in a near-perfect rhythm.
Each of the servants held their left hand to their waist — it was a waitress-like posture, they ensured that their movement was slow, and meticulously measured.
They proceeded down the corridor, their collective presence less like a group of individuals and more like a single, rehearsed elegant cogs of an expensive machine.
Eventually they arrived at a spacious hall, and if any of them ever glanced up, their eyes might as well cry for the artwork that generously sheltered them.
It was a marvelous work of art titled "The Dusk and the Dawn", depicting two women locked in an embrace.
One bore flawless white hair, while the other was her opposite — abyssal incarnate, with tears pouring down her eyes. Interestingly, she seemed to be covering her ears, with her gaze sealed shut, and together they formed an opposing juxtaposition of dark and light.
Their expressions were rather hard to distinguish, it was neither out of affectionate nor birth from malice but nonetheless, it was quite clear that the artist intended to portray the burdens of melancholy.
The servants began lining up along the hall, and the more space they filled, the more prominent the vast painting above became, spanning an entire circular frame.
On its edges were several wings of angelic beings, and each feather studded with watching eyes.
At the lower end stood a plain fountain tower, it was rather unremarkable and bleak in design, while above it was the bleeding sun blazing in full glory, graciously bestowing its radiant light downward to the depths of the abyss.
"Halt and compose yourselves." A command was issued, by a woman seated at the center of the hall.
She rested upon a dark cotton couch, her posture was immaculate, legs crossed, with a suffocating presence that demands full subjugation of her surroundings.
It was Miss Rosalina, the headmistress of the Pavilion.
Despite being indoors in such an extravagant room, the headmistress wore a wide-brimmed hat with a black butterfly and bead chains hanged low that swayed with her movements.
She preferred those with darker colors, present in her iconic corseted gown.
Her words were obeyed without the slightest hint of hesitation by every servant. They formed rows facing her direction, wearing the same pleased expression that bordered on the mannerisms of a doll.
An intriguing expression befell Miss Rosalina's face, her gaze meticulously searching for any imperfection in every servant's demeanor.
To the headmistress — It was a pleasure of control and the anticipation of scrutiny.
"Who here adorably decided to ruin my day — with their inadequacy?"
The hall was locked in the stillness of dread, these servants may appear calm; however, underneath that facade was the sensation of oppressive terror.
"That one is lacking — Mortessia, do correct her."
One of these girls already displeased the headmistress…
Not a single crack showed on the servants' faces, even while shadows crawled across the black marble floor, born from beneath Miss Rosalina herself.
A chilling mist met their feet, and below it, if someone were to view it from above, it revealed what seemed to be an entirely different dimension of darkness that may or may not drag the feet of the servants present at the scene.
Every servant in the hall harbored anxious questions: Who blundered? Was it me? The girl in front? Or the one at the rear?
Silvie struggled to hold the delicate curve of her smile and the fading grace of her posture, all while sensing a banshee lurking somewhere behind her.
Then it hovered to her right — Lady Mortessia, her gaze fixed squarely on Silvie.
Silvie earned praise for resisting the urge to look back, for Lady Mortessia's features were impossible to ignore.
Lady Mortessia was a pale, spectral woman in a black dress, her eyes concealed by a shadowy blindfold.
The object in her right hand was unsettling — a whip wreathed in shadows, emitting a chill that seemed to brush against the living resembling the touch of death.
The servants merely learned to get used to her existence throughout the years.
After a while, Lady Mortessia let go of Silvie and looked elsewhere for the culprit to be reprimanded.
The way she passed through each servant was supernatural — her passage resembled that of a spirit possessing the living.
In the midst of this, any servant who felt Lady Mortessia phase through them would feel their hearts momentarily stop, as if their bodies were being hijacked by an unrelenting chill, and even then, they had to maintain their smile and pose to avoid punishment at the pavilion.
Then Lady Mortessia halted, whip raised high, and every servant felt their hearts pound in fear.
Who is it?! Please not be me!
The banshee's whip hissed through the air, phasing through multiple girls without harm.
Its spectral form ignored everything else, touching only what it was meant to punish.
A sickening crack of impact resounded, immediately followed by a startled cry.
One of the servants was struck behind the calf, just above the ankle, It wasn't Silvie, but a girl named Hannah, a fellow servant she considered her best friend.
Silvie didn't watch Hannah fall to the ground; she only saw a part of her — her gaze had to remain in one direction, yet she could hear the painful whimpering of her best friend.
What can I do…
From before them, Miss Rosalina asked without turning her gaze.
"Let's see, I can't remember quite clearly — ah! It's Hannah, was it?"
"Yes… Headmistress." Hannah was a woman with a fragile demeanor, short brown hair framing her face.
She neither cried nor showed any frown, only the same routine smile, as she stood despite the lingering pain.
"A bit sluggish today? Care to enlighten us, dear?" Miss Rosalina's voice was too composed, with not a single trace of worry.
Hannah struggled to maintain her stance with the other servants — yet the whip's pain flared across her calf, bleeding through her white socks onto the shadowed marble below.
"I'm at fault, Headmistress — I slept too late last night, and as a result, I'm performing quite poorly." Hannah explained as calmly as she could, admitting her faults in hopes of keeping the headmistress from being too cruel.
One eyebrow of the seated headmistress raised, intrigued by Hannah's reasoning. "There must be a reason why you slept late last night? Was it more important than your duty and the sole purpose of your existence?"
Whatever the headmistress had uttered, it was enough to make Hannah shed a tear. To Miss Rosalina, it was merely a reaction to the pain she was feeling, but to Hannah, it was something far more profound and hurtful.
Miss Rosalina observed her carefully, ultimately deciding it wasn't worth her time.
"Go ahead and cry, for then you finally realize your imperfection — though I prefer not to witness it, so hide it with your smile, my dear," commanded Miss Rosalina.
"I will, Headmistress." Hannah's response came with the weight of a broken heart, and it was becoming difficult to hold back her tears.
Silvie's gaze faltered for a mere moment; she finally looked at her whimpering best friend.
Don't cry, Hannah…
Within one blink, she retracted her gaze, and in that instant, she found herself meeting Miss Rosalina's eyes, which made her heart skip a beat.
"Who gave you the permission to shift your gaze? You disappoint me, Silvie."
Silvie didn't utter a word…
No matter what I say to you — it won't satisfy you…
The silence was a challenge to the headmistress. Even though Silvie was perfect in her posture and expression, her silent refusal, her demeanor, meant something else to Miss Rosalina, who was currently amused.
"Fascinating." Miss Rosalina's gaze remained over Silvie's entire form — the tense atmosphere between them was palpable in the air, and yet the servant never wavered in her stance.
After a few heartbeats, Miss Rosalina softened her gaze. "No matter. I have no plans to ruin this beautiful morning. Mortessia, go ahead and return to me."
At the headmistress's words, Lady Mortessia swiftly sank beneath the shadowed marble floor, and along with her, the shadows slowly shrank, returning the floor to its pristine marble surface.
Lady Mortessia appeared perpetually at Miss Rosalina's shadow, never leaving her side.
"Hannah," Miss Rosalina said coolly, "you have learned your lesson. Tend to your injuries, then return and rejoin the service."
Hannah dipped into a stiff curtsy, her movements were careful and rather painful. The sock clinging to her ankle was still soaked in blood.
"Thank you, Headmistress," Hannah murmured, before excusing herself.
Yet, just before leaving, her gaze lingered on Silvie — with a smile, before she finally exited the hall.
Adjusting her crossed legs, Miss Rosalina addressed the assembled hall.
"Today's service is of particular importance," she said, "You will be attending noble families of differing bloodlines, as well as powerful scripters newly returned from the war against the Inklings."
She took short pauses for emphasis.
"These individuals demand nothing short of perfection. Your conduct, your expertise, all of it reflects upon this institution."
"You will perform at your very best. There will be no mistakes."
Miss Rosalina's gaze swept among the servants, who were all fully attentive to her words.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Headmistress!" the servants replied in unison.
The servants bowed and began to disperse, while Miss Rosalina remained still, her amused gaze fixed squarely on Silvie.
Then Silvie stopped, causing the chain of servants to momentarily halt — the servants that bumped into her held shocked expressions, telling her what she was doing? They'd get in trouble!
This immediately caught Miss Rosalina's attention, and with a stern scoff she uttered, "What's the meaning of this?"
But Silvie, her eyes caught a soft drip falling from above in front of her — she couldn't explain why, but she sensed someone mourning…
Silvie spoke at last: "Forgive me, Headmistress, but the ceiling — it's dripping water…"
Miss Rosalina smirked, finding her words humorous. "I don't have time for such humor. I ought to disci—" She stopped mid-sentence, only to see water dripping from the ceiling herself.
The other servants began to notice it as well.
"Did the construction workers not fix the ceiling? Or were they so incompetent that rainwater is seeping through it?!" Miss Rosalina's voice rang with fury, echoing throughout the hall.
The water droplets hit Silvie's temples; as a result, she lifted her hands, letting them catch some of the beads, while tracing their descent.
These aren't just drops of water — they're tears.
Silvie looked up with her raven-like eyes.
Are the paintings… crying?
Chapter End.