Samara was shaken awake later that evening.
She groggily rubbed her eyes and pushed herself up on the bed, her movements slow and heavy with sleep.
Every part of her body protested. All she wanted was to sink back into the mattress and drift off again.
But she knew better.
Even if her chances of becoming one of the chosen maids were only 0.009%, failing to attend would mean facing her aunt's anger—and that was something Samara preferred to avoid.
"Has the competition already started?" Samara groaned, forcing herself to stand.
She tugged at the wrinkles on her dress, trying to smooth them out with tired hands.
Tessa had already reached the door. She paused and glanced back over her shoulder.
"No. It's dinner time," she said calmly. "The competition begins tomorrow."
The moment those words registered, Samara let out a dramatic sigh and collapsed back onto the bed.
"Then I'm not going to dinner," she muttered, pulling the pillow closer. "I'm not hungry."
Tessa simply shook her head. Without another word, she opened the door and stepped out.
The door clicked shut.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then Samara's eyes snapped open.
The laziness vanished from her expression as she sat up quickly, her gaze drifting toward the wardrobe standing against the wall.
Slowly, carefully, she slipped out of bed and walked toward it.
I definitely felt something.
She had felt it ever since they boarded the carriage earlier that day.
A strange sensation. Faint, but persistent.
And it was coming from here.
I have to see what it is.
Samara reached out and wrapped her fingers around the wardrobe handles.
Samara opened the wardrobe slowly.
To her surprise, nothing seemed out of place. Her clothes were neatly folded on the shelves, and in the far corner sat a small wooden box she had not noticed before.
Yet something about it tugged at her attention.
Almost unconsciously, she reached inside, lifted the box, and placed it carefully on the floor.
Her gaze darted toward the door.
Please let Tessa stay in the dining hall a little longer, she prayed silently. If her roommate returned now and found her rummaging through her belongings, there would be no explaining it.
A bead of sweat slid from her temple to her chin.
Taking a steady breath, Samara opened the box.
Inside, jewelry glittered softly in the dim light—rings, necklaces, delicate ornaments she could never have afforded herself.
Her brows knit together.
For someone applying to be a maid… she owns quite a collection.
But among the shining pieces, one item caught her eye.
A single hairpin.
Unlike the others, it looked simple. Almost ordinary.
Yet the moment her gaze landed on it, she felt an inexplicable pull.
Slowly, as if guided by an unseen hand, Samara reached inside and picked it up.
The instant her fingers touched the metal—
A sharp pulse of energy shot through her arm.
Her breath caught.
Cold spread across her skin like creeping frost, and for the briefest moment she thought she heard something… a faint whisper brushing against her thoughts.
Startled, she dropped the hairpin back into the box.
Her heart began hammering violently in her chest.
"What… was that?"
The room suddenly felt too quiet.
Shaken, Samara shut the box quickly and returned it to its place in the wardrobe before closing the doors.
For several seconds she simply stood there, gripping the handles, trying to steady her breathing.
"Are you alright?"
The calm voice of a man sounded behind her.
Samara froze.
Her pulse spiked instantly, but her hand moved on instinct toward the dagger hidden beneath her clothing.
Impossible.
I didn't hear the door open…
Worse still, she felt no presence behind her. No footsteps. No breath. Nothing.
Only the voice.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said again.
Samara turned sharply, drawing her blade in one swift motion.
The figure standing behind her made her pause.
A well-dressed gentleman stood a few steps away, posture relaxed, his hands folded neatly behind his back as though he had been there the entire time.
His expression held the faintest hint of amusement.
Samara narrowed her eyes, studying him carefully.
No aura.
No killing intent.
Yet something about him felt… wrong.
"And what," she said cautiously, lowering her dagger just slightly, "is a fine gentleman doing sneaking up on ladies?"
The man's smile widened just a little.
"I wouldn't call myself a gentleman."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"But if you would prefer a lady instead…"
Before she could react, his body shifted.
His form blurred like rippling water. Shoulders narrowed, height shortened, and within a heartbeat the man standing before her had become a graceful woman dressed in the same elegant attire.
Samara's eyes widened.
She had never seen such magic before.
"What… are you?" she asked quietly.
A pause, and then his form shifted back into the gentleman. He perched on the edge of her bed with casual ease, one hand resting lightly on his knee. "You touched the seal," he said calmly. "That means I am now bound to you."
Samara froze, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face. "Bound… as what?" she asked cautiously. "And you still didn't answer my first question."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, assessing her as if measuring both her courage and wit. His smile was faint, but there was an edge to it.