A chill ran through her at the idea, making her shake hard enough that her teeth snapped shut. Fingernails bit into her arms, leaving half-moon marks in the flesh.
Still awake. Not even attempting rest. On the edge of the mattress she stayed, dressed as if leaving, zipper pulled tight, feet sealed inside stiff leather - boots laced firm, because taking them off meant surrendering something too close to comfort. Waiting. Ears sharp like broken glass, muscles locked, nerves sparking without pause, her frame wound tight, trembling slightly under a current too strong to ease.
The way light crept slowly changed her view of the room. A quiet shift began near the window.
The old stones sighed around her. Air moved through hallways like a slow thought. Dust settled where light touched the floor. A door creaked far off, then silence returned.
Something about Jin Yeager never left her mind, even when he said nothing. His presence settled there, quiet but firm, much like pressure you feel before a storm breaks. It stayed with her, always just behind thought, shaping how she moved through each moment.
She stayed up until morning came.
---
Darkness had just started to fade. Near morning, the room shifted without warning - shadows lifting like steam off water. Furniture appeared first as hints, then solid forms. Walls followed, edges forming slowly. A window became a rectangle again. Then silence cracked under a quiet tap against wood.
A jolt shot through Historia. Up she sprang, stiff and sudden, boots hitting floor like a snapped wire, arms jerking skyward as if pulled by strings. Her chest heaved. Each heartbeat thudded - not steady, but wild, knuckles rapping at bone from inside. There she froze, close to the mattress, air sharp in her throat, gaze locked on the doorway. Waiting. Something coiled under her skin, ready to bolt - or fight
What about? Him then?
Stillness took hold. Breath caught, stuck behind a wall of dread she could not force down. Waiting shaped the silence. Fingers locked around the bedpost's edge, carving deep lines into skin from the pressure of grip.
A low groan came from the hinges as it swung inward.
A sliver of light appeared first, growing wider as the door dragged open - less like magic, more like someone pushing through an old kitchen entry. A whine slipped out from the joints, high and hesitant, sort of murmuring sorry under its breath. Movement came in fits, nothing fluid about it, just metal rubbing slow against rust.
A shape appeared, outlined by the faint glow spilling from down the hall. This one wasn't Jin Yeager.
Her legs gave way under a wave of release so strong it felt like breaking. She caught the bedpost just in time, fingers digging into wood. Not his face. Not those shadowed eyes, that icy touch, that grin waiting to pounce, that low hum curling through air thick with ash. Never again him.
Not him.
A woman stood in the doorway, her shape outlined by the light behind.
Old she was, truly old, so much that it felt less like aging and more like surviving past when most bodies give up. Not just years showed on her, instead decades pressed into her skin, carving lines deeper than memory. Where others might sag, her flesh had settled into ridges, folded upon itself as if time had stacked layer after layer without pause. Parchment came to mind - not fresh paper but something touched by centuries, yellowed, fragile under light. Warm ivory described its tone, thin enough near the temples that what lay underneath could be seen. Veins ran below, faint blue threads, showing through like streams winding across a distant land. This was how long life looked when it stretched too far - less alive, more kept.
A soft glow came off her hair, not gray but bright white, like snow just landed from sky. Floating strands framed her face, almost weightless, lit gently by the dim hall behind. That pale crown moved slightly even when she did not, caught in an unseen draft near the door's edge. Small in stature, she hardly reached five feet, shape tucked inside a plain dark dress. Bones showed clearly at wrist and neck, sharp under skin worn thin through years beyond count. The fabric hung loose, shaped more by bone than flesh, giving form without bulk.
A tray sat in her hands - wide, made of shiny metal, far too big for someone so small and delicate. Still, she kept it level, arms steady like she had done it every day for years. Her old fingers clutched the sides tightly, knuckles bent but strong.
Lying just beneath the haze of years, her eyes pulled Historia close without asking. Not bright now - dulled by time into something pale and glazed - they still carried weight. Once surely a sharp green, they kept their ground despite the fog. Strength hid there, quiet but firm, outpacing any guess based on frail limbs or slow breaths. What struck deeper than color or clarity came through like ripples under ice: loneliness, drifting steady in layers too thick to miss. It mirrored what had settled inside Historia long before she stepped into the room.
Sadness.
A weight deeper than mood, more like air she breathed - this sorrow shaped her bones. Not from one rough afternoon or some old hurt returning, yet stitched into how she lived, as steady as breath. A presence without beginning, not something passing through but where she stood still. From seeing too much across years no hand could stop. Held there by what never changed.
Fear sat quietly in its gaze, much like the kind Historia carried inside.
"Little miss," she called out.
That voice came out rough, almost brittle, close to how dried leaves might sound scraping over rock. Quiet lived in it, settled deep, shaped by years of speaking just enough to be caught by listening ears. A hush wrapped around each word, not because silence was wanted, but like loudness cost too much. Every syllable stayed small, careful, held back - not from fear exactly, but from knowing when to vanish into the air before being noticed.
"The Master bids you breakfast."
The thought struck her quiet mind first - Master. Like pebbles breaking calm glass, ripples spread behind her eyes. It wasn't about names such as Lord Yeager, Jin, or the polite title given to visitors. This label carried weight beyond formality. Obedience shaped it. Possession carved it. Power didn't just hover above; it settled deep inside how people spoke, how they chose words before speaking at all.
A single tray caught Historia's eye. On it, slices of apple and pear lay close together, pale inside, wet-looking under the low shine. Dark grapes clung in bunches near strawberries - red so rich they almost hummed where they rested. Bread gave off warmth nearby, soft curls of steam lifting from its crust. Beside it, a square of butter waited next to a tiny jar filled with amber honey. Rising above all, a porcelain cup sent out herb-scented air, thin lines of blue flowers circling its rim. It wasn't quite tea, though close enough. Maybe chamomile - she leaned toward that guess. Lavender slipped in too, soft at the edges. Then another note floated up, harder to name: fresh like crushed leaves, sharp like steam from a forgotten pot.
Something about the meal seemed honest. Appealing. Out of everything, the smell of bread hooked her - rich, fermented warmth pulling at something deep, making her gut twist hard, cutting past panic and fatigue, slicing through numbness like a blade, forcing her to remember she still needed fuel after almost a full day without any.
Still. Eating seemed like giving in. Like admitting defeat. This space, she realized at last, wasn't hospitality - it was captivity shaped by elegance. No iron bars, just rose patterns etched into oak, soft drapes, light fractured through colored glass. Restraint disguised as luxury. Survival made too easy, so resistance would fade - not fast, but surely, worn down by ease.
If she ate his food, that meant she took what he offered. What he gave would last, so he said once. That kind of welcome didn't fade.
Voices hummed softly inside her thoughts - tales she once read closely, broke down, turned into essays. Not far away, myths stirred: feasting on hidden world fare traps you there forever. Persephone, chewing those red pomegranate seeds, sealed her fate without meaning to. Old sayings across lands hiss at taking meals handed by spirits, since swallowing means belonging. That bite pulls strings deeper than hunger - one taste ties you, owes them, changes everything.
Food is fuel, her thoughts whispered. Without it, strength fades fast. To move, to decide, to survive - energy matters most. Skipping meals only drains what little power remains.
Food isn't only food, something ancient inside her whispered back. Here, that truth runs too deep. In this spot, nothing stays simple.
The older woman stood there. Her eyes met the girl's, quiet but sharp. A pause came before she spoke, voice rough - worn thin by silence and fright - each word dragging out, raw, like something pulled across gravel. The question hung: who exactly was this person? Sound cracked on every syllable.
"My name is Anya," the woman replied.
Into the room she came while talking, feet sliding slow, balancing the tray's load along with years on her back. Behind misty eyes, kindness showed - close to how a mother might look - and that heavy sorrow again, just like before at the door. Yet not only that. Something sharper lingered beneath. A kind of measuring. This one watched closely, quietly smart despite thin bones and trembling hands. Each mark caught her attention: scrapes, swelling skin, shadows under the eyes, muscles pulled tight across the neck. All taken in without rush, sorted fast, like someone used to reading pain after decades of doing nothing else.
"I have served the Master for… longer than I can remember."
Simple words came out flat, just truth laid bare instead of sorrow or blame. Yet silence stretched thin right before longer than I can remember, thick with emptiness - a stretch of years too wide to cross, even with a mind like hers. When she arrived at the stone halls? When duties started? What filled days earlier? Gone. Faded. All present is this fortress, this ruler, this duty - and it holds her up while locking her in.
"He has seen fit to keep me."
Quiet sadness filled Historia's chest when those final words landed. Chosen to be kept - that was how it sounded. Not hired, respected, or welcomed. Just kept. Like a dog on a leash, like furniture gathering dust, like some tool still sharp enough to use. Anya placed herself behind the verb each time, never ahead - always done to, never doing. That way of speaking carved deeper into what life here truly meant than any long explanation ever could.
A sudden stillness followed as Anya placed the tray down - her hands moving slow, yet certain, each item settling into its place without hurry. Near the sill, where light gathered dust, the table took the weight of porcelain and metal, arranged now by someone who knows the shape of repetition. Plates first, then cup, with utensils lined up straight, a cloth bent sharp at the edges. Not once did she pause to check. This act lived in her bones long before today, repeated until thought slipped away entirely. Breathing does not ask permission. Neither does this. Each motion arrives on its own, summoned only by years doing what must be done.
She rose up slowly, limited by her bent back, then faced Historia once more. Toward the doorway, her dim eyes flicked - sharp, brief - a habit formed in silence, shaped by years of guarded words. A twitch like that comes from knowing how speech can be used against you. Leaning just so, ear forward, even her thin silver hair quivered with the effort. After a breath, stillness returned; she must have felt safe enough, although Historia couldn't shake the sense of unseen presence, Jin Yeager's quiet control threading through every stone. Then Anya broke the hush again.
A hush crept into her words, sinking below their earlier depth - not loud, not sharp, just air pressed into form. Almost silent, it hovered where hearing almost fails.
"He is… different, now."
Something about the word different sat heavy in the air. Not explained, yet Historia started turning it over anyway. Was it a shift from before? A break from others? Or just a mask swapped at some point - replacing something darker underneath? Change flickered behind it, maybe growth, maybe escape. Movement between who he seemed now and someone else long ago. Someone worse. Jin Yeager hadn't always carried that sharp gaze. Those tight claims. That nearness laced with hunger. Tonight's version pulsed alive - but older versions likely bled deeper.
Something set them apart, Anya went on. That word - others - unraveled a quiet horror: those who arrived earlier, wanderers swallowed by night, women drawn here by chance, knocking when no one should answer. Those who once occupied Historia's place, tasted the same bread, turned down the same sheets. Faces Anya remembered. Journeys she had tracked. Ends she carried like stones.