CHAPTER 16: CHAPTER 16: IT’S TIME

The nuns stepped out of the palace grounds, their footsteps light but purposeful. Amber lingered at the edge of the path, leaning back against a cold stone pillar, her gaze fixed one last time on the mansion’s towering silhouette.

A slow, almost secret smile curled her lips—a smile born of quiet satisfaction. Accepting Lady Flora’s summons had been the right choice. Amber knew this deep within her bones. She listened; she understood Lady flora’s tangled web of desires and frustrations, a reflection of her own struggles, shadows of her own past.

Amber’s mind replayed the conversation she’d shared with Lady Flora. The woman had withheld the man’s name, veiling it in silence, revealing only the violent clash they had endured, the raw imprint left on both of them.

She didn’t need the name to understand the storm he was—he was like a hurricane that uprooted everything, swirling her core until she was left disoriented, a broken, fractured thing.

"I think she’ll understand, in time," Amber murmured softly to herself, voice thick with something like hope. "It’s love, not just lust." The words barely left her lips before she pivoted away, but a magnetic force pulled her gaze back. The mansion loomed, and she searched for the white-haired man—the architect of her inner chaos. But he was gone. Vanished like a ghost.

A soft sigh escaped her, a breath laden with longing and regret. Her sisters noticed the flicker of unrest in her eyes. "Are you tired, Abbess? Are you alright?" they asked, their voices gentle probes. She only nodded, forcing calm, even as her heart thundered with the memories she could not suppress.

"...What time is it now?" she asked, voice low.

"One-thirty, Abbess," replied a nun, eyes flicking toward the blazing sun overhead.

Amber clenched her teeth, counting silently the hours until nightfall—the time when her thoughts, and darker cravings, would surely reignite. A dampness crept between her thighs, wet and unwelcome, a tangible reminder of the heat she tried desperately to deny. Perhaps it was the sun, the long march through the palace gardens, or just weariness—but no. She lied to herself with trembling conviction.

Not because of Aiden... she thought fiercely.

Meanwhile, deep within the labyrinth of the mansion’s service corridors, Aiden’s ears were bleeding under the high butler’s endless yelling.

The old man’s voice was a relentless hammer, pounding him for the laundry he had left undone—again. His eyes flickered irritably at the notifications blinking insistently on his interface, tugging him back to the task at hand.

Earlier, in the bakery, he’d mixed his blood into the dough—a small, hidden sabotage, part of a larger plan to corrupt the mansion’s very lifeblood. The next step was to taint the water supply stored in the reservoir near the chimney, but as he looked up at the towering structure, a creeping doubt knotted his stomach.

How the hell do I get up there?

The old butler’s voice cracked through his haze again. "Are you even fucking listening, Aiden? You used to work like a man possessed. What the hell happened? And here I am, trying to get the management to promote you to butler..."

Aiden sighed deeply, the weight of countless ghosts settling on his shoulders. He no longer knew the man he once was—or if that man had ever truly existed. He had ambitions now, dreams too vast to be caged in servitude.

’I was a fucking millionaire,’ he thought bitterly. ’I was not born to serve these rats you fucking old man.’

Thud!

A sharp thud jolted him back as the butler smacked his head.

"What the hell! I’m washing clothes!"

"....Just felt like it," the butler grumbled, though his eyes softened slightly. "Work harder, Aiden. I’ve started talking with Akidna and the staff management—we need a new butler. I chose you. Show them you’re worth it. You’re young, you’ve got energy. Use it."

The reprimand dragged on for another hour until, finally, the old man’s voice dropped, quieter, almost fragile.

"Aiden..." he called softly.

"Hmmm?" Aiden replied, wiping a spot of dirt from a maid’s apron.

"....I know."

"Know what?"

His eyes narrowed.but he said nothing.

"Your relationship with Lady Flora," the butler said, voice low enough to be a whisper.

His scrubbing stopped...

A silence settled, thick and suffocating.

"It’s just a rumor—for now," the butler warned. "But if it gets to the Viscount... your death won’t be merciful."

Still, Aiden remained mute.

"I warned you once," the butler said, his tone softening. "I think of you like a son, Aiden. Please... heed my warning."

He reached into his pocket and produced a folded handkerchief, worn but clearly treasured. "I have said enough....Here, Lady Flora asked me to give you this."

With those last words, the old man left Aiden alone, the faint scent of lavender and old smoke lingering in the air. Aiden’s hand hovered over the brush, trembling ever so slightly. His gaze drifted upward to the brilliant blue sky beyond the laundry windows.

"Haaa..." he sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion and defiance.

’Old man... I know you mean well... but... ’ his mind raced, each new notification hammering at his senses, his ember meter flickering dangerously low at 16%.

’I don’t have the choice to live in peace... and truth be told, I don’t want it.’ The thought sank in like cold steel.

He remembered how easy it would have been to escape the burning thirst, to take Akidna somewhere quiet, to let loose and drain the storm within him. To plunge deep inside her. To pound her until her legs gave away.

He liked her—she was a balm to his chaos, his favorite. Yet, in the end, he chose Amber, not because of love or favortism. Because She stirred his blood, made his heart hammer. That path pleased him more, even if it left his ember far from full.

The memory of Amber’s face haunted him—her eyes wide with panic, her lips trembling between moans and shame. She was caught between worlds, struggling to reconcile the sacred and the profane. That chaos, that delicious unraveling, was what he craved.

’Haaa... I am chaos. Always have been... always will be.’ He lamented.

He unfolded the handkerchief the old man gave him or to say, Lady Flora, the rough fabric soft beneath his fingers, revealing a simple hourglass symbol inked in black. The mark of fate.

Is it time? The question echoed in his mind. Remembering the plans he had whispered in her ears.

He glanced around. The servants were few now, the laundry room almost empty. The afternoon sun poured in golden beams, dust motes swirling lazily in the warm air.

Any second now....

Then....Suddenly, darkness swallowed him whole. A black cloak enveloped his body, suffocating and cold. He struggled, muffling his cries as unseen hands pinned him down. Panic flared, sharp and raw, but beneath it was a deeper, more dangerous thrill.

This was the storm he’d summoned—and he would face it, unflinching.