Player 0.4 [You have died.] [Reset in progress.]

"Ah, I forgot you were coming round, young man. One moment."

The elderly woman squinted at Remlend before shuffling back inside the crooked old cottage, her slippers dragging softly against the wooden floorboards.

Remlend waited patiently, observing his surroundings. The coolness of dawn clung to his skin, and his nostrils filled with the scent of damp, earthy dew that had settled over the long, untamed grass nearby. Small red birds chirped and darted in the straw thatch roof overhead, which glowed with a beautiful sheen of gold as the rising sun struck it from behind.

She forgot him every morning. Remlend suspected it had more to do with her age than with his curse, though either possibility was equally plausible. Still, the copper coin he held out each time proved a sufficient refresher to her memory of what needed to be done.

"Here ya go," Mabel said at last, reappearing with the familiar basket draped in a cheesecloth. The faint steam rising from beneath carried the warm scent of oats. "The porridge should still be hot."

"Thank you, Mabel." Remlend bowed his head, accepting the basket carefully. "I'll return with it in time for lunch."

"It'll be turnip and carrot curry," Mabel called after him as he turned to walk down the dirt road.

Turnips. Luca won't be thrilled. He hates turnips. But there's no point in arguing with the cook. I'll just fish them out and he won't even know they were ever in there.

The road wound through the remains of an abandoned village. Weathered shutters rattled faintly in the morning breeze. At the far end, the reason for the abandonment was visible—a wide scar of blackened earth where no crops could grow. The ground there wasn't burned, but twisted, clogged with warped plants and withered stalks that had succumbed to the land's infection.

Mabel was the lone person who lived in this village. And no unexpected visitors ever came.

Unlike the farmers who had abandoned the blackened land a couple of years ago, Mabel was employed by the Frey Merchant Guild, and her livelihood did not rely on the land's welfare. Quite the opposite, the infection helped deter unwanted visitors. It made the ruined village an ideal location for one of the Guild's discreet storage facilities, as well as a quiet waystation for its traveling merchants.

Remlend's eyes drifted over the buildings as he walked. Just a few days back, half the cottages had been strangled by black, evil-looking vines that coiled like veins across timber homes. Back then, the growths had pulsed with a sickly vitality, as if straining to spread their corruption further. To touch them barehanded would have been to invite death.

Yet, now, they sagged in unimpressive brittle webs, reduced to yellowed threads that clung weakly to the walls.

The reason for their exorcism and withering? None other than his peculiar young master.

Reaching the far end of the street, Remlend slipped into a dim cottage that appeared equally unassuming and rundown as the rest. However, appearances were not to be trusted.

Inside, the air was cool, carrying the faint musk of stone and dust. He set the basket down and carefully pulled out the two hot bowls of porridge and a loaf of plain bread, made up of nothing more than rye flour, yeast, water, and salt. Simple fare, but surprisingly delectable when paired with fresh parsley, mint, and raw onion.

Ah, it has changed again.

Remlend's eyes caught the dining table. When they had first arrived at this cottage, it had been a wobbling wooden table best suited for firewood. A day later, it became sturdy cedar, polished but plain. Today, it was a dark, ornate mahogany in crotch walnut veneer, with hand-carved details and a slab of black marble gleaming at its center.

The changes no longer startled him. The entire cottage shifted when he wasn't looking—walls once bare now dressed in patterned wallpaper, faded humble sketches replaced with large framed paintings, furnishings growing more elaborate by the day. It was as though the house itself bent to Luca's unseen will.

And these changes were child's play compared to the chaos he once glimpsed occurring in the dead of the night, with the fabric of the living room seemingly unraveling. Whatever dark arts Luca was attempting to master, Remlend decided his best course of action was to go back to bed and count sheep.

Ding. Ding.

Having placed the food, Remlend rang a small brass bell and sat down. Eating at the same table as a young master he served was unusual enough. Stranger still was that he could not even see him.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Remlend often pondered the oddities surrounding Luca Frey since his abrupt change in character nine days ago. Yet for Luca to become even less observable, less memorable, than Remlend himself—he who carried the Wallflower Curse—was beyond comprehension.

"Thank you, Remlend."

Luca's unmistakable voice sounded in his ear, as if he were standing right beside him. Where he actually stood was unknown.

Remlend's gaze slid to the opposite side of the small round table. A spoon rested neatly beside a steaming bowl of porridge, its surface unbroken, its steam curling upward as though untouched. But Remlend knew better.

He nodded in response and lowered his eyes back to his bowl, lifted a spoonful to his lips, and blew gently across the porridge. When he glanced again toward the opposite place setting, Luca's spoon still lay motionless, but the porridge had dipped slightly lower.

He didn't understand why Luca was behaving so cautiously, especially in a place so remote. And while curiosity tugged at him, Remlend had the foresight to know it was neither his place nor wise to pry. His duty was simple: to provide for Luca as discreetly as possible.

The one thing he was quite sure of: the current Luca Frey was dangerous.

Gone was the fool he once served. In his place stood a Luca who had begun a morning by killing a man without the slightest hesitation or inkling of remorse. A Luca who had reduced one of the Alchemist's towers to rubble and reclaimed the children of influential individuals from under the Spiders' noses. A Luca who was on close enough terms with the youngest prince of the Daylan Dynasty to lend Jasper off to his service. A Luca who had gambled at the Gilded Siren for the very first time in his life and walked away with a fortune. A Luca who rode into the Humton Forest without fear and could make a carriage vanish into thin air with a single command. A Luca whom even the Head of the Spider Syndicate treated as an equal, if not his better.

And most chilling of all, Luca Frey did not fear the land's infection. The blight that made even the most powerful queens and kings tremble, would shrink into brittle husks in the presence of Luca, as if the darkness had been sucked dry by an invisible hand.

Yet even that was not the most unsettling part.

Luca Frey remembered Remlend. And he seemed to know things about him that no one—no one—could have recalled.

One such instance still pricked at Remlend's mind. They had stayed in another cottage briefly. Perfectly adequate, except for one small detail: every bedroom faced west. Remlend had disliked it immediately, though he had said nothing. He preferred to wake with the dawn, using the rising light as a natural alarm. Then, after three days, Luca abruptly ordered a move to a different cottage, one where he assigned Remlend a room facing east.

A thoughtful gesture, yes. But it carried the weight of something uncanny. There was not a single instance of such thoughtfulness in Remlend's past. He was too unmemorable to be the receiver. Moreover, he had not said anything regarding this preference. Thus, Remlend was left with the unnerving sense of having been read, as though his private preferences had been plucked from the hidden folds of his mind. Or expressions. But the latter was even more impossible. No one, not even himself, could read his own expressionless mask.

The thought had haunted him since: could Luca Frey perhaps read minds?

It was not impossible. Remlend was aware that Princess Sedna's aunt, Lady Agnese Hensley, possessed an artifact that allowed her to peer into the minds of others, but artifacts of such immense value were rare.

But if that was the case, why had I been spared thus far? Or had the conditions not been met?

Remlend bit into a roll of the thin bread, with parsley, mint, and white onion pressed in between.

Duchess Meriwa Ozeryn had hired him to spy on the three Freys she considered most dangerous. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Luca had not been among them. Yet Remlend doubted that technicality would matter. If Luca discovered the truth, it wouldn't matter whether he had spied on the brother or the parents; Luca would see it as betrayal all the same.

Should I confess first?

There was a precedent of Luca's leniency with Denise's betrayal. She attempted to poison him, and she had gotten away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Perhaps he could hope for the same.

Or I could try to ride it out.

Duchess Meriwa Ozeryn held the keys to the removal of his curse afterall. Giving that up was the equivalent of giving up his life.

Then again, I might lose my life sooner if I stay silent.

"Remlend." Luca's voice rang suddenly inside his mind, calm and unhurried. "Is there something you wish to tell me? Some bit of news I might not like?"

Remlend froze, then sighed.

Ah. He knows. He's even pushing me to speak aloud, despite his prior command to remain invisible and not talk with him, except when absolutely necessary.

"I suppose it's best I be honest, young master," he murmured. "But to explain, I must first tell you of my circumstances. You see, I bear a curse—"

"Ah, yes. The Wallflower Curse," Luca interrupted, his voice as casual as though commenting on having forgotten to close the front door. "I keep forgetting about it, but I promise I'll make you the cure."

Remlend blinked, utterly caught off guard. His face betrayed nothing, yet inwardly he reeled as though struck over the head with three pans in quick succession.

"You… know about it? And even a cure?" His thoughts spiraled.

Could Luca truly read minds? And why was he so unfazed by it?

"But what's the curse got to do with lunch?" Luca's voice chimed again, bemused.

Lunch?

Remlend felt his blood drain in realization.

"Turnips…" Remlend muttered. "Today's soup has turnips. I intended to remove them from your bowl before serving."

"I'd still taste them. Next time, just warn me," Luca replied. His voice sharpened slightly. "I prefer bad news delivered directly."

So that's what this is. A warning—and a way out.

Remlend sighed.

"Young master," he said at last, "I'm afraid I have additional bad news to share."

Luca Frey was dangerous. Perhaps even more dangerous than his power-hungry older brother. But he was not a monster.

At least, not yet.