Regulus stood at perfect attention, his spine straight, hands clasped behind his back—the very image of an impeccable butler. His bruises ached, his split lip stung, but not a single hint of discomfort showed on his face. He had learned his lesson. Perfection. Control.
Sonia Sidelfi regarded him with those unreadable gray eyes, her fingers tapping against a stack of parchment.
"Today," she said, "you begin with paperwork and written examinations."
Regulus' eye twitched. Just once. A barely perceptible flicker of irritation before his expression smoothed back into neutrality.
Of course. After yesterday's brutal crossbow drills, after the humiliating display of his own arrogance, she was going to make him sit at a desk. This was deliberate. A test of patience, not skill.
But he said nothing. Simply bowed his head. "Understood, Matron."
Sonia's lips thinned—not quite a smile, but something dangerously close to approval. She gestured to a low table where a mountain of scrolls, ledgers, and wax-sealed documents waited.
"Account books from the Rosewind Guild's last fiscal quarter," she said. "Cross-referenced with tax records from three merchant houses. Find the discrepancies."
Regulus stared. This wasn't training. This was punishment.
Then Sonia added, voice softer but no less sharp:
"And you will do it without your skill."
"I may not be able to do that, Mistress," he said carefully. "My skill responds to my will. Unless I seal my will—"
"Oh my apologies," Sonia interrupted, her voice smooth as steel. "There's been a misunderstanding. I never expected you to do it." She turned toward the shadows. "We'll be sealing your Falna for the day. If you would, Lady Nyx?"
Nyx materialized beside them, her violet eyes gleaming with mischief. "You can do it, little moth!" she chirped, snapping her fingers before Regulus could protest.
A cold wave rushed through him—the divine script on his back dimming, his connection to Numquam Itineris vanishing like a snuffed candle.
Sonia gestured to the mountain of scrolls. "The Rosewind Guild's ledgers await."
Regulus stared at the paperwork, then at his suddenly very ordinary hands.
This wasn't punishment.
This was annihilation.
Regulus stared at the ledger in front of him, the numbers swimming across the page. Without Numquam Itineris whispering corrections in his mind, every calculation felt like wading through mud.
First step: Organize.
He separated the Rosewind Guild's transaction records by month, then by merchant house. His fingers moved deliberately, lacking their usual flawless precision. A stack of invoices slipped from his grip, scattering across the floor.
Second step: Identify patterns.
He forced himself to think aloud. "The Vespera branch shows consistent silk purchases from Merchant House Loris... but the tax records only account for half the volume." His brow furrowed. Either the guild was underreporting, or—
Third step: Cross-reference.
His quill scratched across a scrap parchment as he manually compared dates. A drop of ink smudged the page. Normally, his skill would have prevented that. Normally, he wouldn't be sweating over basic arithmetic.
Fourth step: Verify.
He checked the guild's shipping manifests against warehouse receipts. There—a discrepancy in the weight measurements. Too precise to be a rounding error.
Across the room, Sonia observed in silence while Nyx lounged on a windowsill, nibbling biscuits from the jar Sonia kept for "visiting dignitaries."
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Sonia murmured. "Watching someone learn what their own mind can do."
Nyx smirked. "Like seeing a child realize they can walk without holding someone's hand."
Regulus ignored them, gripping the quill tighter. His fourth attempt at the final calculation came within 2% of what his skill would have produced instantly.
Fifth step: Adapt.
He changed tactics, creating a shorthand system in the margins. Slower than perfection, but his.
By the third hour, his hands moved with newfound certainty. The numbers still didn't sing to him, but he'd learned to listen anyway.
Regulus' fingers cramped around the quill as he finished annotating the last discrepancy—a clever bit of fraud hidden in duplicate shipping orders. The numbers weren't singing to him, but he'd learned to hum the tune himself.
Sonia inspected his work, her finger pausing on a circled entry. "You missed the silver surcharge on page forty-three."
He'd been so focused on the silk weights he'd overlooked—
"But," Sonia continued, "you caught the Vespera-Loris collusion even I missed yesterday. A fair trade." She slid a fresh ledger toward him. "Now do it again. Half the time."
Nyx, now dangling upside-down from a chandelier, tossed a biscuit at his head. "Cheer up! At this rate, you'll only be mostly incompetent by lunch!"
---
The dining hall was a minefield.
Regulus navigated between nobility with a tray of sparkling wine glasses, each step measured. Without his skill, his balance was mortal, his precision fallible. A duke's elbow nearly sent a flute careening—he caught it mid-air, his wrist bending at an angle that hurt, but the crystal didn't shatter.
Sonia's voice whispered from behind a pillar: "The Countess of Elm is left-handed. Adjust your approach."
He did. The Countess took her glass without even glancing up.
---
"Recite the guest list from this morning's session," Sonia demanded, spinning a dagger on the table between them. "In order of seating."
Regulus closed his eyes. The mental image was blurrier without Numquam Itineris sharpening it, but—
"Lord Duvain at the head, Lady Elm to his right, the Rakian ambassador beside her—"
"Wrong." The dagger thudded point-first into the wood. "The ambassador was third in the procession. Again."
Three attempts later, his recall was flawless. His temples throbbed.
---
The training yard was dark, lit only by torches. The junior maids—Sitri among them—circled him with practice daggers.
"Disarm them," Sonia ordered.
The first strike came low. He pivoted, but his body was slower, clumsier. A wooden blade cracked against his ribs.
Again.
By the twentieth bout, he'd learned their rhythms. By the thirtieth, he was disarming two at once.
Nyx, watching from the rafters, stopped laughing halfway through.
---
Sonia set a single sheet before him in the empty hall.
"Your original ledger. Review it."
Regulus blinked. The numbers were *wrong*—glaringly so. Errors he'd never have made even without his skill.
"...This isn't mine."
Sonia's smile was a blade. "No. It's mine from ten years ago." She tapped the page. "You trusted your skill so much, you didn't question whether perfection was yours or borrowed." She slid his actual work across the table—flawless, even without Numquam Itineris. "Now you know the difference."
Regulus touched the paper, the ink still faintly damp.
For the first time, it was his.
---
Sonia's teacup clicked against its saucer as she settled into the courtyard's center chair. Around them, twenty maids—juniors and seniors alike—took positions along the pavilion's balconies and archways. Crossbows loaded in unison.
"Final exercise," she said, stirring her tea with deliberate calm. "Serve without spilling. Protect without faltering." Her gray eyes lifted to meet his. "And this time—no one will hold back."
Regulus exhaled. His back still ached from yesterday's bruises. His fingers remembered every misfired calculation. But the weight of the teapot in his hands felt different now—known, not just perfected.
The first bolt came as he poured.
He didn't need Numquam Itineris to recognize the trajectory—he'd *learned* their patterns. His free hand snatched the saucer, tilting it just enough to deflect the projectile into the sand trap. The tea stream never wavered.
"Lemon," Sonia requested, as if arrows weren't embedding themselves in the chair's backrest.
Regulus dropped a slice into her cup—then pivoted, using the tray to shield her from a trio of bolts. The impact rattled his bones, but the porcelain stayed steady.
Across the yard, Sitri signaled the juniors. They fanned out, creating a crossfire.
Think. Adapt.
He stepped into the next volley, letting bolts whisper past his sleeves as he poured the second cup. The maids were adjusting—so did he. When Viola switched to overhead shots, he used the teapot's steam to obscure Sonia's silhouette. When the juniors synchronized their reloads, he timed his movements to their breaths.
Nyx's shadow stretched across the courtyard, her voice a whisper only he could hear: "Look at you. Almost... natural."
The last bolt struck the tray as he set down the sugar tongs. Not a drop spilled.
Sonia sipped. Swallowed. Then nodded once.
"Acceptable."
Around them, maids lowered their weapons. Some looked impressed. Others—like Sitri—merely thoughtful.
Regulus bowed, his muscles trembling not from exhaustion, but something sharper: pride.
Until Sonia added:
"Tomorrow, we begin again. With poison."
Regulus collapsed onto the training yard's cobblestones, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his brow as he stared at the twilight sky. "By the gods," he gasped, "this is more tiring than Bell's first time in the deep floors..." His voice trailed off into a groan. "When will this end?"
Sonia peered down at him, her shadow stretching across his exhausted form. "Oh?" Her lips curled into something that was almost—almost—a smile. "Getting tired already?" She adjusted her gloves with deliberate slowness. "Lady Hebe promised your goddess that the entire Familia will train you."
A cold breeze swept through the courtyard. Somewhere in the distance, a junior maid giggled.
"So," Sonia continued, her voice crisp, "until you earn the recognition of every single maid in our Familia..." She leaned down, her gray eyes glinting. "We are not stopping."
Regulus' face went pale.
No.
No no no no—
"NOOOOOO!!!!!" His mental scream echoed through his skull as the horrifying reality crashed over him. 1,235 maids. All of them. Every last one. He was going to die here. He was going to actually die in this courtyard, buried under an avalanche of ledger books and crossbow bolts and poisoned teacups—
Nyx's laughter rang out from the rafters, bright and merciless. "Such wonderful despair! I should have made a deal with Hebe centuries ago!"
Sonia straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt. "Dawn tomorrow, Sir Regulus. Don't be late." She turned on her heel, her boots clicking against the stone as she walked away—leaving him sprawled on the ground, a broken man.
Somewhere in the distance, a choir of junior maids began singing a cheerful work song.
Regulus covered his face with his hands.
He was never going to escape.