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[POV – Cerys Agares (Astaroth)]
Tick… tock… tick… tock.
The clock in the hallway beat ti like a patient judge. I, Cerys Agares — once Lady Astaroth, now rely "resident" — and, yes, wearing a uniform — stared at my reflection in the square mirror of my new room. The black fabric fit perfectly (of course it did), the white apron was plain, and the opaque stockings left no room for nostalgia of thrones. Two quick tugs — tchic, tchic — to fix the collar, and a long breath. The scent of soap, jasmine tea in the corridor, and a hint of oil from the alien girl's gadgets filled the air. The house was alive.
I had never served anyone. Not like Grayfia, who treats servitude as philosophy. For her, it's choice. For ? Never. I had always stood above — and now, my world had shrunk to the size of a window facing a garden. Ironic, really. But fine. When the board changes, you learn new rules.
— Gooood morning! — Lala sang from the hallway, her tail thumping — pof, pof, pof.
— Morning — I replied, trying not to sound too soft. I stepped out just as Mikan appeared, clipboard in hand.
— Schedule — she declared crisply. Clac! She pinned a sheet to the board: "6 AM — Laundry. 7 AM — Veranda. 8 AM — Turbo-Vacuum 7.0 check (under Rito's supervision). 9 AM — Breakfast."
— Understood — I said curtly.
She studied for a mont. Found no defiance — just resolve. Good. Responsibility fits better than a crown.
Down the stairs — toc-toc-toc — the floor creaked under each step, whispering. In the laundry room, the basket awaited like a commander. Open the faucet — pssssss — separate by color — floom — asure the soap. Mundane things demand precision. Funny how empires fall not by lightning, but by carelessness.
— Need help? — Asia peeked in, hands clasped, smile faint but luminous.
— Sure — I said honestly. — Show how you fold them here.
Her face lit up. Plim. In minutes, the heap beca symtry — corners aligned, tenderness folded into geotry. "Witch," they'd called her once. Magic is what fear nas kindness it can't understand.
— Thank you — I said, and the word felt oddly right on my tongue. I was used to giving orders, not gratitude.
Seven o'clock — veranda. The broom rasped — shhh, shhh — sweeping leaves like forgotten letters from autumn. Haruna crossed the garden with a watering can, paused at my sight, then rembered the "protocol."
— Morning — she greeted, polite but warm. — These prefer water only at the roots.
— Noted — I replied. Roses aren't guilty of anything.
At eight sharp: the Turbo-Vacuum 7.0 awaited in the living room, parked like a dog wanting a walk.
— Let's review its route settings — Rito said, pressing buttons. Beep-beep. — Yesterday's issue was interference between rhythm and range. It wanted to dance while cleaning… but forgot space awareness.
— It bit my tail! — Lala added from the couch, giggling. — It was funny… later!
— Robots with humor are a plague — I muttered. A tilt of my hip, a frufru of the uniform, and I caught Rito looking away politely. A boy who could command worlds, yet blush at courtesy. I noted it quietly.
— Let try — I said, placing my hand on the Turbo-Vacuum. "Subordinate"? No. Language is connection. I tapped its fra — tomp — listened to the hum, the pulse. — It wants applause when it's done — I said. — And music while it works. Deny it, and it sulks.
Rito blinked, half amused.
— Can you code that? — he asked.
— You can choreograph people, can't you? — I shot back. — Give it a song and a stop light. Oh, and — fi-fiu-fiu… — this whistle tells it I'm its supervisor.
The bot blinked — pim — "Supervisor registered."
Rito smiled faintly. Recognition. The air relaxed.
— Nice. Route saved — clac-clac.
The vacuum spun elegantly, dancing without devouring socks. Asia clapped — plap-plap — and Mikan, hiding a smirk, wrote "7.0: OK (Cerys)" on her list.
Nine o'clock. Breakfast. I didn't cook — by collective decree. "They think I'll poison them," I'd grumbled internally. Today… not so much. Mikan whisked eggs — tchic-tchic — Asia poured tea — ssss — and I accepted my buttered bread. Bread can be trust when they don't let you near the stove.
— Sleep well? — Rito asked casually, as Lala ranted about a rocket-turned-umbrella.
— The mattress is honest — I said dryly. "Honest" is high praise coming from .
He laughed softly — hn — and didn't push.
Late morning. Mikan handed a shopping list: "Steel wool, trash bags, detergent, clips, book strap (Lala…)". I took the bag and stepped toward the back gate. The silver charm on my wrist shimred — plim — opening the path like calm water. First step outside.
Kuoh slled of fruit and warm pavent. The breeze tugged my hair — whoosh — and I, who once walked marble halls, stepped onto the sidewalk like I deserved to. Humility isn't crawling — it's seeing the world smaller without shrinking yourself.
At the market, a pair of voices whispered, "That's her…" then stopped. The sigil heated faintly. The pact was working. "Witch" wasn't currency here anymore. I almost smiled.
— Need help, ma'am? — the clerk asked politely.
— No — I said. — Just looking for clips that can hold ssy paper lives together.
He chuckled nervously, handed the best. I returned lighter, sunlight tracing fine edges around my shadow.
Afternoon. Training.
I'd asked — yes, asked — to asure the gap between my new strength (none) and his (infinite). No magic, no tricks — just stance, movent, awareness. He agreed with the calm of soone who could unmake storms by adjusting a screw.
— No hits to the head — Mikan warned from the porch.
— The table thanks you — Haruna added, laughing.
Barefoot on the grass — friiiish — I raised my hands. Old instincts flexed.
— Ready? — he asked.
— Always — I said, pride still intact.
He moved lightly. I parried, spun — tap-tap. Rito wasn't forceful; he was inevitability. When his hand caught my wrist, I felt thunder tad behind politeness. Tried a sweep — he read it early, rolled aside — pof — offered a hand up.
— You don't rush — I noted, panting.
— Rushing misses timing — he said simply.
— Timing saves fools — I countered.
Our eyes t. Warriors recognize each other — even when one's sheathed his blade. I bowed slightly. He returned it. From afar, Lala and Asia clapped — plap-plap — while the vacuum beeped in approval. Peke titled the clip "Training 01: Rhythm Alignnt." The robot has taste.
Evening. Sewing machine out of storage. The "modern" uniform was fine, but not made for chasing robotic dancers upstairs. I wasn't tailoring it "for soone to see" — I was tailoring it for work. Pins — tic-tic — chalk — scritch — hem shortened two fingers above the ankle, pocket added for notes. Stitching is spellwork with fabric.
— Need help? — Haruna appeared with a box of buttons.
— Just silence — I replied softly. She stayed anyway. Good silence.
When I finished — tchac! — I held it up to the light. Functional. Still elegant. I can't be anything else.
— Looks great — Haruna said sincerely. — You've got steady hands.
— Used to catching falling things — I answered, half-smiling.
Her laugh ward the room like tea.
Night. Cricri. Crickets signed in. One by one, everyone gathered. Mikan checked locks — clac. Asia brought a basket of fragrant bread she'd baked. Lala rearranged cushions and declared, beaming:
— I upgraded Turbo-Vac 7.0 with three new dances, all Cerys-approved!
— God help us — Mikan sighed.
I leaned on the sofa corner, watching. Zastin appeared out of nowhere with "good news, bad news, and dessert." Rito carried the tray, poured tea, solved three things with two sentences, and still asked if my hands hurt from sewing.
— No — I said. — The mories do, but they're fading.
He nodded — no pity, just respect. Another rare currency from my old world.
No doorbell this ti. The silence belonged to us. Plic-plac. Rain on the roof. The house breathed like a content animal.
I closed my eyes for a mont and admitted it: the revenge I'd plotted this morning was dust now. Rito wasn't a throne to conquer, nor a weakness to exploit. He was… a wall that didn't collapse when leaned upon.
I opened my eyes. Took my notepad. Wrote:
"Tomorrow: learn curtain knots with Asia / check Turbo route 2 / water violets at 4 PM / ask Haruna how to save a sad plant."
And beneath it, in tiny script:
"Rember not to be a 'Lady' by habit. Be Cerys by choice."
— Good night — I said, standing.
— Good night, Cerys! — ca the chorus.
Up the stairs — toc-toc-toc — halfway, I stopped. The window frad the moon like a mirror. I don't pray. But I thanked. To fate, to the pact, to the clock that still ticked.
The new hem brushed my leg — frufru — like a job well done. Tomorrow at six, laundry. Then veranda. Then… the world. One step at a ti.
And if soone still whispers "witch" out there, I'll know what to say. And I'll know where my hand finds the light on the floor.
I smiled — rare thing. Closed the door — click — and let the night teach how to sleep like soone who works.
Because, deep down, I always knew how to fight.
Now, I'm learning how to stay.
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