Chapter 184 : Chapter 184

Iruya blinked.

She slowly turned her neck, and her gaze began to drift.

An enormous window stretched from the ceiling all the way to the floor. Deep violet velvet curtains hung on either side, tied back with golden tassels to reveal only a narrow slit. Sunlight squeezed through it, falling into the room, onto the floor, and onto the—

dressing table.

A carved dressing table of dark hardwood, every line in the grain so exquisite it looked like a work of art. A silver candlestick stood on top, and beside it sat an open jewelry box. Sunlight poured into it, and the gemstones inside exploded into light—red, blue, green, purple—as if a rainbow had been shattered and packed into that little box.

A full-length mirror stood in a frame of gilded carvings. The mirror faced the bed, and Iruya could see her own reflection in it—a blurred figure wrapped in white gauze curtains.

Every piece of furniture was dark hardwood. Every piece was carved with intricate patterns. Every piece was edged in gold. The desk, the wardrobe, the small round table, the low side table against the wall. On that side table sat a tea set of white porcelain, painted with golden patterns, gleaming with a soft, mellow luster in the dim light.

Iruya slowly sat up.

Her movements were light and slow, as though afraid of disturbing something.

But the moment she sat up, she felt the change in her body.

Yesterday’s wounds—the gash beneath her ribs, the bruises on her back from the gravel, the ankle she had twisted when she fell from the wall—they were still there. She could feel them.

But not as pain.

It was a strange itch, spreading outward from deep inside the wounds, as though something were growing there, as though flesh and skin were knitting themselves back together.

There was no tightness anywhere. No feeling of bandages wrapped too tightly. No sticky sensation from ointment. She felt light, comfortable, as though her whole body had been set free.

She lowered her head and looked at herself.

She was wearing a white silk nightgown.

It was thin and light, with delicate silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs. Those patterns appeared and disappeared in the shifting light, like threads spun from moonlight itself. The silk clung to her skin, cool and smooth, like a second layer of flesh.

The soft fabric curved gently over her chest—not exaggerated, but enough to show. It drew in at her waist, then loosened again over her hips before falling all the way to her ankles.

She moved her legs slightly, and the silk slid over her skin, ticklish and soft.

Iruya’s pupils tightened slightly.

That nightgown was obviously expensive. The quality of the silk, the craftsmanship of the embroidery, the way it felt on her body as though she were wearing nothing at all—after living in human cities for so long, she knew exactly how much something like this would cost.

Taking a slow breath, Iruya pushed the covers aside.

The blanket was so light it fell away at the slightest motion. She drew her legs free and shifted toward the edge of the bed.

One foot reached down first.

It hung there over the floor, small and pale, like a piece of flawless white jade. Her toes were round, her nails neatly trimmed and touched with a faint pink. Her ankle was slender, the line of it graceful enough to look as though one hand could close around it.

Her smooth calves emerged beneath the hem of the nightgown, equally pale and slender, giving off a faint glow in the dim room.

The moment her foot touched the floor—

the door opened.

The wooden door brushed across the carpet with a soft, nearly inaudible sound.

Two people entered.

They wore neat gray dresses with spotless white aprons tied over them. Not a single wrinkle showed at the edges of those aprons. Their hair was coiled into severe buns at the backs of their heads, covered in black nets. Their faces were expressionless—not smiling, not frowning, not startled, like masks painted with care to resemble human faces.

When they saw Iruya, their steps paused for the briefest instant.

Then they dipped into a slight curtsy.

The movement was light, perfectly matched, as though rehearsed countless times. Afterward, they withdrew to either side of the doorway, standing one on the left and one on the right, hands folded over their lower stomachs, eyes lowered, saying nothing.

Iruya stared at them.

The two women simply stood there, perfectly still, like wax figures.

The room was so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat.

Some people, standing still, looked more like corpses than the dead ever did.

She parted her lips, about to speak, when footsteps sounded from outside the door.

They were light and steady, one after another, crossing the wooden floor with an easy, unhurried rhythm.

Then someone entered.

She was nothing like those two silent maidservants who seemed carved from wax.

She wore a deep violet dress, violet so dark it was almost black, yet when the light touched it, the color seemed to ripple and flow. Silver embroidery traced the neckline, delicate and intricate—like vines, like starlight, like some masterpiece only the finest embroiderers in the world could produce. The cuffs were edged with a narrow line of gold, and the gold and violet together shimmered faintly in the dimness.

It was not the crude gold of ordinary decoration.

It was a pale gold, so pale it was nearly white, like sunlight after it had been filtered again and again until only its purest color remained.

Her hair fell smoothly from behind her shoulders to her waist, each strand like a separate thread of light, glowing softly. A draft slipped in through the crack in the window and lifted a few loose strands, and they swayed in the air as though they had a life of their own.

She took the cup of tea from the maid behind her.

The movement was slow and light, every curl of every finger perfectly measured, like a scene rehearsed countless times for the stage. Her fingers were pale and elegant, the tips faintly pink, the nails neatly shaped and coated with the barest trace of transparent polish that gleamed like pearl in the light.

Then she lifted her head.

That face.

Iruya had seen many beautiful humans.

The noble daughters of the capital, every one of them polished and perfectly adorned. The girls of Saint Roland Magic Academy, young and vibrant, each beautiful in her own way. She had even seen a few so-called “great beauties of the capital,” women praised by the crowds and immortalized in songs by poets.

But she had never seen a face like this one.

It was a face that made it impossible to look away.

Not the soft, gentle kind of beauty.

A sharp beauty.

The kind that struck like a blade the moment one saw it.

The contours of her features were deep and precise, as though a sculptor had carved them stroke by stroke with the finest knife. Her brows were long and slender, the outer ends tilting slightly upward, as if they had been born carrying a natural edge of severity.

Her eye sockets were deep, making those ice-blue eyes seem brighter, colder, like two melting glaciers floating in a dark lake.

Her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent. That pallor made her features stand out more sharply, made those ice-blue eyes look deeper, made those pressed lips seem even more—

dangerous.

Yes.

Dangerous.

Iruya had seen many beauties, but never before had she seen beauty and danger fused together so perfectly in a single face.