Chapter 1

Liora

The kitchen hums with morning activity as I push through the heavy wooden doors, steam rising from pots and the scent of fresh bread warming the air. Akira, the head cook, glances up from where she's ladling thick porridge into a ceramic bowl, her graying hair escaping from its bun in wispy tendrils.

"Right on time, as always." She gestures toward the tray she's prepared on the counter. "His breakfast is ready."

I nod, moving toward the spread with practiced ease. Six years of this routine has worn smooth grooves into my morning: wake before dawn, dress in my comfortable tunic and pants—no restrictive skirts or servant's uniform required, thank the gods—and collect Rovak's first meal of the day. The tray holds his usual: thick cuts of tuskram meat, still sizzling from the pan, a bowl of the hearty grain porridge he prefers, and fresh bread with butter that Akira churns herself.

"He's been up since before sunrise again," Tom mutters from where he's kneading dough, flour dusting his forearms. The young man's always been chatty, especially when he's worried. "I saw light coming from his study when I went to check the storage rooms."

"Nothing new there." I lift the heavy ceramic mug of kafek—black, bitter, and strong enough to wake the dead—and set it carefully on the tray. "You know how he is with the eastern port reports."

The other servants nod knowingly. We've all learned Rovak's patterns over the years, the way he throws himself into work when something's bothering him. Not that any of us would dare ask what keeps him awake. Well, except maybe me.

I trace the edge of the tray with my finger, my mind drifting as it often does during these quiet morning moments. Six years. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, sometimes like yesterday. I can still remember the bone-deep terror that consumed me when the carriage first rolled up to his estate—the way my hands shook in the iron shackles, how my stomach churned with stories I'd heard about demon masters and what they did to human servants.

The massive gates had groaned open, revealing a sprawling stone manor that looked more like a fortress than a home. Gothic arches and tall windows, gardens that actually looked maintained rather than wild. I'd expected something darker, more sinister. Instead, it was... almost elegant.

They'd dragged me from the carriage, my legs barely working after the long journey from the auction block. I kept my eyes down, the way they'd taught us, but I could feel his presence before I saw him. The air itself seemed to shift.

When I finally looked up, my breath caught.

Rovak stood on the front steps like something carved from shadow and stone. Taller than any being I'd ever seen, his dark gray skin seeming to absorb the afternoon light. Those horns curved back from his skull like a crown, polished obsidian that caught the sun. His black eyes fixed on me, unreadable as they traced over my trembling form.

I waited for the cruel smile, the predatory gleam I'd been warned about. Instead, he simply nodded to the man who'd brought me.

"Remove the shackles."

His voice was deep, gravelly, but not harsh. Matter-of-fact. The iron fell away from my wrists, and I rubbed at the raw skin beneath, still waiting for the catch.

"Akira will show you to your quarters," he said to me directly, those dark eyes meeting mine without malice. "You'll work in the kitchens and help maintain the house. Nothing more complicated than that."

Then he'd turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my mouth slightly open and my worldview thoroughly shattered.

"Liora." Akira's voice snaps me back to the present. She's watching me with knowing eyes, a slight smile tugging at her weathered features. "Wool-gathering again?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "Just thinking about the day ahead."

"Mmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Well, his food's getting cold while you daydream."

I lift the tray, testing its weight. Everything's arranged just how he likes it—the meat on the left, porridge in the center, bread and kafek on the right. I've had six years to perfect this small ritual.

"Did you remember the honey?" Tom calls over his shoulder, still working the dough with more force than strictly necessary.

I check the small ceramic pot tucked beside the bread. "Got it."

"Good. He was asking for it yesterday when you brought lunch up."

The mention of yesterday's lunch delivery makes my stomach flutter unexpectedly. Rovak had looked up from his papers when I'd entered, those dark eyes focused entirely on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary. He'd thanked me, like he always does, but something in his expression had been different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe I'd imagined it.

"I should get going." I adjust my grip on the tray handles. "Before it gets cold."

"Course you should." Akira turns back to her stove, but I catch the knowing look she exchanges with Tom. 

The other servants have never said anything directly, but I'm not blind to their glances. The way they watch me when I return from Rovak's study, searching my face for... what? Signs of mistreatment? Evidence of something more than a servant delivering meals?

If only they knew how carefully nothing has ever happened. How Rovak keeps exactly the right distance, treats me with the same respectful courtesy he shows his business associates. How he's never once made me feel like anything other than a valued member of his household.

It should be a relief. It is a relief.

So why does some traitorous part of me wish—

"Liora." Akira's voice is gentler now. "He's good to you. To all of us. Don't forget that."

I meet her eyes, seeing years of wisdom there. Akira came here long before I did, back when Rovak first established this estate. She's seen servants come and go, watched how he treats those under his protection.

"I know." The words come out quieter than I intended. "I never forget that."

She nods, satisfied, and returns to her cooking. But her words linger as I head toward the kitchen doors, tray balanced perfectly in my hands. He is good to me. Better than good. He gave me a life here that's more comfortable than anything I'd dared hope for. 

My own room in the servants' wing—not a closet or a shared space, but an actual room with a window and a proper bed. Clothes that fit and keep me warm. Work that's manageable and varied enough to keep me from going stir-crazy.

The freedom to speak my mind without fear of punishment.

Most masters would have demanded I call them by title, dress in whatever pleased their aesthetic sensibilities, keep my eyes down and my mouth shut. Rovak had simply told me to call him by name and left me to figure out the rest.

I pause at the kitchen doors, taking a deep breath of the warm, bread-scented air before pushing through into the main corridor. The morning light streams through tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the stone floors. My soft leather boots make barely a whisper of sound as I walk.

Six years of this. Six years of bringing him meals and cleaning his spaces and learning the rhythm of his days. Six years of watching him work himself to exhaustion over trade agreements and port disputes. Six years of those brief moments when his carefully controlled expression would slip, revealing glimpses of something warmer underneath.

And somewhere in the last few, I've started telling myself that the flutter in my chest when he looks at me is just gratitude.

The corridor stretches before me as I make my way toward Rovak's study, the tray steady in my hands despite the way my pulse quickens with each step. His door comes into view—heavy oak reinforced with iron bands, carved with intricate patterns that speak of old demon craftsmanship. I've stood before this door countless times, yet something about this morning feels different. Maybe it's the way the light hits the wood, or maybe it's just my imagination running wild again.

I balance the tray against my hip and knock three times, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

"Enter."

His voice carries through the thick wood, that familiar deep rumble that never fails to send a small shiver down my spine. I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the warm glow of his private space.

Rovak's study is a reflection of the man himself—organized, purposeful, with an underlying elegance that few people ever get to see. Tall bookshelves line two walls, filled with leather-bound ledgers and trade manuals. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, its surface scattered with papers and maps, ink wells and brass instruments I couldn't begin to identify. The fireplace crackles quietly in the corner, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.

And there, rising from his chair behind the desk like a mountain of controlled power, is Rovak himself.

My breath catches the way it always does when I first see him each morning. Six years, and the sight of him still affects me like a physical force. He stands at his full towering height, dark gray skin seeming to absorb the firelight while those obsidian horns catch and reflect it. His black hair is already tied back with that leather cord he favors, though a few strands have escaped to frame his angular face.

When his pitch-black eyes meet mine, something warm unfurls in my chest.

"Good morning." The words come out steadier than I feel.

"Morning, Liora." 

There it is—that slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that transforms his entire face. It's barely a smile by most standards, just the faintest softening of his usually stoic expression. But I've learned to read the subtle shifts in his features, and that small curve means more than a full grin from anyone else.

I can't help but smile back, something genuine and unguarded that I quickly try to rein in. The problem is, when Rovak looks at me like that—like I'm more than just another servant delivering his meals—my carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

Because he really is devastatingly handsome.

The thought hits me with the force it always does, unwelcome and undeniable. His features are carved with precise angles—the broad sweep of his nose, the sharp definition of his jaw, those high cheekbones that speak of aristocratic breeding. He carries himself with the unconscious grace of someone born to command, every movement deliberate and controlled.

I force myself to look away, focusing on setting his tray down on the cleared space he always leaves at the corner of his desk. My hands are steadier than I have any right to expect as I arrange the dishes, making sure everything is within easy reach.

"Smells good," he says, settling back into his chair. The leather creaks under his weight, a sound I've come to associate with these quiet morning moments.

"Akira outdid herself with the tuskram." I step back, hands clasped behind me in what I hope looks like professional posture rather than an attempt to stop myself from fidgeting. "She got the spice blend just right."

He picks up a piece of the meat, examining it with the same attention to detail he brings to everything else. When he takes a bite, that almost-smile returns.

"Perfect, as always."

The praise shouldn't make my stomach flutter the way it does. He's complimenting the food, not me. I'm just the messenger. But something about the way his eyes linger on my face makes it feel more personal than it should.

"I should let you eat in peace—"

"Sit."

The word is quiet but unmistakably a command. My eyes widen slightly as I look back at him, caught off-guard by the unexpected instruction.

"Sir?"

"You know I hate when you call me that." But I do it so I have the reminder. "Sit with me." He gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one usually reserved for business associates and visiting merchants. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

I hesitate, glancing toward the door. This isn't part of our usual routine. I bring his food, we exchange pleasantries, and I leave him to work in solitude. Sharing a meal feels... intimate in a way that makes my pulse race.

"I was planning to eat in the kitchens—"

"Liora." There's something almost gentle in the way he says my name, like he's coaxing a skittish animal. "Sit. Please."

The 'please' undoes me completely. I move to the offered chair, settling onto the cushioned seat with as much grace as I can manage. The distance across his desk suddenly feels both too far and not nearly far enough.

Rovak tears a piece of bread in half and slides it across the polished wood toward me, along with the pot of honey Tom had reminded me about. The gesture is so casual, so natural, that it takes me a moment to fully register what's happening.

"I can't—" I start to protest.

"You can." He's already spreading honey on his own piece of bread, those large hands surprisingly deft with the small knife. "When's the last time you sat down for a proper meal instead of grabbing whatever's convenient between tasks?"

The question catches me off-guard because I can't actually remember. There's always something that needs doing, someone who needs help, a reason to eat quickly while standing in the kitchen before moving on to the next responsibility.

"That's what I thought." He takes a bite of the honey-sweetened bread, watching me with those unreadable dark eyes. "Eat."

I pick up the bread, still warm from Akira's ovens, and break off a small piece. The honey is golden and thick, probably from the hives Tom tends on the far side of the estate. It tastes like sunshine and summer flowers, rich and comforting on my tongue.

"Better?" Rovak asks, and there's something almost amused in his expression.

"Much." I take another bite, allowing myself to actually taste it this time instead of wolfing it down between chores. "Thank you."

"So." He leans back in his chair, cradling his mug of kafek between both hands. "What's on your agenda for today?"

The question surprises me. Masters don't typically ask about their servants' daily plans, beyond ensuring the work gets done. But here's Rovak, looking genuinely interested in my answer. 

He's always been different in ways I shouldn't think about. 

"Well, Akira wants help preparing for the market trip tomorrow. We're running low on several spices, and she has a list of specific merchants she wants to visit." I count off tasks on my fingers. "The guest rooms need airing out—not that we're expecting anyone, but she insists on keeping them ready. And Tom mentioned the garden tools need sharpening before the autumn planting."

"Busy day, then."

"Always." I smile despite myself. "But I like staying busy. Gives me less time to think."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sound. Less time to think about what? About the comfortable life I've built here? About the master who treats me with more kindness than I know what to do with?

About the way my heart skips when he smiles at me like he's doing right now?

"And what terrible thoughts are you trying to avoid?" There's a teasing note in his voice that makes my cheeks warm.

"Oh, you know. The usual servant concerns. Whether the laundry will dry properly, if the roof needs repairs before the autumn rains start." I take another bite of bread to give myself time to think. "Deeply philosophical stuff."

Rovak actually chuckles—a low, rumbling sound that I feel as much as hear. The rare display of genuine amusement transforms his entire face, softening the harsh angles and making him look younger, more approachable.

More human, despite the horns and gray skin that mark him as decidedly other.

"I'm sure Akira appreciates having such a dedicated philosopher on staff."

"She mostly appreciates having someone who can reach the high shelves without a stepladder."

Another chuckle. God help me, I could get addicted to that sound. I have.

"Speaking of reaching things," Rovak's expression grows more serious, though not in an unpleasant way. "I have to ride into Sarziroch later today. Meeting with a merchant who's been... difficult about some import agreements."

He says 'difficult' like other people might say 'pestilence' or 'plague.' I've heard enough about Rovak's business dealings over the years to know that when he describes someone as difficult, it usually means they're either trying to cheat him or have severely underestimated what they're dealing with.

"The spice merchant from the eastern ports?"

"The very one." He takes a long sip of kafek, and I catch the slight tightening around his eyes that means he's already strategizing. "Seems to think that because there's a cease-fire with the xaphan, he can renegotiate our existing contracts in his favor."

"And he's about to learn otherwise."

"Oh, he's definitely about to learn otherwise." There's something almost predatory in Rovak's smile now, the kind of expression that probably makes hardened merchants reconsider their life choices. "I don't particularly enjoy these trips to the city, but some lessons can only be delivered in person."

I can picture it—Rovak in one of his formal coats, sitting across from some overly confident merchant who thinks he can intimidate or manipulate his way to a better deal. The poor fool probably has no idea what kind of force of nature he's about to face across a negotiating table.

"Is Avenor going with you?" He might be my closest friend here, even if I sometimes go days without seeing him with his guard duties. And I know that Rovak is close to him, too. 

"No." He shakes his head. "He's going to pick up some of our imports from the other side of the city. He'll probably be back late." 

"Oh. Will you be back for dinner?"

The question slips out before I can stop it, too casual and concerned to be strictly professional. I busy myself with the bread, hoping he doesn't notice the way my voice caught slightly on the words.

"Planning on it. Though if the negotiations run long..." He shrugs, a gesture that manages to convey both resignation and mild irritation. "City merchants love to drag things out, convinced that wearing down their opponents is a valid strategy."

"They clearly haven't met you."

"No, they haven't." His smile returns, warmer this time, and I feel that dangerous flutter in my chest again. "But they will today."

The conversation flows so easily, so naturally, that I almost forget this isn't normal. That I'm a human servant sharing breakfast with a demon lord, discussing his business affairs like we're equals. That every smile he gives me, every moment of his attention, is a gift I have no right to treasure the way I do.

Because that's all this is—kindness from a good master. Rovak treats his animals well too, makes sure they're fed and comfortable and cared for. It doesn't mean anything beyond basic decency.

I need to remember that.

I need to remember that no matter how handsome he is, no matter how his rare laughter makes my heart race, I'm still just a human who was lucky enough to end up with a master who doesn't believe in cruelty. That's all this is. That's all it can ever be.

The bread suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth.