LUCIAN
Amaya’s hiding something.
That thought has been gnawing at me for days, creeping in whenever I close my eyes. She's too careful, too deliberate in the way she moves through the house. Servants are supposed to stumble, gossip, and complain. She glides. She listens more than she speaks.
This morning, I decided to stop wondering and start digging.
The library is quiet at this hour, dawn light spilling across the floor. I open personnel rosters, pack records, even old mercenary ledgers, anything that might explain who she is. There’s nothing. No birthplace listed. No family ties. No past employment.
It’s as if she appeared from thin air.
I rub my jaw, staring at the blank spaces where information should be. Not even a forged paper trail. That, more than anything, bothers me. Someo
