The maid stopped in front of a dark, carved wooden door. Without a sound, she bowed and pushed it open. A warm, layered fragrance immediately wrapped around Flora.
It was the wheaty aroma of freshly baked bread, the rich bitterness of coffee, and a cool, clean scent that seemed to blend cedarwood with night-blooming flowers.
Mixed into it was what was probably a type of incense unique to the demon race.
The dining room was brighter and more refined than she had imagined. Huge stained-glass windows filtered the morning light into bands of color, which spilled softly across the floor covered in thick carpeting.
The long table did not feel excessively large. A silver-gray tablecloth lay across it, and at its center stood a vase holding blue flowers whose petals were as clear and crystalline as ice.
Ilya was already seated at the head of the table. Her deep purple morning robe made her skin look like polished jade. In her hands was a scroll that glimmered faintly with magical light. Her eyes were lowered, her expression focused.
Hearing the movement at the door, Ilya slowly raised her head. Her silver eyes, like perfectly calibrated lenses, instantly locked onto Flora, taking her in from head to toe with meticulous attention.
That gaze still carried its heart-piercing sharpness, but now the edge was wrapped in an undisguised gentleness.
There was even a trace of something faint, almost indulgent, resembling satisfaction, as though she were admiring a treasure she herself had polished by hand and which was finally beginning to show its luster.
“Looks like you rested well, Flora.” Ilya set the scroll aside. Her voice was softer than the light flowing through the room, carrying the unique ease of early morning. “Come and sit.”
Flora’s heart felt as if it had been lightly squeezed by an invisible hand, then forced itself to relax.
She slowly walked to the seat that was clearly prepared for her. Imitating the vague noble etiquette from her memories, she somewhat clumsily adjusted the complicated folds of her skirt before carefully sitting down, trying her best not to make a sound.
The entire time, she could feel that silver gaze resting on her, like a warm searchlight that left her nowhere to hide.
“What do you think?” Ilya asked gently.
“…The bed was very comfortable.” She ultimately chose a vague but safe answer, lowering her eyes to stare at the flawlessly arranged, gleaming silver cutlery before her.
Knives, forks, spoons, and several utensils whose names she did not know were laid out in perfect order, exuding a cold sense of discipline.
Ilya did not seem bothered by her brevity or evasiveness. The corner of her lips curved up almost imperceptibly.
“That’s good.”
Her gaze lingered over Flora’s carefully braided hair and the well-fitted dress.
“This outfit suits you very well. It’s light and can gently nourish mana.” Her tone grew even softer. “And this amethyst at your chest—see how it seems to like you? Its glow is gentler than usual.”
Only then did Flora notice that several small gemstones emitting a hazy, moon-white glow had been cleverly set into the front of the dress. The hand resting on her soft skirt unconsciously curled slightly.
Being so carefully dressed up, then so closely appraised, made her feel deeply uncomfortable. It was as though she were not a living person, but an object whose value was being assessed.
Still, she only let out a faint, almost inaudible “Mm,” acknowledging the comment.
Silence began to spread. The only sound was the subtle movement of sunlight shifting through the air.
The well-trained maids moved forward like a silent tide to serve the dishes. Contrary to the unsettling demon race food Flora had imagined, the meal looked exquisitely prepared and even appetizing.
Slices of bread toasted to a perfect golden brown, releasing an enticing aroma. Thick cream soup filled white porcelain bowls, dotted with golden mushrooms and vibrant green herbs.
A small plate of soft cheese with a warm hue, like the finest mutton-fat jade. And a dish of crystal-clear jam, sparkling like rubies, served in a delicate silver-rimmed plate.
“Drink some soup first. It’ll warm your stomach,” Ilya said, breaking the silence with a tone of unquestionable concern.
She even personally used a long-handled ladle to serve Flora half a bowl of soup, gently pushing it toward her. The movement was smooth and natural, as though she had done this countless times before.
Flora looked at the fragrant soup before her, and that faint spark of rebellion flared up again. She did not want to accept this meticulous care, this arrangement that treated her like a child incapable of looking after herself.
So she reached out, bypassed the soup, and instead picked up a piece of plain bread from the basket beside her.
She tore off a small piece and put it into her mouth. Her chewing was slow and stiff, carrying a silent declaration: see, I can choose what to eat first on my own.
Ilya took in this small gesture without missing a thing. Not only did she show no displeasure, the hint of amusement in her eyes deepened.
She made no comment on Flora’s choice and did not urge her to drink the soup again. She simply picked up her own cutlery and began to eat.
Every one of her movements was textbook elegance. The angle of her wrist, the rhythm of her chewing, even the force with which she set down her knife and fork all radiated an effortless grace and composure. This silent demonstration itself felt like a gentle lesson.
The dining room grew quiet once more, with only the faintest sounds of cutlery touching porcelain.
Flora took small bites of the dry bread, finding it tasteless. Nearly all of her attention went into maintaining a calm exterior and scanning her surroundings like radar.
She observed Ilya’s movements, expressions, and attitude toward her. She also silently memorized the routes and rhythm with which the maids entered and exited through the side door and cleared the dishes.
“How does it taste?” Ilya suddenly asked, breaking the silence and interrupting Flora’s covert observations.
Caught off guard, Flora looked up and met those smiling silver eyes. She hurriedly swallowed the food in her mouth and nearly choked, quickly lifting the nearby glass of water for a sip.
The water was faintly sweet and cool, sliding smoothly down her throat and feeling very comfortable.
“…It’s okay,” she replied vaguely, refusing to offer a more positive evaluation.
In truth, Flora thought the food tasted quite good. But given her current situation, even the food carried a hint of bitterness.
“Try this,” Ilya said, seeming to see through her reluctance. Once again, she personally nudged the small plate of ruby-like jam closer to Flora, her tone encouraging.
“Scarlet tear fruit from deep within the evernight forest. It only ripens once every ten years. I remember she… really liked this flavor when she was little.”
She spoke that last sentence very lightly and naturally, as though it were an offhand remark. Yet it landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through Flora’s heart.
Again, that word “she,” in almost the same tone as before. It probably referred to the same person.