Servant

In the large house, on the outskirts of a small village, time seemed to flow a little differently. Outside, dusk had long since thickened, but inside, a distinct atmosphere reigned, a twilight dispelled only by the lonely fireplace. Its flames, now brightening, now fading, painted the entire room crimson and russet, transforming it into something resembling an altar to a forgotten deity.
A girl sat on a silk sofa right in the center of the room. Her stillness seemed deceptive, and her silhouette, casting shadows on the oak-paneled walls, evoked an animalistic tremor. There was something about this figure, like a predator awaiting only the coming of night—something stern, frightening, and unnatural.
Her hair was particularly striking—long and ash-blond, revealing the cooled silver and ash of the light. It flowed over her shoulders and back, softly enveloping her stern yet fragile figure in a heavy, silky cloak. This noble shade emphasized her detachment from all worldly things, lending her appearance a sickly, majestic beauty.
She wore a prim white dress, a stark contrast to the burgundy-red walls. The white didn't soften her; on the contrary, it looked like a white shroud—impeccably pure, brooking no compromise. It was her hands that revealed the abyss hidden beneath her outward calm. Long, aristocratic fingers with perfectly chiseled black nails seemed to have a life of their own. Her fingertips rhythmically, with a metallic precision, tapped out the same complex melody on the massive oak tabletop.
This trance, this hypnotic solitude, ended as suddenly as it had begun. A dull, heavy thud shattered the silence. The sound came from the massive doors at the end of the hall. Each knock echoed beneath the high vaults. Slowly rising from her seat, she took a step. Each step echoed in her chest with an unknown presence.
She expected to see anyone: an envoy from the capital, or perhaps Death itself, finally coming to collect its debt? But instead, a little girl stood on the threshold.