If castles could breathe.
It rose from the land like a dream half-swallowed by sky. Its spires twisted upward, not in defiance—but in song. Every stone looked like it had been carved from forgotten promises.
As the chariot entered the great open gates, Martha's body softened.
Her eyes fluttered.
Her breath slowed.
She slept.
And as her consciousness faded—
Five women emerged.
Cloaked in silk and silence.
Their eyes glowing. Their feet bare. Their intent unknown.
They surrounded the chariot like priestesses around an altar.
And the last thing Martha saw, just before the veil of slumber took her—
Was the silver glint of a mask in the far-off shadows,
Watching.
She didn't remember the moment she was lifted from the chariot.
Only the scent.
Roses. Myrrh. Cinnamon warmed in wine.
When her eyes fluttered open again, Martha lay atop a grand circular bed draped in soft gold fabric that shimmered even in stillness. The ceiling arched high above her—painted with constellations that shifted slowly like time itself moved differently here.
Her skin was clean.
Her body wrapped loosely in a robe of cream satin—so thin it felt like air, yet warm as embrace.
The room itself was a dream made solid.
Vanity tables adorned with crystal perfume bottles. Shelves lined with rare books bound in leather. A full-length mirror framed in dark red wood. Curtains embroidered with symbols she didn't recognize but felt—somewhere in her chest—like she had known them forever.
There were drawers.
Jewelry boxes.
Silk slippers.
A comb carved from ivory.
And dozens—dozens—of dresses.
Colors she didn't know existed. Fabrics soft enough to seduce the fingertips.
It was every fantasy a woman might have whispered in sleep.
And yet—
Martha sat at the center, unmoving.
Breathing.
She felt alive.
Too alive.
Her skin buzzed.
Her heartbeat wasn't hers.
The air felt heavier than it should, but not from fear—from anticipation.
Something was coming.
Something huge.
An hour passed.
Or maybe two.
Time had no loyalty here.
The door creaked softly.
And one of the five women entered.
She moved with grace not born of training, but purpose. Her gown was translucent white, her skin the color of bronze kissed by moonlight. Her hair shimmered with strands of silver and black entwined.
She did not speak.
She gestured.
Martha rose instinctively.
Barefoot, silent.
She followed.
The bath was a cathedral.
White marble kissed with golden veins. Pools of steaming water that smelled like orchids and sin. The light here glowed from no source, but bathed the air in a sacred warmth.
The woman helped her undress.
No shame. No gaze.
Only ritual.
Martha stepped into the bath.
The water embraced her.
Every muscle relaxed. Her fingers floated. Her breasts rose gently above the surface. Her hair uncoiled like liquid shadow.
She sighed.
A long, deep breath.
Alive.
But deep—buried beneath the warmth, the scent, the care, the peace—she knew.
This was not salvation.
This was preparation.
And from here on...
A drama like no other would unfold.
One of power.
And worship.
One of masks and trials.
Of lust dressed in law.
Of punishment painted in silk.
She leaned back.
Closed her eyes.
And whispered to herself:
"What have I become?"
The water rippled around her.
And somewhere, he watched.
The steam rose like breath from the divine.
Martha leaned against the edge of the bath, her eyes closed, her limbs loosened by the warmth. Her hair clung to her collarbones like strands of ink. She almost—almost—forgot to be afraid.
A gentle splash broke her stillness.
She opened her eyes.
The maid—silent, bronze-skinned, silver-haired—had slipped off her robe and stepped into the water. Her body was sleek, toned, and adorned with strange white tattoos that only revealed themselves when kissed by the heat. Symbols danced down her spine and circled her navel.
She said nothing.
Only knelt behind Martha, and began to wash her.
At first, the cloth in her hand was soft. Careful.
She traced Martha's shoulders, neck, arms—almost tenderly. She lathered her with perfumed oils that made her skin shimmer beneath the water's light.
Then—
A slap.
Soft. Open palm. Just beneath the shoulder blade.
Martha flinched. Turned her head.
Before she could ask—
Another slap.
Harder. On her thigh.
"Wha—?"
The maid said nothing.
Her eyes calm. Her movements fluid.
Slap.
Across the chest.
Slap.
On the other thigh.
Martha gasped.
"Stop—!"
Slap.
To the face.
Not brutal. But humiliating.
Martha's breath quickened. Her hands clenched against the marble. She didn't fight back. She didn't know how.
Slap.
Harder now.
The sound echoed against the marble walls.
Her skin burned—not from pain, but from confusion. From heat. From something she didn't have a name for.
The maid pulled her closer, pressing Martha's back against her front. Her hands slid down across Martha's belly, hips, thighs—slow, commanding.
Martha moaned.
A single, helpless sound.
One hand reached between her legs.
She didn't stop it.
She couldn't.
The fingers moved—soft at first, then in precise rhythm. Her head tilted back against the maid's shoulder, lips parted, breath trembling.
Another slap.
This one across her breast.
And just like that—
She came.
Quick. Harsh. Shuddering.
The sound she made was raw.
Then—nothing.
The maid stood. Stepped out. Her body dripping.
She turned to face Martha.
And smiled.
Unnerving.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just knowing.
She handed her a towel.
***
The great hall was lined with glass columns filled with shifting mist. Every wall breathed. Candles floated mid-air in uneven patterns, casting soft golden halos that didn't flicker.
Martha stood in a long, silky black dress that clung to her form like breath.
The five women surrounded her.
Each cloaked in different shades—white, crimson, obsidian, gold, violet.
They moved in a slow circle, hands trailing as they passed, brushing her shoulders, her cheeks, her hips.
The one in red spoke first:
"You are not a guest here."
The one in white followed:
"You are not a prisoner."
The one in gold leaned in:
"You are a chosen tether."
Then violet:
"You will learn silence."
Obsidian:
"You will learn stillness."
Red again:
"You will learn to see."
They stopped in front of her.
"From this day, you will serve the rhythm of thecastle. You will obey the Will. You will surrender not in body alone,but in memory, in voice, in soul."
Then—unison:
"You will not ask. You will not beg. You will become."
The one in white extended a tray.
Upon it: a black collar, simple and unadorned.
No chain.
Just the symbol—an abstract eye carved into its center.
Martha stared.
Her hands didn't move.
But her body did.
Her neck lowered.
And the collar was fastened in silence.
Her first day had begun.
The five women stood before her like high priestesses of some secret cult. Each carried the same air of mystery and power, but the one in red—The Red Maid—held the room.
Her robe, tight at the waist, flowed behind her like the hem of a battle flag. Her eyes were sharp, the red of wine left too long in a goblet. Her lips, painted the shade of dried roses, curled into a smile too graceful to trust.
She raised one hand.
And with a single clap, soft but final—everything stopped.
"First, a meal," she said, her voice gentle butbarbed with authority.
She turned slowly, circling Martha.
"Afterwards, the White Maid will guide you to the Maze.A small test awaits. You are His Will now—but even HisWill must bleed its truth. That still comes with a cost."
She leaned closer, her fingers brushing under Martha's chin—then lifting it.
"Off with you."
She turned. Walked. The others followed her like petals carried by wind, except the White Maid, who remained.
White silk over white skin, her presence was cool, almost soft—but her eyes told a different story. Amusement danced there. She bowed slightly to Martha and gestured toward the corridor.
Martha followed.
The dining room was lush but unsettling.
Massive, round. The ceiling arched high like a chapel, and in the center stood a table made of dark, smooth stone, carved in spirals and symbols.
Only one place was set.
Candlelight flickered in silver dishes. A glass of pale red liquid. A plate of what looked like roasted meat—dark, glistening, scented with spice.
Martha hesitated.
The White Maid stood beside her, arms crossed behind her back, lips tugged into a knowing smile.
"Eat," she said softly.
Martha sat.
The moment her fingers touched the silverware, she felt her pulse pick up. The scent of the food teased her hunger.
She cut a slice.
Brought it to her lips.
Chewed slowly.
It was rich. Tender. Strangely familiar.
Then—
"Funny," said the White Maid, casually walking behindher."That might be the skin of one of the children youwatched get dismembered."
Martha froze.
Her body reacted before her mind caught up.
She dropped the fork.
Bent over.
Vomited.
The bile splashed across the floor in a warm stream.
She gasped, wiping her mouth, tears brimming again.
The White Maid chuckled softly. Stepped closer.
Bent beside her.
Her voice, low and smooth:
"I'm joking. Of course."
She lifted Martha's chin with two fingers, nails cold against her skin.
"But remember this: comfort is not yours to claim. Notyet. You are a flea, my dear. You'll earn your form—orbe crushed under the weight of His shadow."
She helped Martha sit back up.
"Now clean yourself. The Maze waits."
The corridor to the Maze was long, hushed by velvet tapestries that brushed Martha's skin as she walked. Her bare feet touched stone that shifted warmth with each step—sometimes cool, sometimes flush with heat, as though the castle itself were alive and watching.
The White Maid led her without a word, her movement fluid, hands folded behind her back like she'd guided a thousand before Martha.
They stopped before an arched door.
Unadorned.
But humming.
Its surface rippled faintly, like breath behind glass.
"This is the Maze," the White Maid said, softly. "Thefirst turn of many. You will not be followed. You will not berescued."
She turned to Martha, brushing something from her shoulder that wasn't there.
"The only rules are these: Move forward. Don't speakunless spoken to. And if He speaks to you—listen."
With that, the White Maid vanished into shadow, swallowed by the corridor.
And the door opened on its own.
Martha stepped into darkness.
Not a void.
A construct.
Stone walls. Damp. Endless. Twisting.
Torches lined the path—but only lit one step ahead at a time, as though the Maze demanded her present fully.
She walked.
The walls breathed.
The ground pulsed.
At first, it was just corridors.
Left. Right. Forward. Endless choices that felt like none.
Then—
The whispers began.
Not behind her.
Inside her.
"She let us die.""She loved the pain.""She wants to be used."
Martha clutched her arms, trembling.
She turned a corner—and the Maze changed.
Memory.
A street corner.
Familiar.
Too real.
Rain falling.
A little boy tugging her sleeve—dirty, wide-eyed.
She remembered this.
She had walked away that day.
Now, she stood again in the same moment, reliving it—but this time, frozen in place.
The boy screamed.
Blood sprayed from an invisible wound.
Martha fell to her knees.
"Why didn't you save me?"
The illusion shattered.
Stone again.
Dark. Cold.
She ran.
The next chamber bloomed wide.
A mirror room.
Dozens of reflections—all wrong.
Some of her naked and bleeding.
Some smiling while crying.
Some chained. Some pregnant. Some laughing as they were whipped.
All her.
They moved even when she didn't.
She reached for the nearest one.
It whispered—
"He watches. Even here."
Suddenly, all the mirrors cracked.
The sound rang in her skull like bells made of bone.
She collapsed.
Then—
Stillness.
She sat alone in a small square space.
Stone. Wet. Unmoving.
A single torch flickered.
And from the flame, a voice.
His voice.
Soft.
Stern.
Velvet dipped in thunder.
"You cried at your meal, little one."
Her breath caught.
The flame dimmed.
"You gagged at a joke, but moaned in a bath. Is painnot also pleasure? Is shame not also appetite?"
She couldn't answer.
She just trembled.
The voice grew closer.
Wrapped around her neck like fingers.
"You are mine. But even mine must bleed willingly."
Then—silence.
The door ahead opened.
The Maze was over.
Or paused.
Martha stumbled forward.
Not broken.
Not whole.
Changed.