The Cursed Extra-Chapter 92: [2.40] My Maid Offered to Murder Someone and I’m Not Sure How to Feel About That

Chapter 92: [2.40] My Maid Offered to Murder Someone and I’m Not Sure How to Feel About That

"Loyalty is a weapon. Point it carefully."

***

The candles in Room 247 had burned down to stubs. Wax pooled on the wooden desk like it was trying to escape. Shadows moved across the stone walls, and my modest chamber looked less like a dormitory and more like the lair of someone planning crimes.

Which, fair.

Parchments covered nearly every surface. Diagrams. Notes. The kind of obsessive documentation that would make any investigating officer very concerned about my mental state.

Lyra moved through the space like she was performing some kind of sacred ritual. Each fold of fabric deliberate. Each motion careful. She’d spread my sparring clothes across the narrow bed. Plain linen shirt with fraying cuffs. Reinforced leather jerkin worn soft at the edges. Simple breeches faded from too many washings.

Nothing that would suggest House Leone had money. Because we didn’t.

To anyone watching, these were the threadbare garments of a forgotten third son preparing for another public disgrace. Clothes that whispered of neglect. Of a family that had given up on their weakest member long before he entered the academy.

Perfect.

But Lyra’s hands trembled as she smoothed invisible wrinkles. Her fingertips lingered on each piece like she was touching holy relics. She checked the stitching along the jerkin’s seams, making mental notes about where to reinforce them before morning.

I sat hunched at my desk, quill scratching across parchment. Notes. Anatomical diagrams. Probability calculations. The weapons of someone who couldn’t actually fight and had to rely on his brain to not die horribly.

"Master."

Her voice sliced through the silence. Cold. Absolute. The kind of tone that made you check if there was a knife nearby and whose hand it might end up in.

My quill stopped mid-stroke. Ink bled into the parchment, ruining hours of careful work. I didn’t turn, but I gave her my full attention. She’d earned that much.

"Your plan is a masterpiece beyond compare."

She sank to her knees beside my chair. Black hair cascaded around her shoulders like a mourning veil, pooling on the cold stone floor. Her crimson eyes never left my profile. Memorizing. Always memorizing.

That’s... intense.

"Every contingency accounted for. Every reaction predicted. Every outcome shaped to your will." Her voice stayed level. Reverent. "Truly magnificent."

I stayed silent. Waiting. I knew her well enough to sense there was more coming.

The candle nearest to us sputtered. Shadows danced across my face. Probably looked dramatic. Probably looked like exactly the kind of mysterious mastermind figure she’d convinced herself I was.

I’m really not, Lyra. I’m just a guy who read the original novel and is desperately trying not to die.

"But this..." She gestured toward the sparring clothes. Toward the scattered drawings. "This is a flaw. A needless blemish on otherwise perfect design."

Now I turned. Met those crimson eyes with what I hoped looked like genuine consideration rather than mild concern about where this was going.

"Your body is a sacred vessel." Each word fell like a stone into still water. "The ark that carries your divine will through this world. It must not be sullied by unworthy hands."

Okay. That’s very dramatic.

Her head bowed deeply. Raven hair spilled across the floor like an offering. The cold stone had to be uncomfortable against her knees, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

When she spoke again, her voice held terrible finality.

"Give me the word, and he will not wake to see the morning sun."

Wow.

I set down my quill and studied the woman kneeling beside my chair.

Three weeks ago, Lyra had been a kitchen maid facing execution for a crime she didn’t commit. A convenient scapegoat for a butler’s theft. Destined to swing from gallows before summer’s end.

Tonight, she knelt offering murder with the ease most people might offer tea.

The transformation should have been disturbing.

It was disturbing.

But watching her crimson eyes burn with that cold fire, I couldn’t regret pulling her from the gallows. The world had created this monster long before I found her. Beaten down. Discarded. Ready to be sacrificed on the altar of noble convenience.

I’d just given purpose to her darkness. Pointed the knife she’d always carried in her heart toward enemies who actually deserved it.

Am I the bad guy here? Probably. At least a little bit.

"Rise." I kept my voice quiet. "Stand beside me."

She moved like smoke. Kneeling to standing without seeming to pass through the space between. No sound. No wasted motion. Just liquid grace that spoke of training far beyond what any kitchen maid should possess.

Her hand rested on the back of my chair. Close enough that I felt warmth from her skin. Close enough to sever my carotid, crush my windpipe, or snap my neck before I could scream.

The trust implicit wasn’t lost on either of us.

It was our covenant. Written in silence. Sealed with blood we’d both spilled.

This is either the smartest thing I’ve ever done or the stupidest. Jury’s still out.

I turned back to my desk and spread the parchments like a general revealing battle plans. Charts. Diagrams. Behavioral analyses. Three days of planning laid bare.

"Look here." I tapped the largest sheet. "Vance Thorne. Level 3 Noble Duelist. Seventeen years old. Heir to House Thorne’s mining fortune. Third in line for succession, first in his father’s estimation."

The profile I’d assembled was thorough. Height. Weight. Preferred fighting stance. Favorite techniques. Psychological triggers. Romantic entanglements. Childhood traumas.

Everything I could glean from observation, rumor, and careful study of the original novel’s supporting cast.

Vance hadn’t warranted more than a few paragraphs in the source material. But those paragraphs told me everything I needed to know.

Lyra leaned closer. Her breath tickled my ear as she studied the documents. Her presence was both comforting and terrifying. A reminder that I’d created something beautiful and deadly that answered only to me.

Which is great until she decides I’m not living up to the image she’s built in her head. Then I’m very, very dead.

"Strengths," I continued, running my finger down the left column. "Superior equipment. His family’s wealth ensures he never wants for enchanted gear. Formal training since age six with the kingdom’s finest sword instructors. Natural athletic ability that puts him in the top twenty percent of his class. Genuine talent for reading opponents and exploiting openings."

My finger moved right.

"Weaknesses. Arrogance bordering on delusion. Predictable fighting style that follows textbook forms. Chronic showboating that prioritizes looking good over actually winning." I tapped the final entry. "And most importantly, a pathological need for validation that makes him desperate to prove himself before audiences."

"He will try to humiliate you," Lyra whispered. Absolute certainty in her voice. "Make a spectacle to elevate his standing."

"Exactly."

I pulled forward another sheet covered in combat analysis. Move trees. Probability assessments. Likely sequences based on his past matches.

"Vance isn’t fighting to win quickly. He’s fighting to make a statement. To prove his superiority." I leaned back in my chair. "Which means he’ll draw it out. Savor it. Play with his food like a cat that doesn’t know its mouse has claws."

And teeth. Small teeth, sure. But teeth.