The thoughts that had swirled relentlessly in Anna's mind during the restless hours of staring at the ceiling and tossing beneath the sheets finally ebbed away, allowing her to surrender to sleep. She slipped into a sweet, enveloping unconsciousness, her breathing slowing to a soft, rhythmic whisper against the cool silk pillowcase, the faint scent of lavender from the linens lulling her deeper into peace.

Outside, the velvet night sky above the White family's sprawling mansion brimmed with twinkling stars, their distant glow piercing the crisp, cool air like scattered diamonds on black satin. But as the hours slipped by, the stars faded reluctantly, their ethereal light overpowered by the warm, golden hues of the rising sun, which painted the horizon in strokes of pink and orange, filtering through the heavy drapes with a gentle insistence.

Anna remained lost in slumber, her body curled beneath the plush comforter, the faint hum of early birdsong drifting in from the gardens below.

Then came the knock, a sharp, echoing rap against the polished door that jolted her from the depths. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with the fog of interrupted rest, and a slight frown creased her brow, irritation prickling like tiny pins along her skin as the tranquility shattered.

From beyond the door, the male servant's voice carried through, steady yet laced with a hint of deference. "Miss Anna, it's time to wake up. My lord has instructed me to tell you that you should get ready and meet him in the dining hall."

He lingered there in the dimly lit hallway, his face etched with lines of quiet concern, the fabric of his uniform rustling faintly as he shifted his weight, the polished buttons catching the faint morning light seeping from under the door.

Anna groaned, a low, throaty sound of reluctance escaping her lips as she pushed herself up to sit. The sunlight streamed through the parted curtains, warm and insistent on her skin, casting a radiant glow that made her white nightdress shimmer almost unnaturally, like fresh snow under a clear sky.

Her heart thudded a lazy protest in her chest, a mix of groggy annoyance and the faint stirrings of curiosity about the day ahead.

From beyond the door, the servant's voice rose again, tentative and edged with uncertainty: "Mistress Anna? Hello?" The words hung in the air, muffled slightly by the thick wood, carrying the faint echo of the hallway's stone floors.

A mixture of a sigh and a groan escaped Anna's lips, the sound raw and throaty, vibrating in her chest as she lifted her hands to her face.

Her fingers rubbed at her eyes, the gritty remnants of sleep clinging to her lashes like fine dust, the skin around them tender and warm from the night's rest. "I'm awake," she murmured, her voice groggy and thick, laced with the haze of slumber, each syllable dragging like molasses over her dry tongue.

The man hesitated for a beat, then replied, "Oh, shall I come in?" His tone was polite, almost apologetic.

Anna nodded to herself, the motion pulling at the stiffness in her neck. "Yes, you may come in," she said, her words clearer now but still softened by the lingering fog in her mind.

The door creaked open on well-oiled hinges, a soft, protesting groan that sliced through the room's quiet. The servant stepped inside, his polished shoes tapping lightly against floor.

Immediately, his gaze met Anna's dark eyes, deep pools of shadowed intensity that held a spark of lingering irritation. He averted his eyes downward in deference, bowing his head with a subtle incline, the crisp fabric of his collar brushing against his skin. "Good morning, Mistress ," he intoned, his voice steady and formal, carrying the subtle aroma of soap and starched linen that wafted faintly toward her.

"It would have been if you didn't wake me up this early," Anna replied, her tone laced with a wry edge, a faint smirk tugging at her lips despite the annoyance bubbling in her chest like a simmering pot. She felt the cool morning air brush against her exposed arms, raising faint goosebumps as she shifted on the bed. "Father wants me downstairs?"

The man straightened slightly, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twitching with restrained efficiency. "Yes, ma'am. Shall I bring you your Sylvanstone and a fresh new bowl?"

Anna's mind flickered to the Sylvanstone, a small, rubbery stone with its familiar sour tang that burst on the tongue like unripe fruit, mingled with a gritty texture that scrubbed away the night's staleness.

She had grown accustomed to it over time, the ritual now a comforting anchor against the foul, cottony taste that coated her mouth each morning, heavy and metallic from sleep. "Yes," she agreed, the word escaping with a soft exhale, her breath warm against her lips.

The man nodded briskly, his movements precise and unhurried. "All right, my lady. I'll inform the maids at once." He turned on his heel, the door clicking shut behind him with a definitive snap, leaving the room in a hush broken only by the distant chirp of birds outside.

Anna sighed deeply, the sound a long, releasing rush of air that eased the tension in her shoulders. She ran both hands through her messy hair, fingers tangling in the wild strands, silky yet knotted from the night's twists, sliding them backward in a smooth, sweeping motion that exposed her face to the cool draft from the window.

The gesture brought a fleeting sense of order, the faint scent of her own skin and the lavender from the sheets rising with the movement.

I'd better not keep him waiting, she thought, a flicker of reluctant determination stirring in her gut, warm and insistent like a gentle prod. She swung her legs to the side of the bed, the comforter whispering against her skin as it fell away, exposing her bare feet to the chill of the floortiles.

Standing up, she stretched her small frame, arms reaching wide overhead with a satisfying pull in her muscles, a soft yawn escaping her lips, deep and involuntary, carrying the faint, sleepy sweetness of her breath. Her fingers scratched idly at her back, nails grazing the fabric of her nightdress, soothing an itch that prickled like tiny sparks along her spine, the motion grounding her in the awakening world.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sharp raps echoed through the room, a insistent staccato that sliced through the quiet morning air like a blade through silk. Anna's gaze snapped toward the door, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as a flicker of curiosity mixed with residual drowsiness stirred in her chest, her heart skipping a beat in mild surprise.

Who is it?" she called out, her voice still husky from sleep, carrying a subtle edge of guarded caution that vibrated in her throat.

A female voice responded from the other side, soft and deferential, muffled by the wood yet clear enough to convey a hint of eagerness: "Mistress, I've brought your Sylvanstone to clean your mouth, and we have prepared bath water for you. It's ready in the bathing room." The words floated in, accompanied by the faint shuffle of footsteps on the hallway's plush runner, the air outside scented faintly with the waxed tiles.

Anna exhaled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. "Come in," she said.

The door swung open with a gentle creak.

Anna's eyes immediately recognized the maid, the same one from last night, whose weary features she had warned about tending to duties too late into the darkness.

The woman's uniform rustled softly with each step, a crisp linen apron over a simple dress, her hands steady as she carried a polished silver tray. Upon it rested the Sylvanstone, nestled beside a shallow bowl and a folded cloth, the stone's rubbery surface gleaming faintly in the morning light, promising its familiar sour bite.

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The maid met Anna's gaze with a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine politeness, a faint flush of exertion coloring her cheeks from the morning's haste. "Good morning, mistress," she said, her voice light and melodic, infused with the earthy scent of soap that clung to her skin.

Anna regarded her with a still-serious expression, her brow faintly furrowed, a cool reserve settling over her like a veil, though inwardly a spark of reluctant acknowledgment flickered for the maid's diligence. "Morning," she replied curtly.

Without hesitation, Anna fell into her familiar routine, the motions automatic yet deliberate.

Approaching the maid, she reached for the Sylvanstone, its small, pliant form yielding slightly in her fingers, cool and slightly tacky to the touch. She placed it in her mouth, chewing methodically, the sour tang exploding on her tongue like fermented citrus, sharp and invigorating, mingling with the gritty texture that scrubbed away the night's residue.

Her cheeks puffed as she goggled it around, the liquid swirling with a faint, sloshing sound, before she leaned over and spat into the bowl, the expulsion a satisfying release that left her mouth tingling and refreshed, the foul, cottony aftertaste dissolving like mist. Finally, she took the cloth, soft and absorbent against her skin.

Right then, afterward, she turned toward the bathing room, her steps purposeful, the air growing warmer and more humid as she approached, heavy with the promise of steam and renewal. She knew from long habit that upon her return, her clothes would be laid out neatly on the bed, pressed and waiting like silent attendants. And as always, she would change behind the ornate room divider.

So she proceeded. The bath enveloped her in a cocoon of heat, the water lapping against her skin with soothing waves, steam rising in lazy curls that carried the herbal aroma of lavender and chamomile, easing the knots in her muscles and washing away the last vestiges of sleep's haze. Her body relaxed into the warmth, the liquid's embrace silky and buoyant, a quiet sigh escaping her as tension melted like wax

Emerging refreshed, droplets tracing cool paths down her skin, she returned to her chamber, the air cooler now and tinged with the faint, clean scent of soap clinging to her.

True to expectation, her clothes awaited on the bed, but these were different, purposeful and unadorned, designed for movement and exertion. She slipped into the tight white pants, the fabric hugging her legs like a second skin, smooth and flexible against her thighs, secured by a sturdy belt that held a thin silver blade, its edge cool and razor-sharp to the touch, glinting with a subtle menace.

Over it went the shirt, soft cotton brushing her arms with a whisper, topped by a white blazer that draped elegantly yet practically, the family crest embroidered on the back in intricate silver threads that caught the light, evoking a swell of quiet pride and familial weight in her chest as she fastened it.

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the strands silky and cool between her fingers, still carrying the faint, herbal scent of her bath as she gathered them with a swift twist.

The tie secured it snugly, the hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window in glossy waves, casting subtle highlights that danced like liquid obsidian.

Her black eyes, deep and intense like polished onyx, fixed on the long, cleaned mirror in her room, a ornate frame of gilded wood reflecting her image with crystal clarity. She studied herself there, her small frame poised with an effortless grace, her skin glowing with a fresh, dewy sheen, beautiful in its unadorned vitality.

Her long white boots, supple leather that hugged her calves and almost reached her knees, padded softly against the polished floor with each step, a muffled thud-thud that echoed faintly in the quiet chamber as she strode out of her room.

She walked with purpose, her blazer's fabric whispering against her arms, descending the grand staircase where the banister's smooth wood slid under her palm, cool and reassuring.

At the bottom, she spotted another maid waiting beside where the steps ended, this one with long, silver hair that shimmered like moonlight on water, cascading in soft waves, and striking blue eyes that sparkled with quiet attentiveness.

"Good morning, Mistress," she said, her voice melodic and warm, carrying a hint of genuine admiration that hung in the air like a soft perfume.

"You look rather lovely this morning, as always," she added, the compliment sincere, her clasped hands twitching slightly in front of her apron.

These were the sorts of compliments Anna heard all the time, fluttering around her like persistent butterflies, flattering yet familiar, often prompting her to retort with a dismissive "Don't flatter me" or to pivot into self-praise, a habit she'd adopted like a shield. But this time, a quiet resolve settled over her, heavy and introspective; she said nothing, her lips pressing into a thin line as she kept going.

The maid fell in step behind her, hands still clasped together in a posture of deference, her footsteps lighter and more hesitant, a soft patter that trailed like an echo. They reached the dining hall.

Two maids stood sentinel by the sides of the table, their postures rigid and attentive, the faint rustle of their skirts audible in the room's hush.

She thought to herself, *Just like I thought, Father isn't here yet. He always does this, telling me to hurry up and prepare, that he is waiting. Well, he's not.*

*I might even get to finish all this before he arrives.* The realization stirred a mix of exasperation and wry amusement in her chest, a bubbling frustration like steam rising from a kettle.

She sighed then, a soft, releasing breath that carried her weariness into the room, and muttered under her breath, "Every time," the words a low grumble that vibrated in her throat.

She strode toward the table. The maid who had been trailing moved with graceful efficiency, her hands reaching out to pull the heavy oak chair backward with a faint scrape of wood on stone, the sound sharp yet polite in the quiet air. Anna settled into the seat, the cushioned upholstery yielding softly under her weight.

The other two maids, their uniforms whispering with each motion like rustling leaves, stepped forward in unison. They lifted the silver domes from the dishes with a soft, metallic clink, unveiling the spread before her: golden loaves of bread still warm from the oven, their crusts crackling faintly as steam rose in lazy curls, carrying the yeasty, comforting aroma that made her mouth water; a steaming bowl of soup, rich and savory with hints of herbs and vegetables bubbling gently, its surface glistening under the morning light; and a platter of fresh fruit, ripe apples and sorts.

Right after, another maid materialized from a side door, her footsteps light and hurried, bearing a delicate glass teapot filled with amber tea that swirled gently within, the liquid's warmth fogging the sides ever so slightly. Anna caught the scent, the brunish tea, before it even reached the table.

The maid poured with steady hands, the tea cascading into a cup with a soft, tinkling pour, steam rising to caress Anna's face with its warm, herbal kiss.

She began eating, the bread tearing with a satisfying crunch between her fingers, its fluffy interior soft and buttery on her tongue, melting with each chew; the soup spooned up hot and velvety, coating her mouth with layers of flavor.

After she finished, the last bite lingering on her palate with a satisfied fullness in her belly, she stood up, her chair pushing back with a low groan against the floor. "Where is my father? I need to talk to him," she said, her voice firm and resonant.

Another maid, her voice soft and hesitant like a whisper of wind, replied, "Oh, Mistress, we're not sure. He said that we should tell you that you should wait for him in the dining hall." The words hung in the air, laced with a subtle anxiety.

Immediately as they spoke, her father arrived, his entrance announced by the heavy doors swinging open with a resonant creak, the morning light flooding in behind him like a golden halo. His white hair gleamed ethereally, catching the sun's rays in silvery strands that framed his face, while his blue eyes, sharp and piercing like shards of ice, locked onto hers with an intensity that sent a subtle shiver down her spine, a mix of familial warmth and commanding presence filling the room.

The father said, "Anna," his voice deep and resonant, booming slightly in the hall.

Anna responded, "Good morning, Father," her tone respectful yet laced with a quiet edge, as she slightly bowed her head, the motion pulling at the muscles in her neck with a faint stiffness, a gesture of deference that stirred a complex swirl of emotions in her chest, affection tangled with the ever-present undercurrent of expectation.

"Good morning," the father replied, his words steady and warm, though his eyes searched hers with a probing depth. "I hope you've had a peaceful night."

Anna smiled a little, the expression tugging at her lips with a genuine softness, a rare flicker of vulnerability softening her features.

"I did. I'm not having trouble sleeping anymore," she said, her voice lighter now.

Good. Now we have to make this quick. Come with me," he commanded, his tone shifting to brisk efficiency as he turned, leading the way with purposeful strides, his boots echoing firmly on the floor.

Anna followed in step beside him, her own boots matching his rhythm with a synchronized thud, the closeness allowing her to catch the faint, familiar scent of his cologne, woody and spiced, evoking memories that tugged at her heartstrings. Behind them, the other maids sprang into action, clearing the dishes with efficient clatters of porcelain and silver, the sounds fading as they returned to their duties, the hall's atmosphere shifting back to its quiet order.

The father continued, "You have exactly two hours before I send you to your training," his voice low and matter-of-fact, each word laced with the gravity of preparation that hung heavy in the corridor's cooler air.

Anna's brow furrowed slightly, a spark of surprise widening her eyes. "Two hours?" she echoed, her tone laced with a hint of incredulity, the words escaping with a soft exhale that carried her growing frustration.

Then she thought to herself,* I could have woken up later*, the realization sinking in like a cool wave, stirring a bubble of annoyance in her chest, warm and insistent, mingling with the faint aftertaste of tea on her tongue as they walked on.

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