Chapter 14
We had four days to make the estate look like it didn't belong to a cursed recluse and her tiny warlord-in-training.
That was, objectively, not a lot of time.
The manor had charm, sure—if you liked "gothic decay with occasional shrieking floorboards." One of the upstairs bedrooms still had vines growing inside the wall. The garden had been claimed by squirrels who formed a suspiciously organized militia. The bannister had teeth marks.
Also, I may have insulted a local priest last year and now the front gates squeaked like they were haunted.
Still. Four days. Kael Vire was coming, and if I was going to lie about having my life together, I had to make it look like it wouldn't collapse under his boots.
I started with the basics: illusion of luxury, presence of order, and wine. Always wine.
I bribed a traveling bard to play cheerful songs in the orchard during daylight hours. I didn't care what they played as long as it wasn't tragic, cursed, or involved any prophecies. I specifically banned any ballads with the words "ashes," "fate," or "the last light."
They played lute medleys. Birds started returning by the second day. I called it a victory.
Then I hired a maid from the next town over. Her only job was to polish the silver and say "Yes, my lady," every fifteen minutes to maintain the illusion that I had staff. It was a morale boost—for me. I liked being addressed like someone whose roof didn't leak during magical windstorms.
I also ordered three crates of expensive wine from a region that hadn't caught fire yet. That detail felt important.
Kellan, gods bless him, ran the cleaning like a military campaign.
He barked orders at the house staff (meaning me, Elias, and one part-time gardener named Garvin) with a vigor I hadn't seen since I adopted Elias.
He even made charts.
"East corridor: dusted. Windows: replaced. Kitchen: operational, mostly. Dining hall: unstable table leg—avoid seat three."
"Understood," I said, pretending I had any control over the furniture's vengeance.
Elias, meanwhile, wandered the halls like an inspecting officer, muttering things that sent shivers down my spine.
"We should've reinforced the windows."
"Did you ever learn any explosive wards?"
"I should've learned poisons."
To his credit, he didn't sound panicked. Just… methodical.
"Why would we need poisons?" I asked one evening.
He looked at me, deadpan. "Contingency."
I stared. "I need you to play outside for thirty minutes. Go pick flowers or something."
He didn't move. "Those are probably cursed."
He wasn't wrong.
On the third night, I sat in the parlor, half-asleep and still holding a clipboard. A clipboard. I'd never used one before transmigrating here. Now it was my closest friend.
Elias came in, barefoot and frowning.
"You've been working for sixteen hours," he said.
"Correction. I took a break for tea. So technically, fifteen and a half."
"You're overcompensating."
"Yes, thank you, therapist Elias."
He folded his arms. "He won't care about flowers or silverware. If he's as smart as you say, he'll know this is all staged."
I looked at him.
"That's exactly the point," I said. "I want him to see the staging. I want him to know I'm willing to bluff. That I can bluff well. If I can keep up the illusion for four days, maybe he'll believe I can survive next to him."
Elias studied me a second longer. Then nodded, once.
"Okay."
By the fourth morning, the estate smelled like fresh bread, lavender polish, and desperation.
The bannisters were fixed. The guest wing was cleaned. The cursed mirror in the west hall was temporarily removed and buried. The soup pot had been retired—Elias had named it Gregory and insisted it had opinions, which was my breaking point.
Everything was ready.
Almost.
I stood by the window and watched the road.
"He's coming," I whispered.
The words felt like an invocation. A spell. A dare.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, something answered.
.
.
.
.
.
End of Chapter 14