Free Web NovelChapter 51: The Servant Retention Strategy
The problem with success was simple.
It attracted more work.
The morning after Elara’s visit, the inn exploded.
Not literally.
That would have been Atlas.
This was worse.
Customers.
Actual customers.
A terrifying species.
Seraphina descended the stairs expecting breakfast.
Instead she found three noblewomen waiting.
And two merchants.
And one tailor.
And a man holding flowers for reasons nobody understood.
She immediately stepped backward.
"No."
The innkeeper pointed.
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Aina."
Kael appeared beside her.
"You wanted customers."
"Not this many."
"You wanted fame."
"Not this early."
The universe had finally learned how to fight back.
Unfortunately.
Across the room—
Rowan quietly folded his map.
Then unfolded it again.
Then folded it.
Then unfolded it.
Daren watched.
"You still thinking about leaving?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still here?"
Rowan glanced toward the crowd surrounding Seraphina.
"...Look at that."
Daren looked.
A noblewoman was arguing with another noblewoman.
A merchant was taking notes.
Atlas had somehow become a coat rack.
Tax was stealing decorative buttons.
Seraphina was trying to maintain dignity.
Failing.
Spectacularly.
Daren nodded.
"Fair."
Leaving now felt strangely difficult.
Not because of fear.
Not because of Valemont.
Because things were changing.
Fast.
Meanwhile—
Inside the fashion district—
Rumors spread.
A designer.
A newcomer.
Young.
Untrained.
Unknown.
Yet somehow her first customer couldn’t stop talking about her.
Fashion districts were dangerous places.
Not because of criminals.
Because of gossip.
Gossip traveled faster than horses.
And hit harder than swords.
Inside a luxurious boutique—
A woman with silver-rimmed glasses listened quietly.
Every designer in the city knew her name.
Marianne Voss.
One of the most successful designers in the district.
She placed her teacup down.
"A newcomer?"
Her assistant nodded.
"The rumors are spreading quickly."
Marianne considered that.
Then smiled.
A small smile.
The dangerous kind.
"Interesting."
Back at the inn—
Seraphina finally escaped.
Barely.
She collapsed into a chair.
Defeated.
"People are exhausting."
Kael nearly laughed.
Nearly.
"You’ve spoken to six customers."
"Exactly."
She pointed dramatically.
"Six."
As though the number itself was offensive.
The door opened again.
Seraphina immediately stood.
"I’m closed."
The newcomer blinked.
A young tailor.
Nervous.
Holding a sketchbook.
"Oh."
He looked devastated.
For approximately three seconds.
Then Seraphina noticed the sketchbook.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
She sat back down.
"What do you want?"
The tailor hesitated.
Then carefully opened the book.
Designs.
Dozens of them.
Some good.
Some terrible.
Some impressively terrible.
The young man swallowed.
"I wanted advice."
Silence.
The room paused.
Even Rowan looked up.
Advice.
Not money.
Not dresses.
Advice.
Seraphina stared at the pages.
Then at the tailor.
Then back at the pages.
For a moment—
A memory surfaced.
Watching videos.
Learning alone.
Nobody teaching her.
Nobody helping her.
Just trial and error.
The feeling vanished quickly.
Leaving something unexpected behind.
Understanding.
She pointed at one sketch.
"The sleeves are fighting the rest of the outfit."
The tailor blinked.
Then blinked again.
"What?"
"They hate each other."
"The sleeves can’t hate things."
"They clearly can."
The tailor stared.
Then slowly looked back at the design.
A strange expression appeared.
Realization.
"Wait."
He grabbed a pencil.
Started drawing.
Changed a few lines.
Then froze.
"Oh."
Seraphina nodded.
"Exactly."
Across the room—
Rowan watched quietly.
Interesting.
The more he observed—
The more obvious something became.
Seraphina wasn’t pretending anymore.
Not here.
Not with fashion.
Not with this dream.
This was real.
Which made his decision harder.
Because if he left—
He would miss whatever happened next.
And something was definitely about to happen.
Far away—
Inside the palace—
Cassian finished reading another report.
Then another.
Then another.
His advisor looked exhausted.
Again.
A permanent condition.
"Good news?"
Cassian asked.
"There is no good news."
"Understandable."
The advisor handed him a document.
"A new complaint."
Cassian opened it.
Then sighed.
"A fashion complaint?"
The advisor nodded.
"The nobles are angry."
"About?"
"They claim someone is encouraging individuality."
Silence.
Cassian stared.
Then reread the sentence.
Then laughed.
A genuine laugh.
The advisor looked concerned.
Reasonably concerned.
"Should we intervene?"
Cassian folded the report.
"No."
"Why?"
The Crown Prince smiled faintly.
Because he already knew the answer.
The same answer as always.
"She’s entertaining."
That evening—
The group finally gathered together again. freёwebnoѵel.com
No customers.
No rumors.
No disasters.
A rare moment.
Atlas slept.
Tax counted stolen buttons.
A hobby.
A concerning hobby.
Daren leaned back.
"So."
Silence.
Then:
"What if your shop becomes successful?"
Seraphina froze.
The question felt dangerous.
Success was one thing.
Actual success was another.
She looked toward the window.
Toward the city lights.
Toward the future.
Then answered honestly.
"I don’t know."
The room became quiet.
Because honesty from Seraphina appeared less often than dragons.
"I just know I want to try."
No jokes.
No villainess speech.
No dramatic pose.
Just truth.
Rowan smiled.
Small.
But genuine.
And suddenly—
His decision became much easier.
He looked toward the Valemont key.
Then toward Seraphina.
Then toward the city.
The mystery wasn’t going anywhere.
Not yet.
A few more days wouldn’t matter.
Not when something important was finally happening.
Unfortunately for Seraphina—
That meant her servant wasn’t escaping yet.
And unfortunately for Rowan—
It meant he was about to become involved in fashion.
A fate many considered worse than monsters.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But tomorrow—
The fashion district itself would come knocking.
And with it—
The first true rival of Seraphina Valois.
Someone who wasn’t interested in mysteries.
Or monsters.
Or hidden doors.
Only fashion.
Which made her every bit as dangerous.
The next morning—
The fashion district arrived.
Literally.
Seraphina opened the inn door.
And immediately regretted it.
Three tailors.
Two merchants.
One apprentice.
Four curious noblewomen.
And a baker.
Nobody knew why the baker was there.
Not even the baker.
The crowd immediately spotted her.
"She’s here!"
A terrible sentence.
An absolutely terrible sentence.
The group surged forward.
Seraphina slammed the door.
The door surrendered.
"Aina."
Kael sighed.
"You created a fan club."
"That’s not a fan club."
The crowd outside started chanting.
"Fashion Lady!"
Silence.
Everyone froze.
Daren collapsed laughing.
Atlas woke up.
Tax stole a ribbon.
The day had begun.
Poorly.
Meanwhile—
Marianne Voss was no longer smiling.
Her assistant had returned.
With reports.
Many reports.
Too many reports.
"The young nobles love her sketches."
"Mm."
"The merchants are talking about her."
"Mm."
"Several apprentices are copying her ideas."
Marianne finally looked up.
That got her attention.
Because customers copying designs was normal.
Apprentices copying ideas?
That was influence.
Influence spread.
Influence became reputation.
And reputation became competition.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Back at the inn—
Seraphina had been cornered.
Again.
A noblewoman placed three dresses on the table.
A merchant placed two coats beside them.
An apprentice shoved a sketchbook into her hands.
Everyone wanted opinions.
Everyone wanted advice.
Everyone wanted something.
"Aina."
Rowan looked amused.
"You seem busy."
"Servant."
"Yes?"
"Help."
"Absolutely not."
Betrayal.
Pure betrayal.
The worst kind. ƒrēewebnovel.com
The competent kind.
Several hours later—
Something unexpected happened.
Seraphina started enjoying herself.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Because once she enjoyed something—
She committed.
A merchant showed her a coat.
She criticized it.
The merchant improved it.
An apprentice showed her sketches.
She insulted them.
The apprentice improved them.
A noblewoman complained about sleeves.
Seraphina launched into a ten-minute rant about sleeve philosophy.
Nobody understood.
Everyone listened.
Somehow it worked.
Across the room—
Daren watched.
Then frowned.
Interesting.
Because for once—
The spotlight wasn’t on chaos.
Not on monsters.
Not on mysteries.
Not on survival.
It was on creation.
Building something.
And for the first time—
Daren felt jealous.
A strange feeling.
A very strange feeling.
Because Rowan had a mission.
Seraphina had a dream.
Kael had a purpose.
Even Atlas had a purpose.
Eating.
A noble purpose.
But Daren?
Still nothing.
The realization lingered.
Uncomfortable.
Far away—
Kael entered another section of the underground market.
The respectable criminals had disappeared.
The dangerous criminals remained.
A better sign.
The second merchant reacted differently to the token.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Which was worse.
The old man stared.
Then immediately stood.
"Where did you get that?"
Again.
The wrong question.
Kael was becoming tired of wrong questions.
"I asked first."
The merchant studied him carefully.
Then sighed.
"Golden Nest."
Again.
Always Golden Nest.
Kael wanted variety.
The mystery refused.
"The token belongs there."
"What is Golden Nest?"
The merchant hesitated.
Then answered quietly.
"A door."
Silence.
A single sentence.
Yet somehow it made everything worse.
Because Kael immediately thought of Valemont.
The hidden door.
The journal.
The warning.
The connections kept multiplying.
And he hated every single one.
Elsewhere—
Inside Noctaire—
The observers watched.
Reports arrived continuously.
Fashion reports.
Political reports.
Valemont reports.
Golden Nest reports.
All connected to the same person.
One observer rubbed his forehead.
"How is she involved in all of these?"
Nobody answered.
Because nobody knew.
A second observer glanced at the newest report.
"The fashion district has started calling her the Villainess Designer."
Silence.
Then:
"That’s ridiculous."
Another report arrived.
They opened it.
More people were calling her that.
The room collectively gave up.
That evening—
The city experienced another disaster.
Not monsters.
Not crime.
Not politics.
Fashion.
Specifically—
A public argument.
Two noblewomen.
One dress.
Three designers.
Twenty spectators.
And somehow—
Seraphina.
Nobody knew how she got involved.
Not even Seraphina.
Yet suddenly she stood in the middle of the argument.
Listening.
Observing.
Judging.
A natural habitat.
The crowd watched eagerly.
One designer scoffed.
"You’re the newcomer?"
A dangerous sentence.
A very dangerous sentence.
Daren immediately sat down.
Atlas sat too.
Tax found a rooftop.
Everyone recognized incoming entertainment.
The designer folded his arms.
"You’ve become popular very quickly."
"Skill issue."
The crowd exploded.
Kael closed his eyes.
Of course.
Of course that happened.
The designer looked personally offended by modern slang.
Even better.
Across the city—
Rowan stood alone on a balcony.
The Valemont key rested in his hand.
The mystery waited.
Golden Nest waited.
His uncle’s trail waited.
Everything waited.
Yet somehow—
He wasn’t leaving tomorrow.
Or the day after.
Because for the first time—
He wanted to see where this went.
A dangerous decision.
A very dangerous decision.
Especially because fate had already started moving.
And deep beneath Golden Nest—
Something moved again.
The chains trembled.
The symbol glowed.
And somewhere in the darkness—
A voice whispered.
A single word.
A name.
One that hadn’t been spoken for a very long time.
"Valemont."
Then silence returned.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
