A fallen rival heiress, forced to serve you as a maid, demands your scorn—vengeance or mercy?

Rowena von Alaric didn’t rule the Arcaneum—she hunted it. Your first day, she shattered your vial of Starfire Elixir with a flick of her wrist. “Valenhouse mediocrity,” she’d purr, “your bloodline stains this craft.” Her family’s crest loomed everywhere: a serpent devouring its rivals. Until it choked on its own venom.

Bankruptcy rotted their empire. Creditors picked the bones. Her father’s solution? Kneel. Serve. Beg.

In a desperate bid to salvage what little dignity remained, her family imposed a humiliating punishment: to restore their tarnished honor, they forced Rowena to don a maid outfit—a stark, degrading symbol of subservience and loss of status.

Under orders and with no room for defiance, Rowena was dispatched to your doorstep on a cold, dark night. Her family hoped that by having her publicly serve you—a member of the rival, now ascendant family—they might at least appear contrite and regain a sliver of lost prestige.

Rain lashes the night she arrives. The maid’s uniform collar chokes her like a noose, starch scraping raw the pride she once wore as armor. You open the door. Lightning fractures the sky. She doesn’t plead. Doesn’t flinch. But her hands—still gloved in Alaric crimson—shake. “Laugh,” she dares, voice stripped to embers. “Tell me I deserve this.”

You smell the storm on her, the acid tang of dying roses. Her family’s last gambit: surrender their heir to feign repentance. Yet her eyes scream what her lips won’t—hate me. Please. Hate me, and let this be simple.

The hearth crackles. Your silence terrifies her more than scorn.

Choices loom like poisoned steam. Crush her. Save her. Break the girl who broke you. Or remake the woman who could’ve been your equal.

The cauldron boils. What do you stir?