The fabric of the kimono still slid over my damp skin, heavy and precious, as if it were worth more than I was. It had been tied with care by her fine, methodical, silent hands — the maid with soft steel eyes and feline ears, always there, always at the right distance. She was once again wearing her maid outfit, black and white, tightly fitted to the extreme, almost improper, yet strangely sacred. Here, even obedience wore a corset.
In my room — a space too vast for a single man — the carpets were thicker than a dreamless sleep. The mirrors reflected nothing but the golden light filtered through vivid silk drapes. The air smelled of heated cedar, noble wax, and faded flowers. It felt like a courtroom abandoned by the gods — yet still maintained, just in case.
She helped me change.
As soon as she slid her hands beneath the fabric, I felt her fingers brush against my hips, my still-damp skin. She didn't tremble. I did.
Then she leaned in. Her chest touched my arm.
And not just "touched" — it pressed softly against it, full, heavy, warm through the fabric. Two enormous breasts, squeezed into that maid uniform that hid nothing. I felt as if they were pulsing against me.
My heart skipped a beat. I clenched my jaw. I tried not to look.
Failed.
She knelt before me to tie the belt. Her dress slid up her thighs. No underwear in sight. Just high-cut stockings, and a triangle of shadow at the edge of visibility.
My gaze slipped. My body reacted. Of course it did.
I didn't know where to put my hands. Or my eyes.
Her breath brushed my stomach. I could feel every point of contact, as if my entire body had just been switched on.
— "Stand straight, My Lord," she said calmly.
Easier said than done. My cock was already hard.
A more formal — and infinitely richer — garment had been prepared: layers of midnight red silk embroidered with black gold threads, dragon patterns laced across my chest...
— "You are the only one who wears this mark, My Lord," the maid whispered as she tightened the fabric. "It is only right that you wear the colors of the Source."
I nodded without understanding. The fabric barely breathed against my skin. Even my walk seemed altered by the weight of the clothing.
— "Where are we going?" I finally asked.
She bowed very slightly, never looking at me directly.
— "You asked. So I'm showing you. Follow me."
I had heard their voices earlier, through the door. But upon stepping out — nothing. The hallway was empty. The half-sisters had already gone.
We crossed the corridors of the Central Palace — and every step felt designed to crush an invisible rebellion.
The walls were opalescent white, laced with veins of light. The floor, polished stone, reflected ceilings carved with shifting scenes — feminine figures dancing through interlaced fire and shadow. At each intersection, twisted columns rose, inlaid with natural gems that pulsed to the rhythm of my steps.
Nothing here was normal.
Every detail seemed too perfect. Too deliberate. As if this place hadn't been built, but shaped by a divine… or deranged will.
We kept ascending, always guided by her. Until we reached the top of the palace.
One last door, tall, made of living wood and singing metal, opened with a sigh.
And I saw it.
The suspended garden.
A world-roof above the world.
Immense trees, with ivory-colored trunks and silver foliage, arched overhead. Flowers with translucent petals floated through the air like living fireflies. The ground was a carpet of soft moss, interrupted by clear pools where fish swam without reflections. Warm breezes caressed the leaves. A scent of ripe fruit, warm sugar, and rare tea lingered in the air, with no visible source.
The sky, all around, was an ocean of pink clouds, pierced by the golden light of an eternal sun suspended at the zenith.
I sat down, without thinking, on a carved stone bench. The maid served tea. A pale steam rose, scented with cinnamon and something unknown. Beside it, a tray of delicate items: floral pastries, fruits frozen in honey, bite-sized pieces adorned with gold leaf.
— "What is this place?"
— "The Garden of High Seals," she answered softly. "It belongs only to you."
She stood to my right, motionless.
— "And there… what is that?"
I pointed.
In the distance, suspended in the air like living constellations, floated twelve islands, twelve fragments of paradise, each different, each magnificent and strange. Some bathed in light, others veiled in colored mist. Some bare and rocky, others covered in temples, forests, palaces. They drifted silently around the Central Palace, like obedient satellites.
The maid spoke without prompting, as if the words had been prepared in advance.
— "Those are the Blood Domains. Each one is linked to an heiress. One of your half-sisters. They were born there. Or rather, their essence shaped the island."
I froze.
— "And they're all here?"
— "No. Only five are currently present. The others… travel, sleep, or wait for their Domain to reopen."
I turned to her.
— "Wait for what?"
The maid tilted her head, her gaze lost in the horizon where the islands floated like memories too heavy to fall.
— "To be completed."
— "Completed how?"
— "Each of them was born with a Mark. An incomplete imprint. A power tied to their blood, but sealed. Until it is... activated, their potential remains dormant."
I said nothing.
She set down the teapot gently. Then turned slightly toward the view.
She slowly raised her hand, palm open, and pointed to the first floating island.
— "That is the Ashen Rose. The Elder's Domain. She forges anger the way others forge steel. The fire there is ancient. It does not burn flesh… but will."
I followed her gesture.
A black and red island, bristling with basalt peaks. Fiery arches cut across the sky. Embers floated in the air like reversed snow. Everything radiated heat and authority. Even from this distance, my throat felt dry.
I looked away before I burned.
— "To the left, that pale island, almost translucent… that is the Tower of White Silk. It's said that those who enter forget the sound of their own voice."
I saw it. Hanging like a frosted mirage, its walls were made only of veils and mist. Nothing solid. No roofs. Only ivory balconies floating in the air, suspended by invisible threads. Even the wind seemed to glide silently there.
I shivered. From cold… or something else. Something missing.
— "The one that seems to reflect itself, with its shifting structures… that is the Arch of Illusions."
She spoke softly, but I barely listened: the island pulsed.
Everything rippled. The towers changed shape. Bridges vanished and reappeared. Water flowed upward. The sky reflected upside down.
And most of all: I saw a figure. Myself. Staring at me.
I lowered my eyes, heart a little too fast.
— "Below, that golden cradle, covered in flowers… that is the Garden of Honey."
This time, a gentle warmth rose from my feet. A scent of sugar, as if the island exhaled its perfume up to here. I saw massive trees covered in pink, red, orange blossoms — and between them, human shapes, half-naked, lying in the grass, or hanging from the branches.
The ground seemed to breathe. I felt a strange urge to lay my hands there. Or my lips.
I forced myself to stay seated.
— "Finally… over there, the Silent Sanctuary."
A bare, dry island of ochre rock. A plain with no vegetation, framed by cracked clay walls. In the center, a single form: a low, round house, without windows.
No light. No movement.
But a weight.
I couldn't look away. That place… weighed. Like a childhood memory too heavy to carry.
— "That's where one hears memory," the maid said. "Even when one doesn't want to."
I remained silent.
The five islands floated around me, like sleeping queens. Each had its scent. Its music. Its trap.
I looked at the maid, still standing beside me, hands folded, her dress perfectly smoothed.
— "And me?"
— "You are… the catalyst. Their presence here only makes sense because you are here."
— "They want me to help them?"
— "What you carry… amplifies what they are. Without you, they stagnate. With you… they surpass their lineage."
She hesitated, just for a moment. Her pupils trembled.
— "And for their powers to fully manifest…"
I stared at her. Silence stretched. The air seemed denser. She was about to speak — finally.
But a step broke the moment.
A figure appeared at the garden entrance.
A second maid, younger, her black hair tied tightly, bowed deeply, voice soft but unyielding:
— "My Lord. Lunch is ready. Your sisters await you in the Hall of Whispers."
The moment collapsed.
The white maid lowered her eyes. She bowed too, slowly, without a word.
And as her chest tilted forward, her breasts — heavy, perfectly molded under the corset — swung boldly, compressed then released in a slow, almost indecent bounce. The black fabric followed closely, but hid nothing. Two full, imposing masses, ready to burst at the slightest wrong move.
I looked away. Too late.
But in the air… something remained suspended. A secret not yet told. A stolen answer.
I needed to understand. My blood, my power, this role that had been forced on me — all of it was still just an incomplete puzzle, delivered without rules or warning. I had arrived that very morning, stripped of bearings, mute of history. And every answer I brushed against seemed to vanish the moment I touched it. As if this world worked hard to keep me in the dark, while demanding I shine.
I stood up slowly.
And for a moment, I thought the garden, the sky, and even the islands… had leaned with her.