Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
Art by Kukuun💖
The stars shimmered like fireflies trapped in the dark cloak of the sky, under the watchful gaze of the full moon. The castle, wrapped in silence, was disturbed only by the murmur of the wind and the occasional sigh of animals nestling to sleep. The servants had already retired, exhausted, to their quarters—all except a pink hedgehog.
The head housekeeper, Mrs. Abigail—a hedgehog with quills as white as snow and eyes as black as the deep sea—had left her orders clear:
"Keep Your Excellency’s chamber warm."
It was always like this. He would arrive like a winter storm—unpredictable and brief—and before the sun could rise, he would vanish, leaving behind only silence and the weight of his absence. Amelia barely saw him—just shadows crossing the halls, footsteps echoing in the cold hours before dawn.
A sigh escaped her lips as she knelt before the hearth, her calloused hands coaxing the embers. The fire crackled, hypnotic, casting dances of light and shadow across the walls of the empty room. At last, warm. She had spent hours in this ritual, nurturing a heat that perhaps no one would ever feel.
When the flames were sufficient, she pivoted on her heels and swept her gaze across the chamber, mentally reviewing the housekeeper's orders:
The whiskey—a bottle of exquisite malt rested in a silver bucket, the ice already beginning its slow surrender. Beside it, a crystal glass waited, so immaculate it might cut anyone who handled it carelessly.
The candles—three, no more, no less. Lit upon the oak table, positioned with exacting precision—close enough to illuminate, yet distant enough not to offend with scent or heat.
And finally, the curtains.
Closed. Flawless, without a single imperfect fold.
Everything was as it should be.
Everything, except the silence.
With the same caution she had entered, Amelia withdrew from the room. Her steps glided soundlessly over persian rugs, as if afraid to leave traces. Her eyes, heavy with exhaustion, burned like embers beneath her lids. Since the day she crossed the castle gates, her duties had drowned in a sea of fear and precision.
Mrs. Abigail ruled over the estate with a zeal sharper than the winter wind. Every rug, every piece of silver, every candle had its designated place. Any deviation was a personal insult. Amelia had seen other maids dragged to the punishment room for less: a smudged glass, a pillow askew, a curtain left open a finger's breadth too far.
From the fragments of conversations the pink hedgehog caught between polishing a glass and sweeping a corridor, the Duke was an enigma wrapped in silence. The last heir to a name that weighed heavier than gold on the lips of nobles: Robotnik.
A surname born not of blue blood or ancestral lands, but of steel and smoke. They said his factories in the north fueled the kingdom—machines that wove silk and forged swords, all answering to the future Queen Blaze’s crown. There was an uncle, yes, but he was little more than a shadow in stories, a man who existed only in the clink of coins and the distant grind of gears.
Amelia shook her head nervously as she dusted a candelabra. Such things mattered little. What was a name to someone who lived on stale bread and candlelight? The Duke could be the son of demons or angels—to her, he would simply be another lord to serve, another pair of boots to polish, another room to warm against the cold night.
Amelia shook her head again, scattering her thoughts. A yawn escaped her lips as she quickened her pace down the darkened hallway, determined to reach her tiny quarters before the last candle flickered out.
Now the afternoon sun gilded the castle’s stained glass, bringing with it the symphony of daily life: the murmur of servants’ chatter, the clink of silverware being polished, the rich aroma of fresh bread and broths escaping the kitchens. Amelia inhaled deeply, letting the comforting scent fill her lungs for a fleeting moment—a small luxury in her exhausting routine.
It was midday, and as she searched the kitchen for something to eat, she listened to Sally, the pretty chipmunk chattering animatedly:
"...can you believe the new seamstress tripped on the rug? Mrs. Abigail almost had a stroke!"
Amelia smiled, stifling a laugh behind the motion of lifting her soup spoon to her lips. Her dawn shift had ended hours ago, but the castle never slept. Three shifts rotated like perfect gears: the day staff, with their spotless uniforms; the evening crew, who kept lunch and part of dinner in order; and the night team—like her—phantoms who kept everything running in the silent hours.
"He arrived before dawn," Sally whispered, wringing her hands nervously in her already wrinkled apron.
Amelia shrugged, nibbling on a piece of stale bread.
"Must’ve been after I lit the fire," she mumbled between chews, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
No matter how meticulous the task of keeping the Duke’s quarters pristine, the castle never paused for it. There were still pots to scrub, laundry to wash, and floors to kneel over until they shone.
"Yes," Sally murmured, leaning in with a quick motion. She tilted her head until her lips nearly grazed Amelia’s ear, her warm breath making the other girl shift: "They say he’ll only stay a few weeks."
Amelia’s hands never stopped working. As the serrated knife sawed through the stale bread, her eyes remained fixed on the rhythmic motion of the blade.
"Did Miss Rouge come with him?" she asked softly.
The reply came in a sigh heavy with meaning:
"Not this time. If she had... he might’ve only lasted a day. Everyone knows how she hates leaving the city."
After eating, Amelia dove straight into her chores. Carrying the basket of bed linens to dry, her steps led her to the edge of His Excellency's private garden. The air changed the moment she crossed that threshold—sweeter, more alive. She breathed in deeply, allowing the garden's perfume to envelop her completely. The air carried the fresh scent of soil, the subtle sweetness of dry leaves, the sugary perfume of roses, and the comforting presence of the trees. Her eyes traced each meticulously kept flowerbed, each vine dancing in the breeze. No matter how much the castle's corridors echoed with stories of a cruel and terrible man, the garden told another story—one of patience and quiet dedication.
Her feet dragged more slowly, involuntarily, as she inhaled the floral scent that filled her lungs like a balm. She closed her eyes for a moment, surrendering to that orchestra of sensations—the whisper of the autumn breeze, the rustling of treetops tinged in amber and brown, the slight shiver the cold air provoked as it touched her skin, making her quills dance in the wind, and the stunning bouquet of wild aromas that seemed to awaken slumbering memories and dreams. For a moment, she could almost remember those roses...
"Amelia!"
Her fists clenched abruptly, nails biting into her palms. Reality yanked her back. She took a deep breath, grateful she hadn’t lingered in that dream any longer.
She turned with precise movements, hands clasped neatly over her apron. She dipped into the perfect curtsy every maid had drilled into their bones:
"Mrs. Abigail." Her voice was smooth, her head bowed at the exact required angle.
The housekeeper loomed like a shadow against the afternoon sun.
"What are you doing?" The words fell like lead.
Amelia kept her breathing steady:
"Hanging the bed linens to dr—"
"Forget that." The words sliced through her. "His Excellency is returning. Prepare his chamber. Now."
Before the pink hedgehog could turn toward the entrance, a rough hand seized her arm with bruising force. The housekeeper’s claws seemed intent on sinking into her skin, pressing deeper, harder—
"Finish before the Duke arrives," the woman hissed, her icy gaze raking over Amelia from head to toe with disdain. "You know how he despises servants lingering in his quarters."
"As you wish." Amelia nodded obediently, though her hands trembled where they clutched her apron. Everyone knew Your Highness was severe—brutal, even—with no patience for mistakes. A single misstep meant instant dismissal. Her hurried footsteps carried her toward his chambers, each click of her heels echoing her silent plea: Let him leave soon. At least then there’d be one less thing to fear.
Amelia jolted awake, a scream lodged in her throat.
Another nightmare.
Her neck throbbed—she'd fallen asleep crooked in the wooden chair beside her own bed. Chaos! Her fingers flew to her lips, stifling a whimper.
She'd fallen asleep.
Her body protested every movement, muscles locked tight after hours spent tending fires in empty rooms, her endless chores bleeding through afternoon and night until exhaustion claimed her unnoticed. She scrambled up—she still had one last task.
When she finally reached His Excellency's chambers, a sound froze her in place.
Noise.
Inside the room.
Mrs. Abigail's voice lashed her memory like a whip:
"You know how he despises servants in his quarters."
Her stomach twisted. Now all she could do was wait—wait for the Duke to leave, for an opportunity to slip in...
Her hands trembled in the empty air.
What if... he stepped out? What if the corridor's monster found her there, an intruder in his domain? What if her screams brought the housekeeper, and no one came to her aid? What if the fire refused to light?
A chill raced down her spine.
Dismissal. No reference. No letter. Mrs. Abigail would bury her, and no noble house would take her after that.
The dark hallway seemed to tighten around her. Somewhere beyond that door, the Robotnik ogre breathed.
A single complaint from His Excellency tomorrow would be her death sentence. Amelia knew punishment was inevitable—the housekeeper tolerated no failures, least of all with the Duke's volatile temper.
She waited. Maybe he'd fallen asleep.
The creak of the door made her heart lurch. Amelia held her breath, shrinking into the corridor's darkest corner where shadows pooled like allies. Some candles had already guttered out, plunging parts of the path into gloom—an unexpected mercy for her desperate plan.
When the Duke's footsteps faded, growing softer until they vanished down the staircase below, she finally released the air burning in her lungs.
No time to waste.
She slipped into the room, shutting the door without a sound. The air inside still carried the scent of burnt wood and something else—a trace of expensive, woody cologne, and something darker beneath. The fire had dwindled to trembling embers, on the verge of surrendering to the night's chill.
She dropped to her knees, hands already smudged with ash as she stacked the logs with practiced precision. The striker flashed once, twice—until flames finally shuddered to life. A shaky exhale escaped her. She'd done it.
As she stood, the housekeeper's words hammered through her skull like a verdict:
"You know how he despises servants in his quarters."
But the room was warm now. The fire lit. And if the gods were merciful, no one would ever know she'd been here.
She turned to leave—
Then she heard the doorknob turn.
The cloth slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor in utter silence. Amelia stood paralyzed, her mind in chaos.
For years, she'd heard the stories—Duke Crimson was a monster. A cruel man with a frozen heart and a face of nightmares. In her mind, she'd painted him as a withered old ghoul, his skin carved with deep wrinkles, his eyes hollow—a fairy-tale villain meant to terrify children.
All those times she'd passed near him, her eyes had stayed fixed on the floor, on her own feet.
But the man before her shattered every expectation.
His eyes—large, brilliant, ruby-red in the firelight—fixed her with an intensity that made her tremble. His quills weren't just black, but a storm of color: shades of ebony mingling with blood red, like raven wings in the setting sun. And in the center of his chest, a triangle of immaculate white fur, soft as cotton, contrasted with the dark skin and defined muscles that the open blouse barely concealed.
Two buttons. That’s all that held it together. It felt like an insult.
His abdomen curved under the silk, every line of his torso a testament to restrained power. Amelia’s throat went dry.
This… this wasn’t a monster.
It was something far more dangerous.
"What are you doing?"
The Duke’s voice cut through the air like a blade—deep, rough, laced with an authority that made her ears burn. A scalding flush crawled up her neck, staining her cheeks a red as vivid as his eyes.
But then—
The world tilted.
The room spun, the walls warping like wet paper. The rug beneath her feet seemed to dissolve, and the shadows stretched, swallowing the candlelight.
Why was everything going dark?
Maybe the fear, coiled like poison in her veins, had finally reached her heart. Maybe the shame, or the weight of that magnetic presence, had shattered her senses.
Before the darkness took her, one last voice echoed in her mind—not his, but the housekeeper’s cruel whisper, looping like a curse:
"You know how he despises servants in his quarters."
And then—
Nothing.