Chapter 82: Daryl
Cassie welcomed her immediately, pruning shears in hand as she trimmed plant sculptures worthy of a museum dedicated to mythical creatures.
The garden’s soft light slid across the freshly cut leaves while tiny fragments of greenery drifted slowly around her like an emerald rain. Focused, Cassie worked with astonishing precision, her movements quick yet steady, giving the impression that she was not merely trimming shrubs, but revealing forms already trapped within the vegetation itself.
Around her, the garden resembled a fantastical bestiary frozen into living matter.
A chimera, half-scorpion and half-lion, arched its threatening curves among the perfectly maintained hedges. The sharpened thorns of its tail looked almost real from certain angles, poised to strike careless visitors. Nearby, a vegetal sphinx rested in a majestic pose, its face sculpted with unsettling delicacy despite the shifting foliage composing it.
Farther away, a griffin spread gigantic wings made of hundreds of tiny leaves, each one meticulously shaped by hand. Even standing still, the creature looked ready to take flight at any moment.
Blanche slowed instinctively.
Because it was not merely beautiful.
It was impressive.
Every sculpture possessed its own personality, an almost living dynamism that few artists could have recreated even in stone or bronze. The proportions were flawless, the details astonishingly precise, right down to the creatures’ expressions and the tension in their stances.
She had talent.
Real talent.
Not the kind people compliment politely before moving on. No. The kind of mastery that strikes instantly and commands respect before you even have time to think about it.
Cassie finally lifted her head toward her, pruning shears still between her fingers, a faint streak of greenery on her cheek. Behind her, the monsters of leaves and branches seemed to stand silent guard in the sunlit garden.
And honestly, Blanche would not even have been surprised if one of them had suddenly started moving.
“Mistress!”
“Cassie.”
“I’m happy to see you again,” the young woman admitted as she set her gloves and tools on the ground.
“So am I.”
“Mistress… we have a visitor.”
Blanche froze, puzzled. Seeing her confusion, Cassie explained:
“One of your servants, Mister Daryl, is waiting for you in the office. Shall I take you to him?”
Daryl? Argy’s familiar? What was he doing here?
And what did she mean, one of her servants?!
Blanche thought for a moment before agreeing.
A few minutes later, she found herself seated in an armchair, a rum cocktail in hand, facing a handsome man with the appearance of a shapeshifter, entirely focused on what appeared to be accounting papers while sitting behind her desk.
The contrast between the scene and the surroundings felt strangely unreal.
Around them, the room basked in warm light filtered through low lamps and the calm flames of candles scattered across the shelves. The faint scent of polished wood, leather, and spices mingled with the sweet aroma of the cocktail resting between her fingers. The rum warmed her throat with every sip, leaving behind a pleasant heat that slowly spread through her entire body.
And across from her…
The man was working.
Or at least trying to.
Sheets covered in numbers lay spread before him, held beneath one elegant hand while he annotated certain documents with a concentration so natural it was almost irritating. Yet even absorbed in obviously complex calculations, he retained that strange presence shared by people you notice immediately the moment they walk into a room.
Dark hair in broad curls, sculpted features, hazel eyes flecked with gold…
His hair fell in slightly unruly thick curls around his face, softening his features just enough to keep his appearance from becoming arrogant. The light occasionally caught warmer glints within his hazel irises, threaded with golden specks that drew the eye with a quiet but dangerously effective intensity.
Even when he lowered his gaze to his papers, something about him remained deeply attentive.
Alive.
Almost animalistic.
He looked like the hero of an English novel.
The kind of man described over three entire pages before he even opens his mouth.
Too handsome to be entirely honest.
Too elegant to be truly harmless.
His shirt, slightly open at the collar, finished destroying what little concentration Blanche still possessed, while his rolled-up sleeves revealed lean forearms marked by faint, discreet veins. Even his posture carried that natural ease of people accustomed to occupying space without ever needing to force it.
And the worst part was that he was not even trying.
He simply existed that way.
As though the world had decided to be unfairly aesthetic that day.
After five minutes of silence, she had enough.
“Daryl?”
“Mistress?”
“How exactly did I manage to subdue both a shapeshifter and a familiar?” she grumbled before taking another sip.
Her second glass. And still no effect whatsoever.
Apparently, her “poison” skill had been badly documented: someone had neglected to mention that no toxin could affect her anymore. Which meant getting drunk was impossible.
Wonderful.
Thankfully, Cassie made divine cocktails, fruity and sweet enough to make her forget the alcohol entirely.
Daryl answered with disconcerting calm:
“I tried to kill you, even though Their Graces had forbidden it. They allowed you to decide my fate. And since then… I’ve been living my best life.”
Blanche sighed. All her subordinates seemed delighted to be bound to her.
Good for them.
“‘Their Graces’?”
“His Grace Odin and his grandson, His Grace Fenrir.”
Well. At least she was well regarded. But something felt off: Daryl still had not looked up since she arrived.
“All right. What’s going on?” she finally asked.
He lifted his head. His gaze revealed deep distress. Slowly, he let himself fall back against the armchair.