Alistair Croft set the empty porcelain cup back on its saucer with a sharp *clink*. He leaned back in his leather wingback chair, the firelight casting long, dancing shadows across the library walls.
“Excellent tea, Beatrice,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “See? You still have utility. You were never built for strategy, my dear, but you have always been a competent servant.”
Beatrice stood by the fireplace, her hands clasped before her apron. She didn’t bow. She didn’t retreat. She simply watched him with the unblinking gaze of a predator.
“I learned from the best, Alistair,” she whispered.
Alistair opened his mouth to dismiss her, but the words felt heavy on his tongue. *Sluggish.* He frowned, trying to lift his hand to rub his temple, but his arm refused to move. It felt as if lead weights had been sewn into his suit jacket.
“W-what…” he stammered, the syllables slurring together like wet clay.
He tried to stand. His legs, usually powerful, were dead beneath him. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through his arrogance. He slumped back against the leather, his chest heaving, his heart rate slowing to a terrifying, rhythmic thud. He was fully conscious, his mind racing at a thousand miles an hour, but his body had become a stone tomb.