Dryzza leaned forward, her interest piqued as she inquired softly, “Can you tell me more about this mistress?”
Her proximity seemed to draw out a subtle shift in Joline’s demeanor; the initial hesitation that had characterized her behavior now seemed to dissolve. Joline’s gaze briefly flickered toward her child, a fleeting glance that revealed a mother’s concern, before returning steadily to Dryzza.
“It’s not the mistress you should be asking about,” Joline whispered in a tone laced with unspoken gravity. “Rather, I should tell you more about the young master.”
She spoke with a quiet intensity that suggested her words carried a weight beyond their immediate meaning.
“I have pledged my loyalty to this manor and to the Takahashi family. I am bound to uphold that vow. But if sharing this knowledge could be of help in the future, then I do not see it as a breach of that promise. After all, our duty is to protect the family and I believe whatever your reason why you had travelled back to this very time, must be to help people who where somehow involved in the future."
She gestured for Dryzza to follow her. They moved silently through the grand corridors until Joline led her into a room that at first seemed unassuming, until Dryzza noticed its peculiarities. It was small, almost claustrophobic compared to the other parts of the manor, and filled wall-to-wall with what appeared to be books. A puzzled expression crossed Dryzza’s face. “Books?” she murmured, more to herself than to Joline.
“Yes,” Joline confirmed softly.
“This room is where the diaries of the old servants are kept. Every servant who has served in this household was instructed to take meticulous notes about the young master. We were to document every oddity, every behavior that deviated from the ordinary. These diaries were meant to be read by the heads of the household and burned weekly, ensuring no trace of these observations remained.”
Joline’s revelation left Dryzza unsettled. The secrecy of it all—the silent record-keeping, the careful destruction of every diary—hinted at something far more insidious than the mundane goings-on of a noble family.
Her thoughts raced as she tried to piece together what this meant. Could it really be that Zach’s suspicions were correct all along? Was Takumi the source of this turmoil, the one responsible for tearing his own family apart? Or was there another force at play, lurking in the shadows—something even more malevolent than any of them had yet understood?
Dryzza had anticipated that Joline would reach for one of the dusty volumes on the shelf, perhaps to show her a passage or an entry that would shed light on the mysteries surrounding the young master. Instead, Joline knelt down, fingers deftly finding the edge of a hidden compartment in the wooden floor.
She pried it open with a practiced motion and withdrew a small, nondescript box. The sight of it sent a chill through Dryzza. There was something unsettling about the secrecy with which it had been hidden away.
“These books,” Joline said quietly, her voice almost a whisper, “are read and destroyed every week by the couple who run the household. But I could not bear to see everything disappear. So I preserved a few fragments from a diary kept by one of my colleagues. She left the manor due to illness, but she witnessed things… things that might help you understand.”
With careful hands, Joline extracted a few torn pages from the box, remnants of what must have once been a full record. The paper was brittle, its edges frayed and yellowed with age. Yet the ink, dark and bold, still held the urgency of its original author.
Dryzza’s eyes widened as Joline handed her the fragile pages. She had expected words—perhaps descriptions or dates, some kind of written testimony to explain what was happening in this place. What she saw instead made her blood run cold.
The pages were filled not with words but with images. Dark, twisted drawings of a pentacle and symbols she had seen before—marks that mirrored those at the scene of Christian’s crime.
She traced the lines with her eyes, the sharp angles and cryptic inscriptions that seemed to pulse with a sinister energy, as if the paper itself were alive with dark intent. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned to Joline, voice low and strained. “W-What are these?”
Joline’s gaze turned somber. “Before the owner of the diary left the manor, she spoke of seeing this mark in the young master’s eyes.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, as though even speaking them aloud required a tremendous effort. “We didn’t understand it then, and truth be told, we don’t fully grasp it now. But there were whispers, rumors that started circulating among the older servants—the ones who had been here the longest. They believed that the young master’s birth was no ordinary event. They said… he was born out of a contract with a demon.”
Dryzza’s heart raced. A contract with a demon? The notion was preposterous, yet the evidence before her suggested otherwise. These marks, these symbols—they were no ordinary doodles. She had seen them at a crime scene, etched into the very walls where blood had been spilled. They were not the product of imagination or superstition. They were real, tangible signs of something dark and terrible.
Joline’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, as if she feared the very walls might hear her. “The old servants feared the boy.
They saw things in him that no child should possess—a darkness that clung to him like a shadow. And then, as the years passed, they started leaving, one by one. Some claimed illness, others simply disappeared. But each of them had seen the mark. It was always there, lurking in the depths of his eyes whenever he was angry, or hurt, or…” She trailed off, eyes clouded with a memory she could not—or would not—share.
Dryzza swallowed hard, the weight of the revelation pressing down on her. If what Joline was saying was true, then this was no ordinary family feud. This was something much darker, much older.
A contract with a demon… What kind of power could compel someone to make such a deal? And what would be the cost? The implications spiraled in her mind, twisting and turning until she felt almost dizzy with the enormity of it.
“What happened to the woman who kept this diary?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“She left,” Joline said simply. “But not because of her illness. She was afraid. She told us she could feel something watching her, following her. That mark—it was more than just a symbol. It was a sign of possession, a claim on the young master’s very soul. She believed that whatever it was, it was waiting for him to grow stronger, to either become strong for it to use him or be its food."
Dryzza’s gaze dropped to the drawings once more. The marks stared back at her, an enigma she could not decipher. “And you?” she murmured. “Do you believe it?”
Joline hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do. I’ve seen things… shadows that move where there should be none, voices that whisper from empty rooms. This house is not just a home, Miss Dryzza. It is a cage, holding something back—something that should never have been born into this world.”
Joline exhaled slowly, as though summoning the strength to recount a tale that carried weight far beyond mere words. “That,” she began, voice steady but imbued with a subtle tension, “is how Mistress Karamazov came to reside within the manor. Her lineage is steeped in arcane traditions—she hails from a long line of dark witches. Yet, unlike her ancestors, she renounced the allure of malevolent magic, choosing instead to use her knowledge in service of those striving to resist the forces of darkness. It is for that very reason that she assumed the role of the family’s adviser: to oversee the young master and to suppress whatever entity shadows his existence.”
Dryzza leaned forward, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Then, can you tell me where I can find Mistress Karamazov?”
Joline’s gaze hardened, her brows furrowing into a thoughtful frown. “I must advise against it. Seeking her out is fraught with danger—not just for you, but for everyone involved.”
“Why?” Dryzza pressed, her tone betraying impatience. “She’s aligned with the forces of good, isn’t she? If I reveal what the future holds, surely she would offer me her grimoire to prevent what’s to come.”
“You naively assume that she would do so willingly?” Joline countered, her voice edged with skepticism. “By your very presence here, you may already be altering the threads of time. You might be setting into motion consequences we cannot foresee.”
“I understand the implications,” Dryzza insisted, voice taut with urgency. “But I have no other option. That grimoire holds knowledge I desperately need. Think of your daughter, Joline. Don’t you want to protect her?”
“I told you not to mention my daughter!” Joline’s voice wavered, the crack in her composure evident.
“She is already entangled in this web, whether you acknowledge it or not,” Dryzza retorted, her voice rising. “I didn’t want to burden you with the full extent of what I know, but if revealing these truths is the only way to secure your help, then so be it.”
The air between them grew taut with unspoken tension. Dryzza locked eyes with Joline, noting the way her reluctance was more than mere reticence; it was a protective instinct, a desire to shield her from the ramifications of meddling in matters that transcend the mortal realm. Dryzza understood that Joline’s refusal wasn’t born of fear for herself, but from a deep-rooted sense of responsibility to safeguard the integrity of time itself and preserve the fragile equilibrium of events.
“I don’t want to know,” Joline whispered, breaking the silence. With deliberate movements, she took the pages from Dryzza’s grasp, returned them to their hidden compartment, and sealed it shut. “These fragments are all I can offer you.”
Dryzza’s frustration flared. “But I haven’t acquired what I came for,” she said, her tone sharpened by desperation, though she carefully modulated it to appear more strained than she truly felt. The reaction in Joline’s widening eyes confirmed that her ruse was working.
“H-How dare you?” Joline sputtered, voice rising with indignation.
“No, how dare you!” Dryzza snapped back, her voice carrying an edge of righteous anger. “I’ve disclosed to you the perils the future harbors, yet you refuse to lift a finger to avert them—even if it means risking your own daughter’s safety.”
“What, exactly, do you expect me to do?” Joline shot back, frustration bleeding into her tone. “Do you think I can simply present you before the Mistress on a whim? Even without the complications of your temporal interference, it’s an impossibility.” She let out a bitter laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “I am but a servant in this grand scheme. My encounter with the young master earlier today was nothing more than a rare occurrence, a 1-in-100 chance that defied expectation. Approaching the Mistress herself, who arrives flanked by her personal guards at every visit, is beyond my reach.”
The reality of her words settled heavily between them. Dryzza’s lips pressed into a thin line as she considered the implications. Joline’s influence within the household was limited; her very presence within the inner sanctum was dictated by the whims of those in power. Any attempt to contrive a meeting with Mistress Karamazov would require circumventing layers of hierarchy and protection—an endeavor far more intricate and perilous than Dryzza had anticipated. Yet, the urgency of her mission left no room for hesitation. She had come too far, risked too much, to turn back now.
“Surely there is some way,” Dryzza said slowly, her tone softening, though the determination in her eyes did not waver. “You’ve already defied convention by sharing these secrets with me. Isn’t there something more you can do?”
Joline regarded her with a pained expression. “You don’t understand,” she murmured. “To meddle further would be to invite catastrophe. The Mistress is not merely a practitioner of magic—she is a custodian of a delicate balance, one that cannot be disrupted without dire consequences. Even if I could bring you before her, what then? You think she would lend you her grimoire, knowing full well the potential repercussions?”
“And what would you have me do instead?” Dryzza’s voice was low, almost pleading now. “I cannot leave without it. The knowledge contained within that tome is my only hope. If you won’t help me, then I—”
“Then you will do what?” Joline interrupted, her gaze sharp. “You will shout and scream, disrupt the household, draw unwanted attention to yourself? Even if you could somehow force my hand, do you truly believe it would end well for either of us?”
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of unsaid words. Dryzza knew she was pushing Joline to the very edge of what she was willing to risk. Yet, beneath the older woman’s steadfast exterior, Dryzza could sense the faintest tremor of doubt. Joline’s resolve was not unbreakable; she was a mother first, a servant second. And in the end, it was that maternal instinct—her desire to protect her daughter—that would tip the scales.
“I ask you again,” Dryzza said softly, voice firm. “Help me. Not for me, but for your daughter’s sake. What is the point of preserving the present if the future will only bring her suffering?”