At the time, I didn’t understand why he left me. He had vanished before—many times, in fact—without explanation or warning, and I had grown accustomed to his sudden disappearances. Still, something about this one felt different. The timing gnawed at me, stirred a quiet unease in my chest. But what could I do? I had no power to change the way things unfolded.

  I slipped into another dress—nothing special, just something that wasn’t torn to shreds—and began wandering through the house that had been my world for as long as I could remember. Every creaking floorboard, every cobweb-draped corner, every hiding spot and idle distraction was familiar to me. I had mastered the art of wasting time in this place, but for once, none of those options seemed to call out to me. I couldn’t distract myself this time.

  Instead, I let my eyes drift over the chaos we had left behind. The house looked like a battleground in the aftermath of a celebration turned sour. In the kitchen, splatters of sauce streaked the walls like abstract art gone rogue, puddles of food clung stubbornly to every surface, and in the center stood the shattered remains of the old wooden table. Splinters jutted out like jagged teeth, and scattered all around were torn shreds of my earlier dress.

  “I’m not cleaning that up,” I muttered to the empty room. The words sounded hollow, even to me. The truth was, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. The trash can overflowed before I’d even touched it, and the table was beyond repair. It struck me, in that moment, how deeply dependent I had been on Aska.

  Without him, I couldn’t cook—he always brought the ingredients. I couldn’t study—he supplied the books. I couldn’t even play with new animals—he was the one who brought them into my life. Without Aska, I wasn’t just alone. I was stuck. Powerless.

  A bitter laugh escaped me. “So this is freedom,” I said aloud. “I finally have it… and I don’t even know what to do with it.” The weight of the words lingered in the air—until realization hit me like a spark.

  Wait. I have my freedom.

  The thought echoed in my mind, sudden and electric. My feet moved before I had time to think. I sprinted down the hallway, straight toward the door—the one that had remained closed for as long as I’d lived. It didn’t look imposing, not like the metal doors you see in prisons, but in every way that mattered, it had served the same purpose. It was the boundary between my life and the unknown, the final barrier I had never been allowed to cross.

  The door looked taller today, as if it sensed my intention and had grown to meet the occasion. But I didn’t let that stop me. My fingers curled around the cool metal handle. For a brief second, I hesitated—then pushed down.

  It moved.

  The latch clicked free, and I began to pull. As the door creaked open, a gust of air swept in, brushing my face. It smelled... different. It probably wasn’t, technically—the air inside the house had come from the same world beyond this door—but it felt different. Cleaner. Freer. Wilder.

  And for the first time in my life, I breathed it in.

  Freedom, as it turned out, was… underwhelming. Dull. Anticlimactic.

  I had expected something more. Not fireworks or trumpets, but at least a change that felt meaningful—something that would make me feel alive, victorious, like I had stepped into a new chapter. But no. The world beyond the door was a miserable stretch of gravel, scattered with a few oversized stones that looked like someone had tried to arrange them into a pathetic excuse for a path and given up halfway through.

  I kicked one of the rocks half-heartedly. It didn’t even move. "What am I supposed to do with this junk?" I muttered, dragging my feet forward. There wasn’t a single inviting feature in sight—just a vast, flat dullness, occasionally interrupted by strange lights on the horizon. For a second, they had intrigued me. I had chased them, hopeful. But every time I ran toward one, it shimmered and retreated, disappearing like it had never been there to begin with.

  One of them, slower than the others, let me catch up. My heart had quickened, thinking it might be something interesting, someone interesting. But no—it was just an old human. Grey, unmoving, hollow-eyed. I had danced around him, tried to play, to engage him in the same games I used to play with Aska, but he barely blinked. His face remained blank, his soul apparently somewhere far away, if it existed at all.

  “What is wrong with you?” I had asked him. “Why won’t you play with me?” But he just stood there, as lifeless as the gravel under my feet. Playing wasn’t fun if the other person didn’t respond. It just felt… lonely.

  Disappointed, I gave up and trudged back toward the house—my prison, my playground, my everything. It was strange. I had craved escape for so long, dreamed of this moment like it was some kind of salvation. And now that I had it? Now that Aska was gone and the door had opened? I felt… nothing. Or worse—bored.

  I missed him. Not in the soft, sentimental way people miss those they love. No, I missed the chaos, the tension, the constant stimulus. Life with Aska wasn’t good. It was rarely kind. But it was something. And now there was just silence.

  "I got what I wanted," I said aloud to the empty path, “and I don’t even feel satisfied.” My voice didn’t echo. Even that felt like a letdown.

  By the time I reached the house again, I could feel sticky streaks of dried sauce in my hair. I tried combing my fingers through it, but the mess only clung tighter. Useless. Everything was useless.

  The house did have a bathroom—one I had always avoided like it carried some deadly curse. I’d seen it, of course. The tub, the silver fixtures, the clean tiles that never felt truly clean. Aska had tried, once, to convince me that a bath was good for me. Necessary, even. I’d screamed, kicked, clawed at him like an animal. The moment my body touched that much water, I panicked. The weight of it crushed me, dragged me under even when I wasn’t sinking. It reminded me too much of that feeling—the one from countless deaths before.

  Eventually, he stopped trying. He gave up when I turned one month old, muttering something about how it wasn’t worth the trouble. From then on, he just flicked his fingers, and I’d be clean. No water. No panic. No drowning sensation. Just a dry, magical solution to a problem I refused to confront.

  Now, standing there, with the smell of spoiled sauce clinging to my scalp, I thought about that tub again. It waited behind a closed door like a patient predator. But even with no one here to force me, I couldn’t bring myself to step inside.

  But the sauce in my hair was really starting to get on my nerves.

  It clung to my scalp like glue—sticky, sour, reminding me of the chaotic mess left behind. I couldn’t be sure when Aska would return; it could be days, maybe longer. I couldn’t wait around stinking of spoiled tomatoes and spices. I needed a solution. And fast.

  The kitchen was already a disaster zone—one more mess wouldn’t matter, I reasoned. Aska wouldn’t care. He never did when it came to destruction, only if it impacted his belongings. So I dragged one of the larger cooking pots to the sink, filled it with cold water, braced myself, and dumped it directly over my head.

  Instant regret.

  The sensation of water hitting my skin was like being slapped by a thousand invisible hands. It ran in rivulets down my spine, soaked into my clothes. I gasped. The breath left my lungs in a sudden rush, and I stood frozen, shivering—not from the cold, but from something far deeper, something that pulsed from within.

  Still, the sauce was stubborn. I inspected my hair with trembling fingers, knowing I had to get this over with. No way around it. I wasn’t brave—I was just desperate to feel clean. So I repeated the process again. And again. Three times in total, each more bearable than the last, though never truly tolerable.

  Eventually, my hair passed my inspection—cleaner, at least. Damp, but no longer crusted with sauce.

  I ran for my wardrobe, muttering curses about the cling of wet fabric against my skin. I hated this feeling. Despised it. The weight, the dampness, the way the cloth clung to every inch of me like a shroud. I tore the dress off with little regard for its survival, yanking harder than I should’ve. A sharp ripping sound followed, but I barely flinched. Torn clothing wasn’t unusual— multiple stabbing accidents had made sure of that.

  Finally free of the wet fabric, I dressed myself in something dry, soft, warm. I didn’t even care what it looked like. It could’ve been rags stitched together by vermin—I just needed the relief. Dry, clean, safe.

  Relieved, I threw myself onto my favorite spot—a battered but familiar mattress nestled beside a pile of blankets—and cocooned myself in layers. The softness against my skin was like sanctuary. I sank into it, letting the tension bleed away for the first time that day.

  “Is the water still running?” I mumbled aloud. “Whatever. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  I waved the thought away. The drainage system always worked fine. One of the few parts of the house that was truly reliable. Even if the tap was still trickling, it wouldn’t matter. I was dry. I was warm. That was enough.

  To soothe the last flickers of discomfort, I grabbed a book—something simple, filled with new cooking recipes I’d been meaning to try once ingredients magically reappeared—and let my eyes drift over the words. Halfway through a page about caramelized onions, sleep pulled at my eyelids, and I didn’t resist.

  Reading before sleep was a habit—an old trick to make the following death because of drowning in the night more tolerable. This time though, it saved me from something else. When the book slipped from my hands and hit the floor, the sound yanked me back from the edge of an already interrupted sleep.

  But something wasn’t right.

  The thud wasn’t the dry, papery slap of a book hitting wood. It was softer. Wetter.

  It sounded like it had landed in a puddle.

  That sound—so small, so subtle—sent a jolt through my entire body. I flung back the blanket and leaned over the edge of the bed, dreading what I already knew.

  There it was.

  Water.

  A puddle.

  Not just beneath the book. Everywhere. It spread like a living thing, glistening in the dim light, creeping along the floorboards as though it had always been there, waiting for its moment to rise.

  I froze.

  My chest tightened. The breath in my lungs became shallow, ragged. My heart thudded like it was trying to break out of my ribs. I hadn’t realized just how deep the fear went—not until now.

  I thought I’d come to terms with it. I thought I had control.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to move. My foot hovered above the floor, and I couldn’t bring it down. Not into that.

  Just a few centimeters of water, nothing more. But to me, it may as well have been an ocean.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "Alright, Lucinda…" I whispered to myself, trying to push back the tremors. “You drown daily. You drink water. You get tortured every second day like it’s a routine. So why… why am I trembling so much now?”

  Because this wasn’t just water. It wasn’t just a spill or a mess to clean.

  This puddle was a reflection of every death I’d endured—every time my lungs screamed for air and got silence instead. Every moment I was dragged under by forces I couldn’t fight. This water, spreading across the floor like a silent invader, carried all the helplessness I’d never shaken. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t stop it.

  And now it was here, claiming my sanctuary.

  I was hyperventilating, chest rising and falling in short, frantic bursts. The fear wasn’t rational, but it was real. It clawed up my throat and filled my eyes. I couldn’t place my foot in that water. Not even to stop it. Not even to protect what little comfort I had left.

  All I could do was sit, trembling, and pray that it wouldn’t rise any higher.

  “What is wrong with me? It’s just water… it’s just water…”

  I repeated the words like a broken chant, trying to hammer them into myself until they became truth. But they never did. The mantra bounced uselessly around in my head, hollow and ineffective, drowned out by the sound of my racing heart and the ever-present trickle of water creeping closer.

  I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t step into it.

  Aska’s torture—his twisted games, his punishments—those I could endure. I had learned to survive them with a kind of masochistic poise, balanced on the knife-edge of affection and fear. My love for him, twisted and ugly as it was, gave the pain meaning. It gave it a place. But this?

  Water?

  It had no place in me. No logic. No compromise. It was senseless terror, primal and consuming.

  Still, I wasn’t helpless. I had faced worse.

  I turned toward the only things in reach that could offer salvation—the nightstands. I yanked them both toward the edge of the bed and dumped out their contents. Socks, trinkets, scraps of parchment, and other worthless bits scattered across the floor. The socks I had hand-sewn during quiet moments were rescued and tossed safely onto the bed—my little treasures. Everything else fell with a wet plop into the rising water.

  Then came the plan: one nightstand at a time.

  I placed the first ahead of me, balanced carefully, and hopped onto it. Then, dragging the second nightstand forward, I repeated the process. Step by wobbly step, I made my way across the shallow sea like some ridiculous, pajama-clad acrobat on a sinking stage.

  It took longer than I’d hoped, but eventually, I made it into the kitchen—still dry, still victorious.

  But the sight that met me wiped the small victory from my face.

  The kitchen was carnage.

  Water pooled everywhere, reflecting the chaos in shimmering patterns. Half-cooked food floated in greasy clusters, and sauce streaked the cabinets in angry smears. Worst of all—the sink was overflowing, and the drainage pipe sat completely still, like a choked throat refusing to swallow.

  With a bit of daring gymnastics, I maneuvered toward the faucet and twisted the handle closed. The gushing stopped. Just like that, the dreadful sound of running water was gone.

  I exhaled sharply, shoulders finally dropping.

  "I won," I whispered, triumphant in the smallest possible way. I wouldn’t drown—not here. All I had to do now was return to my safe haven and wait for Aska to deal with the mess. Surely, this wasn’t my responsibility. I’d survived. That was enough.

  But then curiosity reared its head.

  Why was the drainage clogged?

  That one, singular, foolish question unraveled everything.

  If I had understood magic better, I might’ve known the real danger. This house, this kitchen, wasn’t just broken—it was built on systems that relied entirely on enchantments functioning as intended. And right now? They weren’t.

  The faucet had stopped flowing, yes—but the magic powering the water system hadn’t. Normally, safety enchantments prevented excess water creation. Normally, it wouldn’t flood. But the failsafe had failed, and there was no backup. The pressure kept building, invisibly and relentlessly.

  And then, without warning, it snapped.

  The tap, made from a deceptively simple material designed to channel magic, couldn’t hold back the growing force. It ruptured halfway through its base, blasting a jet of water with such violent force that the top half launched into the air, striking the ceiling and leaving a wet scar behind.

  I barely had time to process what was happening before the spray hit me.

  A full wave of icy water slapped across my face, and the effect was instantaneous.

  Panic.

  I staggered backward in blind instinct, coughing, sputtering, wiping at my face with trembling hands. My skin crawled, my lungs rebelled, and my eyes stung—not from the water itself, but from what it meant.

  The first step in my retreat worked. I managed to clear some of the water from my face, stumbling away from the direct line of fire. But then came the second step—and my foot found nothing.

  I fell backwards with a graceless crash, landing hard on my backside. The impact stung, but I barely noticed. All I felt was the cold. I was submerged—partially, but enough. Enough for the fear to take hold and bloom into something uncontainable.

  And yet… it wasn’t as bad as I expected.

  I was still breathing. Still conscious. The water hadn’t dragged me under or swallowed my voice. I was here. Whole.

  Still, my body didn’t believe it.

  I was hyperventilating, limbs jerking out of control. My brain screamed danger, even though nothing truly threatened me. I knew, rationally, that I was safe, but fear didn’t care for logic. Not when you’ve died too many times to count.

  Each flail of my arms splashed water around me in waves. My eyes screwed shut—not to keep out the water, but because I couldn’t bear to see it. In the dark, it was worse. In the dark, it was every nightmare come to life.

  The darkness became a womb of panic. It wrapped around me, pressed into my ears, and filled my mouth with imagined weight. I could feel the drowning, even though it wasn’t happening.

  I had stopped breathing a long time ago.

  There was no real need for it—not when you were already dead. Vampires didn’t breathe unless they were pretending to be something they weren’t. It was a habit I sometimes mimicked for Aska’s amusement, like dogs doing tricks for their master’s smile. In truth, my lungs were more for show than anything else.

  But now, in the middle of the flood, panic twisted that truth into a lie.

  A cold desperation surged through my chest as if my lungs had forgotten they weren’t needed anymore. My mouth opened wide on instinct, jaw slack, throat tight—but nothing came in. My body tried to breathe, and my body failed.

  No air.

  No control.

  Only pressure.

  I was suffocating in a body that didn’t need air.

  I clawed blindly at my surroundings, driven by some ancient terror written into the flesh I no longer depended on. My fingers found something solid—splintered, soggy wood—and I hauled myself forward, dragging my shaking form onto the warped remains of the table. My limbs screamed from the cold, my skin clung to the wet fabric of my dress, and my hair hung in heavy, tangled ropes down my back. But at least I was out. The water no longer touched me. That was enough, for now.

  I curled inward, wrapping my arms around my knees and pressing my forehead against the table's sloped surface. Each breath—or imitation of one—came as a dry, rattling gasp. My chest still heaved like it had a right to, though I knew better. I was dead. But fear didn’t care.

  When the tremors began to fade and clarity returned in slow, hesitant fragments, I finally surveyed my surroundings—and my heart sank once again.

  Everything was out of reach.

  The nightstands that had served as my makeshift stepping stones floated like abandoned lifeboats, too far away to grab. The countertops, the shelves, even the faucet—uselessly closed now—were all distant islands in my rising sea. I was stranded atop a broken raft of furniture, cradling my knees and counting the seconds.

  “All right… it’s just a puddle,” I whispered shakily, trying to force reason into my thoughts. “I have to be very unlucky to drown in something this shallow.”

  That was true, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the water itself that I feared. I could use water to cook. I could splash it on my face and scrub away the filth. I’d even managed to wash—clumsily, violently, but still.

  It wasn’t the water.

  It was the drowning.

  The feeling of helplessness. The memory of slipping beneath the surface, again and again, every night. The weight of it, the cold darkness that pressed into my lungs even when they no longer needed to breathe.

  It took minutes before I could even extend a toe toward the water’s edge. The moment I made contact, my throat seized shut again, just as violently as before. I clenched my teeth, breathing through phantom lungs. My whole body screamed retreat. But I didn’t pull back.

  I couldn’t.

  I considered myself logical—maybe even clever, at times—but this? This fear made no sense. Even when I’d panicked earlier, flailing like a madwoman, the water hadn’t harmed me. It was just… wet. Cold. Inconvenient.

  So I forced my courage into the next movement.

  One foot.

  I stepped fully into the water.

  I nearly gagged at the sensation—the way my soaked sock clung to my skin, the muffled splash, the suffocating chill—but I didn’t retreat. I kept my eyes open this time. No darkness. No blindness. No surrender.

  “I hate this,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “But I’m going to fix it.”

  My second foot followed, and with it came something new—relief. The trembling didn’t vanish, not completely, but it dulled. My chest didn’t tighten as much. I could speak again.

  “Oh, my old nemesis—water, aqua, biQ, amanzi, whatever you call yourself,” I said with theatrical defiance, raising my arms like some wet, furious queen of puddles. “Today, I will triumph over you!”

  A flicker of strength passed through me. I leapt toward the nearest nightstand and scrambled up it, victorious and panting, my soaked dress dripping like a drowned flag.

  “Mankind overcame the elements centuries ago,” I declared dramatically, “and starting today, vampirekind will do the same!”

  Unfortunately, vampirekind would have to wait a little longer for its glorious revolution.

  Balancing precariously, I opened the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. Two pipes twisted upward toward a pair of magical cylinders—one responsible for draining the water, the other for conjuring it. The problem, clearly, was the latter.

  Water was still seeping out from somewhere above, spilling over the counter, down my arms, into my sleeves. My fingers froze as I gripped the wet pipe—soaked and stubborn.

  With a growl of frustration, I yanked at it.

  It didn’t budge.

  I gritted my teeth, dug in harder, tried to unscrew, pry, tear—but it was fastened too tightly, and all I managed to do was drench myself further. Cold water cascaded down my back, soaking the last dry places on my body. The fabric of my dress clung like second skin, cloying and suffocating.

  I hated this. I hated the water. I hated the wet. I hated how helpless I felt, again.

  And most of all, I hated that I couldn’t fix something so stupidly simple.

  I sat back on my heels, fuming, soaked through and exhausted. I was a vampire, a creature of unnatural power and impossible survival… yet here I was, defeated by a leaking pipe.

  “You miserable, rusted, worthless excuse for a pipe—let go already!” I growled through clenched teeth, yanking with all my strength. The stubborn piece of metal groaned under the pressure—and then, with a sharp crack, it tore free from the wall.

  A geyser of water erupted from the exposed junction, blasting through the fractured connections like a spiteful exhale from the house itself. The spray drenched me instantly, soaking through my clothes, hair, and skin with freezing clarity. I stood there, fuming, water dripping from every corner of me. But despite the mess, I had it—the water generator was finally in my hands.

  I glared at the contraption. The source of my misery. With unfiltered fury, I shook it violently and slammed it onto the floor, hoping it would shatter and end this watery nightmare. But the device remained mostly intact—only the external piping clattered away, useless.

  To my growing frustration, the generator continued humming contentedly, spitting out more water as if mocking me. With a growl, I kicked it, not expecting much. But something gave way—the casing split apart, falling to pieces around the inner mechanism.

  And there it was. A strange, glowing crystal nestled at its core, pulsating faintly and spraying water from multiple angles.

  It wasn’t easy to grab. Every surface I touched tried to push water into my grip, making it slippery and erratic. But by carefully limiting where my fingers made contact, I managed to grip it just enough. Without hesitating, I hurled it with all my might at the nearest window. The glass shattered with a satisfying crash, and the cursed object sailed through and vanished outside.

  A broken window was a small price to pay compared to an indoor lake. Right? …Right?

  “Wow. You're even wetter than the last time I saw you.”

  Aska’s voice cut through the chaos just as the last drops of water dripped from the walls. He stood at the kitchen doorway, dry as ever, smirking like he'd been watching the entire disaster unfold.

  His timing was too perfect. He had known. Of course he had.

  “Fuck you and your sexist jokes!” I snapped, fury surging anew. “Fuck you for teaching me how to knit and sew like some proper little lady, but never showing me how to deal with this kind of crap! Fuck you for pushing all the ‘girly’ skills while leaving me helpless with things that actually matter when everything falls apart!”

  I didn’t care about the consequences. Not the punishment, not the lectures, not the pain. I was done being molded into what he thought I should be.

  Aska stepped forward, calm as ever. The water parted around his feet like it feared him, refusing to touch his boots. He could have floated above it, I knew, but this was his way of reminding me—subtly, smugly—that the elements obeyed him. That he was still in control.

  It made my blood boil.

  He didn’t stop a meter away. Not even half that. He closed the distance until I had to crane my neck just to meet his eyes. His height always gave him this quiet dominance, this looming presence.

  And then he kissed my forehead.

  “Eh?” I blinked, stunned.

  My anger faltered, unraveling just enough for confusion to seep in. I knew better than to trust this sudden softness—it wasn’t affection. It was strategy. A distraction. He was always playing some game.

  But I was ready this time. I didn't hesitate. With every ounce of strength I had, I drove my knee into his groin.

  He dropped like a stone.

  The sight of him curled up in pain gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction. He didn’t cry out, but his hands shot to his groin instinctively, his breath caught in his throat.

  “Don’t ever trample on my feelings again,” I said quietly, my voice steady even though my heart wasn’t.

  I wasn’t sure whether I was angry or relieved, proud or broken. That one kiss had undone me more than the flood ever could. Once, I had tried to control him by offering everything I had—my heart, my body, my trust. And I failed.

  But now? Now I understood the stakes. The danger wasn’t just him. It was me.

  I was more at risk of falling for him than he ever was for me. But I had claimed my ground. I had shown him I wouldn’t be a pawn, a student, a pet. I was an equal—at last. And I would do everything in my power to stay that way.

  Even if it meant kicking him again.