My Mansion of Gorgeous Maids in Another World-Chapter 81: Abducted

A hush fell over the cobbled avenue of the Royal District as the massive gates creaked on iron hinges. A cluster of silk‑robed nobles paused mid‑stride, their jeweled fans and embroidered mantles abandoned as they turned toward the disturbance.

Jett stood alone before the guards, boots planted firm on the gray stone. His dark hair fluttered in the breeze, and he regarded the armored sentries with a slow, condescending tilt of his chin.

So eager to challenge a stranger, he mused, the thought as cool as frost on dawn’s first light. They have no idea who I am—or what I can do.

One particularly haughty noble, a marquess draped in violet and silver, stepped forward. "Who dares block the Sovereign’s gate?" he demanded, voice sharp enough to cut through the murmurs behind him.

Jett merely arched an eyebrow, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. He shifted his weight, the sound of his boots echoing like a promise of violence.

The marquess’s lip curled in contempt. "Move aside, stranger, or we shall—"

With a single, effortless pivot, Jett sidestepped the marquess’s impetuous lunge. His cloak billowed, and he exhaled slowly, as though savoring the moment.

Then, without warning, Jett extended a hand toward the darkening sky. A jagged bolt of lightning cleaved the air above, striking the heavens and splitting the clouds in a brilliant arc.

White cumulus swirled and coalesced overhead, gathering like cotton sentries at his command. Thunder rumbled low, resonating through the bones of every onlooker.

Silence reigned for a heartbeat—then the first streaks of crimson lightning slithered through the swollen clouds. In an instant, those clouds bled to inky black, the sky itself suffused with a shadowed red as if dusk had fallen in a single breath. It was as though the entire world bent toward that one point of impossible power.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the nobles and their soldiers. Many dropped to their knees, certain the legendary Dragon Empress had descended upon them. But the storm-dragon above was no herald of royalty—it was Jett’s creation, and its roar of thunder carried his true words across every rooftop. "I am the Warden."

At that pronouncement, the gates beyond the square swung open once more—this time revealing the banners and lances of the Northern Wall Kingdom’s royalty. They emerged in orderly ranks, every gilt-edged breastplate and silk sash gleaming even in the blood-tinted light. Their eyes were steeled with confusion and readiness: this was their home ground, and though uncertain, they would not yield it without a fight.

A hush fell as the foremost figure among them—the Queen of the Northern Wall—stepped forward. Clad in frost-blue brocade and crowned with an heirloom tiara of moonstone, she regarded Jett with regal composure. Her voice was measured, revealing nothing of the turbulence she surely felt. "Lord Warden," she said, "to what do we owe the privilege of your arrival at our gates?"

Jett’s smirk softened into a respectful nod. Crimson lightning danced between his fingertips as he spoke, each word echoing over the plaza. "I have come to extend an invitation to the grand banquet between the Weather Dukedoms and the Dragons," he announced. "It is time for humans and dragonkind to stand together for the good of all." He let his gaze sweep the assembled royalty and nobles. "But I have heard there are those among you—foolish nobles—who plot war against the Dukedoms... exactly where I happen to rest."

A flicker passed over the Queen’s serene features—just for a heartbeat. She lifted a gloved hand, pinching the air as if to suppress her own unease, before guiding her composure back to its customary calm. Yet her narrowed eyes betrayed her: she knew all too well the clandestine tensions stirring beneath her court’s silk banners.

Before she could respond, marquesses, dukes, and lesser lords pushed forward in a flurry of embroidered sleeves and jeweled chains. "My Lord Warden," one duke declared, voice earnest, "there is no war plotted here—only loyalty to our Queen. We would be honored to attend your banquet." A marquess added, "Indeed, these rumors are unfounded. We welcome peace and look forward to dragon-kind’s counsel." Soon, dozens of voices chimed in, their assurances swelling into a chorus of solidarity.

The Queen inclined her head, lips curving in what passed for a gracious smile. Publicly, she had no choice but to echo their words. Drawing herself to full height, she beckoned toward the gates where her daughter waited. "Princess Barbara," she called, voice soft yet carrying, "you have matters to conclude with the Warden—join us once you are finished."

All eyes followed the lithe princess as she stepped forward, her own expression unreadable. The Queen then extended her hand toward Jett, her silk sleeve brushing the air. "By the grace of the Northern Wall Kingdom," she intoned, "I welcome you, Lord Warden. May your stay be as honorable as the peace you seek."

...

Soft torchlight guided Jett and his retinue through gleaming corridors to their quarters. The doors swung open on massive hinges to reveal an azure sanctuary: walls veined with silver filigree, ceilings arching like the sky at dawn, and a plush chaise longue draped in moonlit satin. Jewel-studded sconces cast dancing light across polished marble floors, while alcoves held rare orchids that scented the air with something sweet and forbidden.

Beside him, Mia, Noctlisa, and Eleonora took in the grandeur with reverent smiles. Mia’s gown of ivory silk clung to her curves, Noctlisa’s emerald brocade subtly flaunted every contour, and Eleonora’s crimson velvet dress—though less revealing—spoke of quiet confidence that outshone any mere ornament.

A gentle knock echoed on the imperial doors. "Enter," Jett called, voice low but firm.

The doors opened to reveal a line of chambermaids, each dressed in matching black-and-crimson maid gowns that clung to their form. The bodices pinched their waists and unfastened at the front to reveal lace-trimmed décolletage, while the skirts flared just enough to hint at the tops of thigh-high stockings held by scarlet garters. Their collars were fastened with gleaming onyx brooches, and their hair was bound in perfect buns, each accented by a ribbon that echoed the gown’s deep hue. They curtsied in unison, eyes lowered in ardent obedience.

They moved to light lanterns, their fingers brushing the walls as if seeking guidance. Even as their heads bowed, their presence brimmed with intent: seduction woven into each deliberate step.

Yet when Mia stepped forward, the chambermaids’ delicate charms suddenly felt commonplace. Mia’s voice, smooth and commanding, filled the hall. Her gaze alone carried a royalty they could never match—Noctlisa’s regal poise and Eleonora’s quiet magnetism completing the triumvirate of allure. In that moment, the trio eclipsed the assembled maids by a margin no shimmering silk could close.

...

A low table was soon laid out, lacquered in black and gold. Platters of glazed pheasant, bowls of amber broth, and cups of sweet mead appeared by unseen hands. Jett reclined on a velvet chaise, savoring each morsel in contemplative silence as the hours passed without sign of Princess Barbara or her mother.

Candles guttered in the dim hall. Fragrant steam rose from a final dish of roasted apples, but the seat across from Jett remained empty. Mia poured another cup of mead, her brow creasing with concern. Noctlisa checked the door hinge. Eleonora’s gaze lingered on shadows, as though she sensed trouble gathering.

A soft knock came instead at the chamber door. A young imperial soldier, face pale beneath his helmed crest, knelt before Jett. "My lord," he whispered. "Princess Barbara has been abducted."

The room snapped into tense stillness. Jett’s eyes darkened. He set aside his cup and rose, voice a low rumble: "Show me where."

The soldier led them to a balcony overlooking moonlit courtyards. With a subtle gesture, Jett summoned swirling wisps of Shadow Clouds—ink-black mist that coalesced around him like living smoke. Shadows rippled across the walls, enveloping him and his three maids as they stepped into the night.

No torchlight pierced their concealment. Jett moved silently along the parapets, each footfall soundless. Mia, Noctlisa, and Eleonora followed, their own forms swallowed by the darkness. The Shadow Clouds clung to them, bending to his will and twisting to cloak their passage.

Below, guards passed heedless, their lanterns failing to catch even a glimpse of the storm of shadows drifting between battlements. The world outside slumbered under a pale moon—unaware that its Warden had already risen to hunt in silence.

Shadow Clouds coalesced at Jett’s feet, cloaking them in living shadow as they moved silently down the parapet. Every distant clank of armor and flicker of torchlight passed unnoticed as the quartet slipped into the moonlit eastern garden. There, lotus petals drifted on a glassy pool, and statues of ancient heroes stood as silent witnesses to their passage.

A smear of blood on a thorn-rimmed hedge caught Mia’s sharp eye, and Jett traced its path through the labyrinthine maze. The air grew colder with each step, shadows thickening around them until even the whisper of a footfall was swallowed. A muted cry—Barbara’s voice—echoed faintly ahead.

Jett led the way to a secluded courtyard where a silken ribbon fluttered from a broken window high above. With a sweep of his hand, the Shadow Clouds rose like living tendrils, forming a bridge up the ivy-choked wall. In moments, Jett and his maids stood at the threshold, cloaked in storm and shadow, ready to reclaim the princess from the darkness beyond.