(July 24, 2025)

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Deathsworn sat at her desk, eye twitching with every drop of water that spilled from the kitchen sink.

She should move.

Nothing was keeping her here. She could take her laptop and go into the living room. The bedroom. Hell, even the bathroom. Anything to get away from that noise so she could find her lost focus.

Drip.

“Ah!” She threw up her hands, stormed into the kitchen, opened the tap, then forced it closed.

“Everything all right, mistress?” her ghoul butler asked as he limped into the room.

“No, Bernard, it is not. I have an infernal coronation to plan, a debutant to kill, and a villain to woo. Call the plumber. If he can’t solve the problem, eat him.”

Bernard bowed. “Yes, mistress.”

Deathsworn returned to her desk, feeling marginally better for having given the order. The spreadsheet on the screen glared at her with all the guests she needed to invite. So many politics and little dramas to account for.

Drip.

She was going to kill them all.