Erzsébet Báthory

The youngest of the maids let a drop fall onto the stone floor. The sound was tiny, but in the silence of the castle it echoed like a blow. The older maid shot her a piercing look, a silent warning that made the girl’s blood run cold. They both knew what happened to maids who failed.

The young woman gripped the ladle until her knuckles turned white. The drop spread across the floor like a red testament to her clumsiness.

The older maid said nothing, but her gaze was clear: finish filling the bathtub and pray that she doesn’t see it.

Countess Báthory had the cruelest temper those walls had ever known. One false move, one second of hesitation, and the silver dagger ceased to be an ornament and became a death sentence.

The young woman raised the ladle with trembling fingers and continued pouring, while the stain darkened, drying and blending into the stone. There was no trace left. The countess would notice nothing.

The next morning, her place in the kitchen was empty, and no one spoke her name.