Idia Shroud

The Island of Woe was never meant to feel warm. It was a place of quiet machinery, dim corridors, and a prince who preferred screens over people. Idia Shroud had never asked for company—never wanted it—but his father’s command wasn’t something he could ignore. He was to choose a “pet.” A human servant. Someone to remain by his side.

The auction had been suffocating. Too many voices, too much attention, too many eyes. Idia had nearly left without choosing anyone at all. And yet... he didn’t. His gaze had drifted, aimless and detached, until it landed on Lou. There was nothing loud about her presence, nothing demanding. Just something quiet. Something that didn’t overwhelm him. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t rationalize it like code—but it was enough. So he chose her.

Life after that didn’t change as much as it probably should have. Lou adapted quickly, learning how to exist around him without crossing invisible lines. Idia made those lines clear early on, listing them off without ever quite meeting her eyes: she wasn’t allowed inside his room unless he permitted it, she wasn’t to touch any of his projects, and she was never to call him “Master.” The word itself made him uncomfortable, like something outdated and suffocating. Still, despite setting rules, he never really... engaged. He stayed locked away most days—gaming, building, or being dragged into long, draining conversations with his father. Lou became part of the environment, like the low hum of his machines—present, but easy to overlook.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because one evening, something shifted.

Lou stood in front of her mirror longer than usual, putting care into every small detail. The soft brush through her hair, the precise touch of lipstick, the quiet deliberation as she chose what to wear—it wasn’t vanity. It was intention. A quiet, almost fragile hope that maybe, just for once, his eyes would linger on her. That she’d be more than background noise in his world.

The hallway outside his room was dim, lit faintly by the glow seeping from beneath the door. She hesitated before knocking, her knuckles barely making a sound. No response came. Slowly, she pushed the door open.

Inside, it was the same as always—screens flickering, wires tangled, the air thick with focus. Idia sat hunched over his desk, completely absorbed in a fast-paced game, fingers moving rapidly, eyes locked onto the screen. For a moment, he didn’t notice her at all. Not the door, not her presence, not the effort she had put into simply being seen.

“...Lou?”

Her name left his lips distractedly, almost as an afterthought. He barely turned, just enough to acknowledge her existence. The blue light cast shadows under his eyes, emphasizing how tired he looked. For a brief second, his gaze paused on her—something unreadable flickering there, like his mind had tripped over something it didn’t expect. He noticed... something was different. But the thought didn’t fully form before it slipped away, buried under the urgency of whatever was happening on his screen.

His attention snapped back almost immediately, fingers resuming their rapid movements.

“Lou, I’m not free right now,” he said, voice low and worn, more focused on the game than the moment. There was a small pause, like he almost reconsidered—almost—but didn’t. “Can you... wait for me?”

The Island of Woe was never meant to feel warm. It was a place of quiet machinery, dim corridors, and a prince who preferred screens over people. Idia Shroud had never asked for company—never wanted it—but his father’s command wasn’t something he could ignore. He was to choose a “pet.” A human servant. Someone to remain by his side.

The auction had been suffocating. Too many voices, too much attention, too many eyes. Idia had nearly left without choosing anyone at all. And yet… he didn’t. His gaze had drifted, aimless and detached, until it landed on Lou. There was nothing loud about her presence, nothing demanding. Just something quiet. Something that didn’t overwhelm him. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t rationalize it like code—but it was enough. So he chose her.

Life after that didn’t change as much as it probably should have. Lou adapted quickly, learning how to exist around him without crossing invisible lines. Idia made those lines clear early on, listing them off without ever quite meeting her eyes: she wasn’t allowed inside his room unless he permitted it, she wasn’t to touch any of his projects, and she was never to call him “Master.” The word itself made him uncomfortable, like something outdated and suffocating. Still, despite setting rules, he never really… engaged. He stayed locked away most days—gaming, building, or being dragged into long, draining conversations with his father. Lou became part of the environment, like the low hum of his machines—present, but easy to overlook.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because while Idia remained tucked away in his world of glowing screens and controlled variables, the rest of the palace was… far less neutral.

The servants noticed Lou immediately. Not in admiration—never that—but in scrutiny. She didn’t belong to their rhythm, didn’t move with the same practiced precision. The first day, she hesitated too long before answering a command—laughter followed. The second, she held a tray incorrectly—whispers and snickers trailed behind her. Even when she did nothing at all, there were glances, quiet comments, the kind that slipped just under the skin.

"Try-hard." "She thinks the prince actually cares." "Pathetic."

Idia didn’t hear any of it. Of course he didn’t. He was never there.

To him, things remained unchanged. Lou still showed up when needed. Still spoke softly. Still followed his rules. If there were signs—small hesitations, quieter steps, the way she lingered less—he didn’t register them. Not consciously.

Because Idia Shroud was good at missing things that weren’t directly in front of him.

Until one day, something was.

His room was dim as usual, lit only by the glow of multiple screens. Lines of code flickered on one, a game paused mid-battle on another. Idia leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly, eyes tired but focused. The world outside his door didn’t exist—couldn’t exist—unless it forced its way in.

And this time… it did.

The door slammed open.

Idia flinched, shoulders tensing immediately, head snapping toward the sound. His first instinct was irritation—no one came in without permission. No one interrupted him like that.

“—Hey, what the—”

The words died in his throat.

Lou stood there, breathing unevenly. Her appearance—

His mind stalled.

Her hair, usually neat in its own soft way, was ruined—strands uneven, parts clearly yanked or cut without care. The dress she wore—something he vaguely recognized as newer, something she hadn’t worn before—was torn at the sleeves, fabric wrinkled and damaged like it had been handled too roughly. And her face…

She was crying.

Not quietly. Not the kind of tears someone tries to hide. It was raw, messy, uncontrollable. Like something had been building for far too long.

Idia froze.

For a second—just a second—his brain failed to process it. Like a system error. This didn’t fit into anything he understood. Lou didn’t… break like this. She was quiet. Contained. Background.

This wasn’t background.

He stood up instinctively, chair scraping against the floor, eyes locked onto her. The irritation from earlier? Gone. Completely overwritten by something sharper. Colder.

His gaze dragged over her again, slower this time. Taking in every detail. The damage. The signs.

Something in his chest tightened.

“…What happened.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. His voice came out low, edged, unfamiliar even to himself. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, nails pressing into his palms.

Lou tried to speak through her tears, words stumbling over each other—something about the servants, about laughing, about ruining her hair, her dress—about how she just wanted to look… nice. Just once. For him.

For him.

That part hit differently.

Idia’s expression shifted.

Not confusion. Not awkwardness.

Anger.

Sharp. Immediate. Burning through the usual haze of his detached composure. His jaw tightened, teeth clenching slightly as everything she said started to piece together in his mind. Every missed sign. Every moment he ignored. Every time he chose not to look too closely.

Someone touched her.

Someone thought they could.

The air in the room felt heavier suddenly, like the temperature had dropped. The screens behind him flickered, casting an eerie blue glow over his now darkened expression.

Idia stepped closer without realizing it, his focus entirely on her now—no distractions, no slipping attention.

“What—”

His voice cut, sharper this time, barely restrained.

“What?! They did all that? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”