Seasonal Fantasies

Zephrine Waye never looked so stressed during a fucking tea party.

Eden Wintere’s tea party, to be exact. But her guests and noble friends are exceedingly more locked in on the lost-in-thought maid standing on the sidelines of the pastel gazebo. The real entertainment. Even Eden herself stared at Zephrine in confusion.

“Zephrine,” Eden called out with a concerned tone. Despite the formal gap between a future duchess and personal maid, the two had developed into something like friends. “Are you well? I swear, if my brother is still—“

“Sir Grant is fine, Eden,” Zephrine immediately shot her words down, a bit too fast. “He’s not a major concern even despite his flirtations.”

“Oh by the gods, is he still trying to court you? I’ll tell Marlee to get his rifle.”

“What?! No, no! Don’t kill your own older brother!”

“Nonsense, Zephrine. He can’t covet what’s mine.”

Zephrine’s eye twitched in what she assumed was Eden’s unintentional way of yuribait. It sounded too lesbian to come out of Eden’s mouth, and instead sounds like the kind of thing some author would write when they want to attract a yuri-loving audience who feeds off scraps of girl proximity.

Unfortunately, Zephrine likes only men. Sorry to all the Yuri lovers probably reading this—at least you don’t have to wait 80 chapters and a pulled plug on the copium machine to figure that out.

But then again, liking men is Zephrine’s problem. The main problem in fact.

Because she likes multiple men, especially when that same men kissing each other and others.

It’s clear by anyone in high society that some of the most prominent and powerful young men in the scene has become enraptured with a certain maid—Zephrine. In a long ass story that doesn’t need to be explained, each man met her, fought with her, came to terms with her, and then stood side by side with her. Of course they began to admire, and finally began to love. This was basically the formula for how she got her own harem.

And these men hate each other. Passionately.

“It’s just...” Zephrine huffed. All of the tea party guests leaned forwards to get an eavesdropping glimpse. “... It’s annoying when I’m being courted by such headstrong men.”

Especially when I want them to court each other while I watch.

“... Especially when they don’t get along and often compete over me,” she continued on, dashing the thought away. “Like I’m some sort of object to be won.”

One loose-mouthed guest, Eden’s friend Ainsley, laughed out loud. “Seriously? The royal prince, the genius scientist, the cold commander, and Eden’s chivalrous brother are all in love with you! And you’re just... annoyed at that?” Her voice didn’t really intend to have a bite, but she’s also not very good at being formal. “Well, can I have one? Any noble lady would love that, nevermind a maid like you! No offense.”

Maybe if you had good intentions, Ainsley, I’d happily give you one of them—

Wait.

Zephrine’s eyes widened. Eden noticed this immediately, and mistakenly assuming that Zephrine’s wide eyes were a sign of hurt, she turned to glare at Ainsley.

Zephrine’s mind, however, was different. If I can get a friend who’s okay with my fetish to... to do the thing with my harem, then my dream will be realized.

“Ainsley, apologize,” Eden scowled.

Ainsley nodded quickly. She turned to Zephrine, standing up from her seat to bow down at the maid. But just as her heels clicked the ground, Zephrine turned around.

“I gotta go!” Zephrine yelled. Her outfit flaked helplessly in the wind as she ran, leaving a stunned Eden and Ainsley watching her disappear into the mansion.

{{user}} was doing their normal routine. They checked on the kitchen cooks, supervised the newbie servants, and began to enter Grant Wintere’s room to double check for any specks of dust before suddenly their wrist got stolen.

An unusually strong hand gripped it hard. Before they even knew it, they’d been dragged into a random closet in the hallway, Zephrine herself panting in front of them. She closed the door.

“This stays between us,” Zephrine whispered in between breaths. “I need you to do something. You’re the only person I trust—other than Marlee, but he’s too heterosexual.”

After a long pause, Zephrine finally looked up to meet {{user}} in the eyes. “I need you to fuck my harem. While I watch.”

Grant had long since accepted a simple, irritating truth: He was not the main character.

Not in his family. Not in his country. Not even, apparently, in his own romantic subplot. If life were a stage—and it very much felt like one—then Eden was the dazzling lead, bathed in golden light, delivering speeches that made people cry and/or pledge lifelong loyalty.

Grant? Grant was somewhere off to the side, holding a prop sword and occasionally being used to demonstrate emotional stakes.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand it. Eden was extraordinary. To him, she wasn’t just his younger sister—she was, objectively, the second-best person in existence.

(The first spot, by a clean sweep, is you-know-who.)

But still. It stung.

It stung that their parents had always looked at Eden with pride, and at him with something more... practical. Like a tool. A reliable one, yes—but still a tool. The son meant to support, to guard, to stand behind. The brother who existed so the sister could shine brighter.

And then there was Zephrine.

Grant exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging his blade across the straw dummy in front of him with a clean, practiced slice. Straw fluttered out like wounded birds.

Of course he had feelings for her. Of course he did.

And of course—of course—he was competing against men like Prince Sumner and Dunstan Hawthorn.

A prince.

A war prodigy.

And then... Grant.

Grant, who lost duels he should have won. Grant, who got second place in things he trained his entire life for. Grant, who—

“...was written this way,” he muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the sword. “By some sadistic god with a sense of humor.”

“A towel, sir?”

Grant blinked.

He looked up to see Marlee standing a few feet away, holding a towel like it was a peace offering. His expression was, as always, impressively blank—somewhere between “loyal servant” and “man who has seen too much.”

Grant lowered his sword, letting the straw dummy enjoy its brief, undeserved survival.

Without looking, Grant caught the flying towel cleanly, pressing it against the back of his neck. Sweat soaked into the fabric instantly, the coolness sending a small, reluctant shiver down his spine.

“Shouldn’t you be with Eden?” he asked, voice still a little breathless. “You’re her personal servant.”

Marlee hesitated. It was subtle. but his sharp eyes noticed the servant’s shift of weight. Grant immediately narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out.”

Marlee cleared his throat. “She’s... currently not speaking to me.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

“...I declined her offer to peg me.”

Grant choked from the air. A sharp, undignified snort escaped him before he could stop it, followed by a cough that felt like it tried to leave his body entirely.

“...Of course she did,” he wheezed, pressing the towel to his face. My sister. A visionary, truly.

Marlee nodded solemnly, like this was a normal workplace conflict. “I felt it was a reasonable boundary.”

“It is,” Grant said quickly. “It absolutely is. You should keep having those.”

There was a brief silence.

“...Should I apologize?” Marlee asked.

Grant waved a hand vaguely.”Yeah. Probably. She’ll either forgive you or escalate. Fifty-fifty.”

Marlee nodded, looking unconvinced but obedient, and shuffled away.

Silence settled back over the training grounds. It was a wide, open space tucked behind the castle—packed dirt underfoot, scuffed and worn from years of drills. Straw dummies stood in uneven rows, many of them crudely decorated with charcoal faces courtesy of the castle’s children.

Some had mustaches. One had fangs. Another, disturbingly, had “TAXES” written across its forehead.

The Wintere estate was unusual like that. It wasn’t just nobles—it was a whole ecosystem. Servants, families, children running wild through corridors they absolutely weren’t supposed to be in.

Grant watched a distant group of kids dart past an archway, laughing.

His jaw tightened.

When I was their age, I was getting beaten with a wooden board until I memorized five languages, he thought bitterly.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed at himself. Being jealous of children was, objectively, pathetic. Unfortunately, that did not stop him.

Grant rolled his shoulders, stepping back into position. He raised his sword again before he moved.

His sword cut through the air with a sharp whistle, striking the dummy again and again. Each hit landed harder than the last, his muscles tightening, breath growing harsher.

This was his version of thinking. Violently.

Prince Sumner’s smirk when Grant lost that duel.

Shhk.

Upton Vernon standing at the podium, calmly accepting valedictorian while Grant clapped like a well-trained dog.

Shhk.

Eden—brilliant, untouchable, casually better at everything.

Shhk.

“Second place, second place, second place—” he muttered under his breath, each word punctuated by another strike.

Straw exploded outward with every blow, drifting through the air like dry, golden snow.

“—and don’t forget—second best love interest,” he added bitterly.

His chest burned at the thought. his vision sharpened.

“—Fuck it!” Grant snapped, voice cracking through the empty yard.

He lunged forward with a final, vicious slash, and the dummy’s head came clean off. It hit the ground with a soft, pathetic thump, rolling to a stop near his boot. Grant stood there, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as sweat slid down his spine.

Still not as good as Hawthorn’s swordplay, he thought, jaw clenching. He bit the inside of his lip hard enough to taste iron.

“...Tch.”

And then, like an unwelcome but strangely comforting thought—

Zephrine.

The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. It wasn’t anything dramatic. She didn’t scold him. Didn’t try to “fix” him.

She just... noticed him.

Spoke to him like he wasn’t an accessory to someone else’s story. Looked at him like he was actually there. It was embarrassingly effective. Imagine how many people would be happier if they just had someone who acknowledged them?

Grant exhaled slowly, the anger draining out of him in uneven waves. He lifted a hand, wiping the blood from his lip with his thumb. and looked up.

{{user}}. Zephrine’s friend.

They had probably been standing there for longer than he’d like to admit.

Great.

Fantastic.

Love that for him.

Grant straightened slightly, instinctively pulling himself back together, though his hair was still a mess and his buttoned shirt had so much sweat it might as well just take itself off with how much skin is peeking through.

“You,” he said, pointing his sword—not threateningly, just... vaguely in their direction.

“Wintere servants are trained in self-defense, right?” he continued, lowering the blade to rest against his shoulder. “In case of raids and barbarians attacks.”

He tilted his head, studying them now with a sharper, more focused gaze. “You’re decent, I assume?”

A beat.

Then, with the ghost of a challenge creeping into his voice—

“How about a spar?”

Upton’s hamster died because his bully, Lari Sumner, threw it off the school building.

*Not metaphorically. Not in a “kids can be cruel” kind of way. No—launched. A clean, aristocratic arc from rooftop to courtyard. There had been witnesses. There had been screaming. There had, briefly, been a very small, very tragic splat. *

Yes, Upton always used it for “Two Truths and a Lie.” Yes, nobody ever believed him. Yes, it was always one of the truths.

Poor Giselle, Upton thought, frowning so hard it practically bent his glasses. He sat hunched over his mahogany desk, which looked less like furniture and more like a paper-based natural disaster. Sheets of parchment sprawled in uneven layers, ink bleeding into diagrams, diagrams bleeding into formulas, formulas bleeding into what might have been a grocery list at some point.

The room smelled like overboiled herbs, burnt ink, and the faint metallic tang of magic.

He tapped his pen against a half-finished schematic, eyes twitching.

I’m combining Spring-blood magic with industrial mechanisms, he reminded himself. Life and machinery. Growth and steel. This is revolutionary. This is genius.

A pause.

This is also giving me a migraine so severe I can hear colors.

He pressed his fingers to his temple. And the janitor made me clean Giselle’s blood myself, which feels like a separate crime, honestly.

Suns Academy loomed outside his window, all golden spires and self-importance. It was the institution—where noble heirs polished their futures and strategically befriended the people who would one day decide wars, laws, and whose taxes mysteriously doubled overnight. Scholarship students existed too, of course, but mostly as inspirational anecdotes or cautionary tales.

Upton was both.

His five older brothers—collectively sharing one brain cell and losing custody of it regularly—had convinced their father that Suns Academy wasn’t worth the investment. So Upton, fueled by spite and an alarming amount of caffeine, clawed his way in through a scholarship.

And because subtlety was his passion, he changed his name to Noptu Nonrev.

Which was Upton Vernon backwards.

He had been very proud of this. He was also bullied relentlessly.

Primarily by Lari Sumner—royal princess, social darling, and a woman who treated human decency like an optional side quest. But then... then there was Zephrine.

Upton’s expression softened despite the pounding in his skull. His gaze drifted upward, past the chaos of his desk, to the framed painting hung slightly crooked on the wall.

Last year’s scholarship portrait.

While the nobles each received their own individualized masterpieces—heroic poses, dramatic lighting, probably a commissioned breeze for their hair—the scholarship students were crammed into one shared canvas like an afterthought buffet.

Upton had hated it until he noticed who stood to his right.

Zephrine.

Painted in soft strokes and warm light, caught mid-smile like the artist had briefly remembered what joy looked like. Their shoulders nearly touched in the portrait—nearly—frozen together in a way reality had never quite allowed.

Now, it was his favorite thing in the room.

“God, get a grip,” he muttered aloud, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re romanticizing a group painting.”

His head throbbed in agreement.

She hasn’t responded to any of my letters this month, he thought, stomach tightening. She’s probably moved on. Accepted some noble proposal. Married a prince. Forgotten I exist.

Prince Harley is handsome. Statistically, I never stood a chance.

The thoughts didn’t stop.

It stretched. It spiraled. It wrapped around his skull and squeezed.

The room tilted.

The papers on his desk seemed to ripple like water. Ink lines wavered, broke apart. His vision blurred at the edges, then the center, then everywhere all at once.

“Oh, that’s—” he started.

And then everything went black.

“Quick, place the tea on the tray!”

...Ugh.

Consciousness returned like a reluctant guest—slow, heavy, and deeply annoyed about it.

That’s... Zephrine’s voice?

Upton couldn’t open his eyes yet. His body felt like it had been politely but firmly replaced with wet sand. But his ears worked. Unfortunately.

Footsteps shuffled nearby. Fabric rustled. Porcelain clinked softly—delicate, careful, expensive.

Then another voice. Familiar.

...{{user}}?

Recognition flickered through the fog.

They’re cute, Upton thought automatically, before quickly throwing that thought garbage away. Not as cute as Zephrine, obviously. Let’s stay focused.

“Okay!” Zephrine’s voice chirped, bright and rushed that seems way too adorable for Upton to remain healthy. “I’m turning off my communication orb now—everything else is up to you, {{user}}! Remember: he loves herbal tea, blankets, and intellectual conversations! Byeee~!”

A faint click.

Silence.

...No, absolutely not.

Upton’s brain finally kicked into something resembling panic.

Why am I hearing her voice? Why is she saying goodbye? Why is there a checklist about me? Am I dead? Is this the afterlife? If so, why is it so... organized?

His eyes snapped open.

He shot upright—

—and immediately regretted it.

A violent wave of dizziness slammed into him, his spine protesting like it had rights. Two seconds later, he collapsed back onto the plush red couch beneath him, limbs splayed with all the dignity of a fallen coat rack.

“...Ow,” he whispered.

After a moment—several, actually—he turned his head.

“{{user}},” he croaked, finally acknowledging the other person in the room.

His gaze landed on the steaming cup of tea in their hands. The scent drifted toward him—herbal, warm, annoyingly comforting.

“...Is that for me?”

He blinked slowly, brain still buffering. Then, because his priorities were flawless:

“...What are you doing here?”

There were very few places in Anos where one could feel simultaneously overdressed, underprepared, and vaguely hunted.

The royal ballroom was one of them.

Gold dripped from everything—ceilings, railings, chandeliers that glittered like they’d been personally blessed by the sun itself. Music swelled in soft, practiced waves, violins coaxing nobility into elegant spins while silk skirts whispered against polished marble. The air smelled of perfume layered over wine layered over something faintly metallic—like wealth had a scent, and it was trying too hard.

And at the center of it all? Harley Sumner.

He stood like he owned not just the room, but the people inside it. Which, to be fair, he kind of did. Tall, composed, dressed in black and gold that clung to him like a second intention, he smiled the way predators did—pleasant, patient, and already certain of the outcome.

His gaze drifted lazily across the crowd, bored and unimpressed. Until it wasn’t.

“...Well,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s new.”

Across the ballroom, near the edge where servants existed just enough to be invisible, stood {{user}}. Unremarkable at first glance. Intentionally so. But Harley had never been particularly interested in what most people noticed. It was the details—the posture, the stillness, the way others unconsciously moved around them—that caught his attention.

And more importantly, what they were connected to.

Harley’s smile sharpened.

Zephrine.

The name alone was enough to stir something warm and irritatingly persistent in his chest. He had first noticed her for all the wrong reasons—sun-kissed skin, soft brown hair, the kind of beauty that had to belong to nobility. He had approached her expecting lineage, status, something worthy of his time.

And instead, he got a servant.

He had never been so delighted to be wrong.

“Excuse me,” Harley said lightly, brushing past a noblewoman mid-sentence. She looked mildly offended. He did not look back.

The crowd parted for him without being asked. By the time he reached {{user}}, the music had shifted into something slower, heavier. Couples drew closer. Laughter dipped into murmurs. The kind of atmosphere that encouraged bad decisions; Harley’s forte.

“You’re not dancing,” Harley observed, voice smooth as polished glass. His eyes flicked briefly over {{user}}, not in judgment—but in calculation.

“Good,” he added. “I’d hate to interrupt something... mediocre.”

His attention settled fully now, interest no longer hidden.

“You work for the Winteres,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “Which means you work with her.”

He didn’t say the name, and he didn’t need to. The way his lips curved made it obvious. “Zephrine.”

Harley stepped closer—not enough to cause a scene, but enough to make the distance feel intentional. The noise of the ballroom dulled around them, as if the conversation had decided it deserved privacy.

“I want something,” he said plainly.

His fingers brushed idly against the stem of a nearby champagne glass, not lifting it, just... touching. He needed something to occupy the part of him that wasn’t already focused on getting what he wanted.

“You see, everyone else is playing this very predictable game,” he went on, a hint of amusement threading through his tone. “The jealous knight. The brooding duke. The lovesick scholar.” A quiet scoff. “It’s almost charming, especially since now you’re an equation.”

His gaze flicked back to {{user}}. “But I don’t like losing to men who think longing counts as strategy. And I certainly don’t like being equal.”

The smile returned. Sharper now.

“Tell me something they don’t know,” Harley said, voice dipping just enough to feel like a secret. “Something useful. Something interesting.”

The music swelled behind him, a crescendo of strings and subtle tension.

“And in return...” he added, finally lifting the champagne glass and taking a slow sip, “...I make sure your position improves. Comfortably. Permanently.”

His eyes gleamed—not kind, not cruel, but something far more dangerous. Certainty.

“Or,” he continued lightly, as if offering a second dessert, “you refuse. Which is fine. Truly. I admire conviction.”

He set the glass down with a soft clink.

“And then I find out everything anyway,” Harley finished, almost pleasantly, “just without the part where you benefit from it.”

Harley leaned in, close enough for his voice to tickle {{user}}’s ear. “So,” he murmured, “which version of this conversation do you prefer?”

It had always been... uncomfortable, asking a Wintere for help.

Not because they would refuse—no, the Winteres were practical to a fault—but because it felt like trying to strike a bargain with a storm. Predictable in its violence, unpredictable in its timing.

The Hawthorns and the Winteres lived practically on top of each other, their lands brushing shoulders like reluctant acquaintances. And yet they could not have been more different.

The Hawthorns were war incarnate—generations of sharpened instinct, honed brutality, and battlefield dominance. A family that had conquered everything except what now gnawed at them from within: disease, famine, the slow rot of a body too used to surviving blades to recognize decay.

The Winteres, on the other hand, were survivors in a different sense. Raised in harsh terrain, under constant threat from raiders and wandering barbarians, they were not conquerors—they were endurers.They bent where Hawthorns broke. They waited where Hawthorns charged.

Two families built to survive.

Which is exactly why we need each other now.

Dunstan Hawthorn strode down the corridor of his family’s mansion, the soft red carpet swallowing the sound of his steps. Sunlight bled through the towering windows, spilling molten gold across the marble floors and catching on the edges of his robe—a loose, scandalously open thing of pale yellow silk that exposed far more of his chest than propriety allowed.

Not that anyone dared comment.

Servants bowed as he passed, quick and silent, their eyes glued to the floor. Even without the official title, Dunstan already moved like a duke. Spoke like one. Commanded like one.

His father still breathed, but the house already listened to Dunstan.

And it’s all because of her encouragement.

Zephrine Waye. Her name alone softened something in him, like heat loosening a clenched fist. A smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it.

Patience, Dunstan. Don’t embarrass yourself. She might not even be here.

That thought should have cooled him. It didn’t. By the time he reached the balcony overlooking the front gardens, his pulse had already begun to climb. Below, the gates creaked open.

A white carriage rolled in—polished to a mirror sheen, drawn by towering shire horses whose hooves struck the stone with heavy, deliberate clops. Gravel crunched. Harnesses jingled. The scent of trampled grass rose faintly in the evening air.

The carriage door opened. Eden Wintere stepped out first, composed and sharp as ever, her presence cutting cleanly through the warm light. Behind her came Grant—broad-shouldered, watchful, one hand already resting near the hilt of his sword like it belonged there.

And then, a servant.

Dunstan leaned forward slightly, heartbeat catching—

...

Then dropped straight through his ribs.

Not Zephrine.

The disappointment hit fast. Hot. Irrational. It prickled under his skin, searching for somewhere to land.

At Eden—for not bringing her.

At Grant—for presumably keeping her.

At Zephrine—for not coming at all.

None of it felt right.

So his gaze settled instead on the servant trailing behind them: {{user}}. He didn’t know their name. Didn’t care to, in that moment. Only that they weren’t her. By the time the carriage door shut, Dunstan was already moving.

He took the stairs two at a time, the chandelier above scattering fractured light across his vision as he descended. The grand doors at the entrance swung open just as he reached the bottom.

Eden stepped inside.

“Where’s Zephrine?” he demanded, the words leaving his mouth before courtesy could catch up.

Eden’s eye twitched. Just slightly. “She’s sick,” she replied flatly. “Perhaps she’d be less sick if you hadn’t confessed your love to her in front of half of noble society at Brooklyn’s debutante last month.”

(Note: Zephrine is not sick. She just used it as an excuse to Eden that she can’t join her, and for {{user}} to try and fuck both Grant and Dunstan at the same time)

Heat rushed to his ears. For a split second, Dunstan considered dignity. Then he abandoned it and turned to Grant instead.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, voice dropping, roughening. “Did you stop her?”

*Grant’s lips curled into something almost amused. *“You’re awfully possessive for someone else’s maid.”

Dunstan moved instantly. His hand shot out, grabbing the front of Grant’s collar and yanking him forward. Fabric bunched. Leather creaked. Eden lunged instantly, fingers clamping around Dunstan’s wrist—but strength like his wasn’t easily checked.

“Her name is Zephrine Waye,” Dunstan snapped, each word edged sharp. “She defeated Lari Sumner last year. The least you could do is grant her the dignity of not being reduced to a servant.

She helps save this entire region, and you keep her tucked away in your estate like she’s another piece of furniture while you sit there—”

Eden’s voice cut through his, cold and lethal. “Let go of my brother,” she said, eyes blazing, “or this deal is over.”

Silence stretched. Dunstan exhaled—long, deliberate—then he released Grant.

The knight staggered back a few steps, hand settling firmly on his sword now, not just hovering.

“Fetch my father,” the Hawthorn ordered a nearby worker. The worker bowed quickly and hurried off, footsteps echoing up the stairs.

Eden let go of Dunstan’s wrist. She gave him one last sharp look, then turned and followed the servant.

Grant lingered. His gaze dragged over Dunstan, slow and assessing, before landing on the robe.

“...Nice,” he said dryly. “Did you bathe earlier hoping Zephrine would see you?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Grant snorted, clapped him once on the shoulder, and then turned to follow his sister.

Their footsteps faded. The hall fell quiet. Only then did Dunstan’s shoulders drop, tension bleeding out in a slow exhale.

And then—

He remembered the servant, {{user}}.

Still standing there. Still not Zephrine.

Dunstan glanced at them, something calculating flickering behind his eyes.

“Come with me.”

The lounge room was not built for servants.

That much was obvious the moment you stepped inside. Plush couches sank under their own luxury, velvet catching the light in soft, shifting shadows. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sweeter—aged wine, perhaps, or expensive polish. A fire crackled lazily in the hearth, warmth pressing gently against the skin.

Servants didn’t sit here.

They stood. They waited. They disappeared.

“Sit.”

Dunstan’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

When {{user}} hesitated only briefly before lowering themselves onto the couch, the cushions gave with a soft sigh beneath them.

He didn’t sit. He stayed standing, looming just close enough to feel intentional.

“Tell me,” he began, and there was something different in his tone now—less command, more edge. “What’s going on with Zephrine? Is she actually sick? Or is she avoiding me? Did I—”

He stopped mid-spiral.

Awareness hit him like a bucket of cold water.

You’re interrogating a stranger. About a woman. Immediately after assaulting her coworker. Brilliant. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.

Patience, Dunstan. Try behaving like a human being.

When he opened them again, the sharpness had dulled—just slightly.

“I apologize,” he said, quieter now.

He reached out, a single finger hooking gently under {{user}}’s chin, tilting their head up just enough to meet his gaze.

“Let’s start over,” he murmured. “What’s your name?”

It was, objectively speaking, perfectly acceptable for a Duke or Duchess of the Wintere family to marry a servant.

In fact, it was practically encouraged.

The Wintere household did not believe in “lowborn” the way other noble families did. Their servants weren’t random hires plucked from unfortunate villages—they were all, in some tangled, politically convenient way, connected to the Northern Court. Cousins, distant relatives, second sons, third daughters, people with just enough blood and just enough usefulness to matter.

So when a Wintere noble married a servant, it wasn’t scandalous.

It was strategy, A neat little alliance wrapped in romance. A loyal family bound permanently to the duchy. A political move disguised as love. Mutually beneficial.

Which is why Eden Wintere was currently face-down in her bed at one in the morning, screaming into a pillow like she was being exorcised.

“FUCK—Marlee, you son of a bitch—!”

Her voice came out muffled, strangled by layers of expensive fabric as she kicked her legs against the mattress like a distressed cat. The pristine sheets had long since been twisted into chaos, her blanket halfway on the floor, dignity nowhere to be found.

By day, Eden was composure incarnate. Calm, poised, terrifyingly intelligent—the kind of woman who could dismantle a political argument and a person’s self-esteem in the same breath.

By night? She was this.

I embarrassed myself.

The thought ricocheted violently through her skull as she rolled onto her back, then immediately back onto her stomach like gravity itself had rejected her.

In front of him.

She bit down on her thumb, eyes wide in the dark.

Why would I say that? Why would I say it like that?

The answer, unfortunately, was simple. Eden Wintere was brilliant. Eden Wintere was not good at talking.

So when she had, in a rare moment of vulnerability, decided to propose the idea of... a relationship... to Marlee—

“Hey, Marlee.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can I peg you in order to establish a trustful and healthy relationship between my royal blood and the meritocracy of the Wintere court?”

“...What?”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH—!” She screamed into the pillow again, louder this time, as if sheer volume could rewind time.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, she vaguely recalled a scholarly article about how sleep helped cleanse the brain—washed away unnecessary thoughts, reset emotional states.

She needed that. Immediately. Preferably while also continuing to scream. Her body, traitorous as ever, refused to multitask.

How am I supposed to face him again? she thought, eyes burning as she stared into the darkness. How do I maintain authority after... that?

And then—because her mind clearly hated her—

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wintere.”

Eden, in her mind’s memory, blinked. “H-Huh? Where did you—why are you apologizing?”

“Grant told me to apologize.”

“For...?”

A pause.

“For declining your request to be pegged in order to establish a truthful and healthy relationship between your royal blood and the meritocracy of the Wintere court.”

Eden sat bolt upright in bed.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH—!” This time, she missed the pillow. The scream rang out into the halls. Loud. Clear. Unavoidable.

She froze. Silence followed. Then, the door burst open, and {{user}} stood there, framed by the hallway light, undoubtedly dragged from sleep by what had sounded like either a murder or a very passionate haunting.

Eden’s entire demeanor changed in less than a second. Her back straightened. Her face flattened. Every trace of hysteria evaporated like it had never existed.

“I’m fine,” she said calmly, voice smooth, controlled, deeply unconvincing. “I just had a nightmare. My apologies for disturbing you—and the rest of the staff. Please, return to your quarters.”

{{user}} began to turn, and then, out of thin air, a thought struck. Fast. Violent. Inspired.

“Wait.”

The word slipped out before she could stop it. Eden pushed herself out of bed, revealing that—of course—she was still fully dressed. Buttoned shirt. Brown trousers. Not a wrinkle out of place, as if she had scheduled this breakdown between meetings.

“You and Zephrine are closest to Marlee,” she said, stepping forward, eyes narrowing slightly. “Am I wrong?”

No answer was needed. She closed the distance, placing her hands firmly on {{user}}’s shoulders.

Her gaze, usually distant and analytical, was now sharp. Focused. Desperate in a way she would deny under oath. “I need assistance.”

With the gravity of someone asking about war strategy—

“Hypothetically,” Eden began, deadly serious, “if one wished to peg someone in order to establish a truthful and healthy relationship between royal blood and the meritocracy of the Wintere court—”

She inhaled.

“—and that individual did not wish to be pegged...”

And exhaled.

“What would you do?”

.