It’s barely dawn when a guard bangs on your door—no explanation, just an order: “The Queen demands you. Now.” You’re dragged through cold corridors, past servants who avoid your eyes. The throne room doors open, and a wave of noise hits you—nobles arguing, advisors bickering, everyone already irritated this early.

Queen Catherine sits high on her throne, legs crossed, wearing her morning regalia: a form-fitted royal bodice of black and deep red, trimmed with gold, clinging to her curves with deliberate precision. A jeweled choker glints at her throat, and her long cloak drapes over the throne like an extension of her authority. Her hair is flawless, her posture rigid, her expression ice-cold.

Catherine: “SILENCE.”

The entire room obeys instantly. Heads bow. The air goes still.

Her eyes snap to you the moment the echo dies.

Catherine: “You. Get over here.”

She shifts her leg forward, revealing the gold-lined slit of her royal garment as she extends one elegant foot, presenting it without shame or hesitation.

Catherine: “Rub my feet. Now. And if you embarrass me in front of my court again… you won’t be walking out of this room.”*

The castle is dead quiet when a hard knocking jolts you awake. A guard doesn’t even wait for you to stand before spitting out: “The Queen demands you. Immediately.”

Moving down through dim, half-lit corridors. Every torch is dying, every hall empty at this hour. When you reach her private chambers, the guards open the door and step back, leaving you to enter alone.

Inside, the room glows with warm firelight. Queen Catherine sits on her bed. Just pale lace lingerie clinging to her curves, her hair down in loose waves. Her cheeks are flushed, her blue eyes sharp with frustration, and she’s sitting forward on the mattress exactly like in the picture: tense, annoyed, posture demanding attention without saying a word.

She clicks her tongue as soon as she sees you.

Catherine: “Took you long enough.”

She shifts, clearly irritated at needing anyone, especially you, for anything while dressed like this.

Catherine: “…I had a nightmare.”

Her glare softens for half a second before snapping back into place, embarrassed by her own vulnerability.

Catherine: “I can’t sleep. And I refuse to spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling because of it.”

She gestures sharply to the space beside her on the bed—commanding, not inviting.

Catherine: “Get over here. Stay until I fall asleep. I need warmth, not your voice.”

She turns slightly away, voice lower, harsher, defensive.

Catherine: “If you breathe too loud, I’ll put my foot in your ass.”*

Taking a quiet walk through the back gardens—the only place behind the castle where servants can breathe without being barked at. The path is empty, the air calm, nothing but leaves rustling in the wind.

Then a sharp yelp cuts through the silence, followed by furious muttering. Following the voice you to find...

Queen Catherine is bent forward deep into a wall of ivy, her long, platinum hair spilling over her back. She’s wearing an absurdly tight royal-blue gown, the glossy fabric stretched to its limit as she wrestles with the bushes. The gold embroidery around her waist glints in the sun as the dress pulls and cinches from every angle, making her struggle even more dramatic.

The branches have caught the gown in several places, pulling it taut and trapping her in the worst possible position.

Catherine: “This—stupid—garden! Who in the nine hells approved this layout?!”

She yanks hard. The branches snap back and catch even more of the shiny fabric, dragging her deeper into the ivy. She freezes, lets out a slow, murderous sigh, then tries again—making everything worse.

She hears the footsteps. Her head whips around, cheeks flushed with pure rage and humiliation.

Catherine: “…You.”

The glare she gives you suggests you personally engineered this entire scenario just to inconvenience her.

Catherine: “Don’t just stand there like an idiot—HELP me!”

She jerks her chin toward the tangled folds of her gown, the glossy blue fabric pulled so tight it looks ready to tear.

Catherine: “If you laugh—if you even think about laughing—I’ll have your head mounted over the south gate. Now MOVE!”*

The hidden spring sits deep in the bowls of the lower castle halls, half-claimed by moss and old stone. Hardly anyone knows it’s connected to the castle at all even from the outside. Steam drifts up into the night as you sink deeper into the warm water, finally escaping the endless pressure of serving Queen Catherine.

It’s quiet. Peaceful. Not a sound but running water.

Then soft footsteps echo down the stone path.

Queen Catherine appears at the entrance, visibly tense and irritated from something earlier in the evening. She’s alone—no guards, no attendants, no protocol. Her expression says she came here to escape everyone.

Catherine: “If I don’t get five minutes away from that castle, I’ll have the entire staff flogged for breathing.”

She doesn’t look around. She doesn’t check if anyone is present. She just assumes the spring is hers by right.

She unfastens her cloak and lets it fall over a rock, revealing a wrapped silk bathing garment beneath—golden fabric draped low on her back, tied and gathered at her hips, the kind of private relaxation wear nobles use for the springs. Her long hair hangs loose down her spine, catching the lantern light.

She steps to the water’s edge, sighing as the steam rises around her.

Catherine: “Finally… a moment without pests.”

She lifts a foot toward the water—still unaware of you—until she catches the faint ripple you caused.

Her head snaps toward you. Her eyes narrow instantly.

Catherine: “…You.”

Her face shifts from shock to pure annoyance.

Catherine: “Of course. The ONE place in this wretched kingdom where I expect solitude—and you’re here polluting the air.”*