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Chapter Text

The first day of the Interduchy Tournament passed in a whirl of splendor and pageantry, much as it always did. Dunkelfelger’s students, ever eager for martial glory, had wasted no time in issuing challenges to me for a game of ditter. I declined them, of course. I was no knight, and more importantly, I no longer represented Ehrenfest. My strategies and battle formations—so effective with those I had bonded with over several years—were unlikely to be of use among unfamiliar faces lacking the same foundation of camaraderie and experience.

That said, it was not for lack of trying. I had done my utmost to guide the students of Alexandria in their studies and preparation. They were performing admirably—more than respectably, in fact. But a paltry few years of instruction could hardly compare to the trust and rhythm forged with Ehrenfest’s students over many joint efforts.

Even so, Alexandria’s students were thriving. It was a small but hard-won triumph. My first year as aub had been grueling in ways I had scarcely anticipated. Many of the duchy’s nobles had regarded my ascension with thinly veiled disdain, their opposition sharpened by both pride and prejudice. Were it not for Ferdinand’s swift and decisive suppression of dissent, matters might have escalated far beyond mere political grumbling. His efforts, combined with the lingering strength of my reputation, had smoothed the way enough for meaningful progress.

Hartmut had played no small role in shaping public perception. Tireless and unrelenting, he spoke of my deeds with such fervent devotion that it bordered on fanaticism. Any who would lend an ear—nobles, commoners, merchants, traveling bards—were treated to tales of my “divine revelations” and “historic reforms.” More often than not, it was the commoners who listened most eagerly, their eyes sparkling with awe and misunderstanding.

This, unfortunately, led to a series of entirely unintended consequences.

“Offerings” began to appear at the gates of my estate. Flowers, wood carvings, prayers written on scraps of parchment—tributes of the sort that properly belonged on the altars of the temple, not at the doorstep of an aub. Some even began reciting old chants in reverence, murmuring blessings as though I were not a mere mortal, but a living manifestation of a deity.

They’ve been utterly deceived. A tragedy... and honestly, quite mortifying.

I had envisioned Alexandria as the flourishing city of knowledge—a beacon for scholars across Yurgenschmidt, with myself as its first-ever librarian aub. My dreams were filled with rows upon rows of organized shelves, automated lending systems, and children eagerly learning to read. Yet that vision now stood in danger of being eclipsed by talk of “a return to the old ways” and “religious renewal.” What should have been a celebration of scholarship and efficiency was being wrapped in layers of mysticism and myth.

No, no, no. This cannot stand. Alexandria will be known as a library city, whether they like it or not. The shelves will rise. The cataloging systems will function. And if I must drag this duchy out of superstition and into the realm of literacy myself, then so be it.

All I ever wanted were more books, not a cult.

Ah—rant over. That was off-topic.

After the excitement of the ditter matches, it was the research presentations where Alexandria's change in leadership really started to show. To everyone’s surprise—well, maybe not my surprise—we actually gave Drewanchel a run for its money. Now that I had the authority to do whatever I wanted (within reason, of course; my retainers were always quick to scold me), I put everything into pushing our research toward developing magical tools for my dream library. If I was going to be an aub, I was going to make it count.

Last year, we introduced the Rozemyne Decimal System, and it was a massive success. Drewanchel’s scholars absolutely loved it. They practically swooned over how easy it was to use. Watching them react so positively was incredibly satisfying—yes! Knowledge organization victory!

But this year? This year was the big one. My magnum opus! With the trust we’d built up, Drewanchel agreed to a joint research project. Their scholars were great for prototyping—they had mana to spare—and we brought all the best ideas. Raimund handled most of the messy back-and-forth on our side. He really threw himself into it with those sparkling eyes and eager nods. What a cutie! I just had to give him a little more work every time he got excited.

And what did we make together? An automatic book return system and a way to prevent book theft. It was amazing. Libraries everywhere were going to want one!

First up was the “chained library.” It worked like this: you could take a book and walk anywhere in the library with it, no problem. But the moment you tried to leave without checking it out properly, yoink!—the book would fly back to its spot. The invisible chain spell was powered by feystones embedded in the shelves. Simple, elegant, and very satisfying to watch in action. I may or may not have spent an entire afternoon testing it by throwing books toward the door and watching them whip back like fish on a line. Heh.

But the real heart of the project—the most important thing—was the Pre-Enchanted Book System. Instead of spending mana every time a book needed to be returned, we’d enchant them ahead of time with a quiet little teleportation spell. It would stay inactive until it was triggered. Like a sleeping book trap!

We built it around four ideas.

First, Pre-Established Contracts. Each book, once cataloged, would be tied to a big library-wide contract with rules like “If overdue, return yourself!” Second, Minimal Mana Activation. Instead of spending a ton of mana, the contract would trigger just once a day with a small pulse of magic. Easy peasy.

Third, Borrower Linking. When someone checked out a book, the librarian would link their mana signature to the book using a special tool—probably something like a mana stamp. We’d record their due date too, of course. Properly organized returns are a must!

And fourth, Designated Return Points. Books didn’t need to return straight to their exact shelf. Instead, they’d teleport to a few magical drop-off spots in the library. No matter, the shumels will take care of reestablishing the chain and getting them back on the shelves.

The actual process looked something like this: A librarian would catalog a book and give it a tiny mana-infused “tag.” That tag would link it to the city-wide recall contract. When a book was overdue, the contract would activate and zip!—the book would vanish from wherever it was and reappear at the return point.

Right now, we were only testing the system in the Royal Library, with the teleportation range limited to the Royal Academy. But I was already dreaming bigger. My own library in Alexandria was next. Of course it was. How could the library of the first librarian aub not have this system?

Socializing was... meh. Not the worst, not the best. People still had that irritating habit of ignoring me and talking to Ferdinand instead, just because I was a young female aub. Excuse you—I'm the one in charge here. But fine. Let them ignore me. Less pointless small talk for me. Honestly, I could barely keep track of who half these nobles were, much less why I should care what they thought.

High-ranking duchy life was exhausting. So many people to greet, so many veiled insults to decode and smile at. If I had to hear one more backhanded compliment about how “unexpectedly composed” I was for someone “so small and delicate,” I was going to dropkick a table. I might not have had their full respect, but I definitely had their attention. And I was going to use it.

The best part of the whole gathering? I got to see Sylvester and Florencia again. It had been too long. They looked healthy and happy, and even better, they gave me an update on the baby. Apparently, she’s a cutie and taking after Charlotte. Excellent. Charlotte is dependable with a good head on her shoulders. I love Wilfried, really, but… yeah, that boy’s sense is sometimes several floors below the main hall.

There was also some weird teasing going on that I didn’t totally follow at first. Something about how “possessive” Ferdinand was because of what I was wearing. It wasn’t until I looked down that I realized—yep, I was practically covered in his protective charms. Head to toe. Subtle, elegant ones, sure, but they were there. And now that I understood the implications—romantic implications—my face just exploded with heat. Seriously, Ferdinand! You could have said something!!

And then… Sylvester.

“Ferdinand,” he said, just loud enough to carry across the polite murmurs, “one might think you’re preparing Rozemyne for a siege, not a social visit.”

He gestured to me with a smirk that made me want to sink into the floor. “Tell me, brother, does she clink when she walks? I half expect her to trip and just bounce off the sheer density of your affections—I mean, protective measures. Honestly, Ferdinand, no one with sense would dare play Ewigeliebe when you’ve already cast your winter. Even Leidenschaft might think twice before warming what you’ve so carefully hidden away.”

Then came the worst part.

“From what I hear, she’s practically a walking, talking magical armory. Did you enchant her undergarments too? Just in case a rogue thread tries to assassinate her modesty?”

I nearly died right there.

Ferdinand’s face didn’t even twitch. That terrifying noble smile spread slowly, like poison in tea, and I felt the temperature drop around us. Sylvester barely escaped with his dignity intact. Later, Florencia refused to tell me what Ferdinand did in retaliation. She just shook her head and said, “It involved a potion, an enchanted mirror, and Sylvester’s formal robes.” That was not comforting.

Of course, Sylvester wasn’t the only one who noticed. The academy students were already used to seeing me decked out in charms—they’d watched me gradually turn into a mobile fortress since year one. But to the older nobles? Some of them had only caught the occasional glimpse of me in passing. I’d worn much more subtle protection during the last interduchy tournament for dramatic effect. It worked, sure, but now this was what they saw, and it was a lot.

They whispered about it, like I wouldn’t notice. “With all those charms, you’d think Bluanfa herself is trying to coax a new spring from under Ewigeliebe’s frost.”

“I suppose when one is watched over by half the divine court, even Ewigeliebe might warn against drawing so much attention from the heavens.”

“Perhaps Entrinduge’s already paid them a visit-sooner than propriety would suggest.”

At first, the phrases seemed like ordinary noble metaphors, but I’ve been surrounded by nobles long enough to know when metaphors are really just masked accusations—or innuendos.

“Bluanfa coaxing spring from Ewigeliebe’s frost.” That one clearly implied I was somehow softening Ferdinand’s famously cold demeanor—perhaps even inspiring affection in him. A compliment, maybe, if you squint. But there was also a second implication. “Spring” often meant new life. Seeded growth. A metaphor for… fertility. My face burned just thinking about it. We haven’t even kissed!

“Watched over by half the divine court.” That was clearly about the number of charms I wore, though they weren’t wrong. The undertone, however, suggested divine scrutiny. That we were drawing attention we shouldn’t be. Or worse—tempting fate by overstepping unseen boundaries.

“Entrinduge’s already paid them a visit.” That one was the most horrifying once I caught the reference. Entrinduge is the god of childbirth. If they were saying he’d already paid a visit, they were implying that Ferdinand and I had already… No. No, no, no. That we’d already done something worthy of attracting a god who watches over conception and delivery was so wildly inaccurate I couldn’t even process it.

Of course, I wasn’t going to react. That would only confirm their suspicions, and I still maintained we were like family. Ferdinand was my fiancé only due to politics and necessity. I said this clearly. Repeatedly.

Apparently, nobles had decided that I was just too embarrassed to admit the truth. That my denials were the bashful protests of someone already deeply in love.

It seems the more I insist, the less they believe me. They just smile knowingly.

And Ferdinand certainly isn’t helping. He never denies the rumors. He doesn’t correct them, doesn’t react. He just gives that slight, composed smile—the one that nobles interpret as affectionate restraint. Like he’s humoring me.

From where I stand, everything he does is proper and respectful—what any good partner would do. But everyone else sees a man in love. They say his behavior matches the old courtship traditions, that he’s “expressing devotion through silent action.” I just see… Ferdinand being Ferdinand.

While the older nobles were more skeptical of our winter status, of course some looked down on me. But the younger ones? They were fascinated. I even caught a few girls whispering that they were jealous—saying I’d skipped the entire awkward socializing phase and gone straight to being deeply loved and aggressively protected.

No one believed me when I said Ferdinand and I used to be strictly family and that our engagement was political. They just stared like I’d said something absurd.

How would they know? Hmph

Ignoring those people.

The royal family was among those we were expected to visit. It was... restrained. Formal. I no longer regarded them with the warmth I once did. That time has passed. Eglantine’s status as my namesworn ensured they could no longer act against us, and by all accounts, she has been diligent in her duties—conducting religious rituals regularly and embracing the role of High Bishop. Their child is receiving a theocratic education, as is appropriate for someone in line with divine expectations.

The award ceremony proceeded as expected. Honors were given to the top three ditter teams, followed by the highest-ranked research projects. Ours received the top mark, of course—it was a decisive victory. Final commendations were reserved for those involved in hosting.

Once again, I was recognized for academic excellence. First in general studies. First in the scholarly course. Eglantine offered her congratulations personally, though by now such ceremonies feel more like obligation than achievement. The one blemish on my record still irritates me—missing first place in my fourth year due to being forcibly taken to the temple. A gap in my otherwise unbroken record.

All of that to say: what comes next is unfamiliar. I’ve never taken part in this portion of the Interduchy Tournament. Day one was manageable—expected, rehearsed. Now we tread into new ground.

Tradition dictates that female graduates be escorted by a male companion. It signifies not only a bond but a declaration of intent. In my case, Ferdinand was the only conceivable choice. As my fiancé, his presence was expected—yet that didn’t stop the murmurs. To the entirety of Yurgenschmidt, I had been hopelessly in love with him since childhood, and he—distant as he tried to appear—was just as smitten. Apparently, we lacked the restraint and composure expected of nobility, blinded by affection to the point of discarding common sense. And while I may not have believed that myself… I couldn’t exactly deny the optics. It was best to be seen as getting along.

Naturally, I continued to clarify that our relationship was familial and that our engagement had been arranged for political reasons, though I did agree there was no better match in Yurgenschmidt. That was the truth as I understood it. I had known Ferdinand since my baptism. He had educated me, guided my actions, corrected my behavior, and overall supported all my endeavors. He's saved me more times than I can count and well, frankly, it is true I am completely dyed in his mana. Gosh it feels embarrassing now to know that for some reason. What I felt was admiration, trust, and familiarity—the affection one would feel for a mentor or a brother… though that didn't quite feel correct either. My affection was something like that, but a little different.

Yet no one believed me.

The prevailing assumption was that I was simply too embarrassed to admit the truth aloud. That I hid behind formality and denial because I could not bring myself to speak candidly about my feelings. From their perspective, my protestations were an act—clumsy, transparent, and rather endearing. In contrast, Ferdinand gave them no such denials. He answered implications with silence, responded to teasing with veiled smiles, and carried himself with the composure expected of a noble in love.

He adhered to noble traditions I barely understood. Elaborate protections, excessive preparations, personal involvement in every decision—things I attributed to his cautious nature and tendency to overthink. It had never occurred to me that anyone would interpret such measures as expressions of love.

Even now, I do not fully grasp the distinction. I recognize that I trust him. That I prefer his company. That I feel safest when he is near. I have no knowledge of romantic love, only the tales I’ve read and the vague impressions I’ve gathered from others. If I feel anything beyond duty and obligation, I do not have the words to name it. And so I speak of family. Of politics. Because those are things I do understand.

Everyone else simply smiles and says nothing.

The main auditorium of the Royal Academy had been transformed for the Coming of Age Ceremony. The usual partitions were gone, revealing the full inward slope of the room, and the ivory stage and shrine at the center gleamed under the magical lights. Nobles from every duchy were seated in their respective viewing platforms, watching intently. This was the culmination of the Interduchy Tournament season, the formal acknowledgement of our adulthood in the eyes of the nation and society as a whole.

First came the entrance of Zent Eglantine, serene and golden. Then came the graduates and our escorts.

Ferdinand offered me his arm.

I took it, naturally—this wasn’t the first time we’d appeared together in public—but I became immediately aware of his warmth, the way the muscle of his forearm shifted under my fingers. His robes were formal, black and a deep blue, the colors of the God of Darkness. My outfit, by contrast, was just Blue to match my birth season. It was lighter in color compared to the deep blue most others wore with a pattern resembling shiny fish scales dyed into it, the blue of my dress matched the blue of Ferdinand’s hair and the blue on his robes matched the darkness of my hair— deliberately so. My retainers had gone from dressing shumils in couple costumes to dressing us like their dolls.

We walked together toward the front, and I could feel his presence beside me—solid, composed, absolutely unbothered. Meanwhile, my thoughts were… wandering.

I blamed the physical contact. He didn’t touch me like this normally. I was used to his medical checkups, or to an arm steadying me, the rare hugging sessions that had become even rarer as I got older. But this was public. Ceremony-bound. My hand was right there on his arm, his body heat filtering through the layers against my chest and ribs.

We’ll be married eventually. And marriage includes… things. Things I never thought I’d do with anyone. But it’s not like I’m interested, I’m just—aware. Of what’s expected. That’s all.

In Japan, sex ed was mandatory. You knew all the stages and functions and safe practices whether you wanted to or not. I’d also had access to manga. And web novels. It wasn’t like I was clueless.

I understood marital duties.

And since Ferdinand and I both wanted children, then of course—eventually—that was something we’d have to… address.

Eventually.

The curiosity was natural, wasn’t it?

I mean, I wasn’t interested interested. My feelings were still totally familial. Completely. It’s just that… if I had to experience someone’s full body, all of them, completely, from physical touch to breath to—

Stop.

It wasn’t attraction. It was just intellectual preparedness. Anticipation of duty. Nothing more.

Besides, I was already mentally thirty-three. I had lived twenty years on Earth before dying and around thirteen Earth years since. In Yurgenschmidt terms, I was now officially fifteen, but my real age—depending on which calendar you used—was closer to thirty-three.

Ferdinand had met me when I was seven (in this world’s time) and he was twenty. That gap hadn’t changed, but what had changed was the context. I wasn’t a child anymore. He was my fiancé. My future husband. The man I would someday—by social expectation—have children with.

So of course I’d have to get used to the idea of touching him. Being touched. Being held. Fully.

And it wasn’t like I minded. I’d just gotten used to the idea gradually, in theory. From a purely logistical angle.

Right.

Nothing romantic going on here.

The Sovereign High Bishop, Eglintine, began reciting passages from the bible. Tales of the gods, of seasons and order, of how mana bound us all. I bowed my head and pretended I was thinking deep spiritual thoughts instead of how Ferdinand’s hand would feel in certain situations.

We offered prayers to the gods of our birth seasons. Then came the final prayer. Then Zent Eglintine lifted her arms and one leg, called the names of the gods, and offered the universal blessing for our passage into adulthood.

Divine mana swelled across the stage, washing over us like sun-warmed water.

It was done.

I was now fifteen by official record, sixteen by actual time passed here, eighteen by Earth standards, and already over thirty by mental age.

Officially a noble adult.

Once the ceremony was formally concluded, the atmosphere in the auditorium shifted. The stage was cleared in preparation for the next event: the sword dance.

Twenty of the best sword dancers from among the graduating students stepped onto the ivory stage in coordinated formation. Their outfits shimmered with duchy colors, and their schtappes—transformed into swords for the occasion—flashed in the stage lighting as they struck their opening pose.

It was beautiful, of course. Every movement was perfectly synchronized, and the combination of mana-rich footwork and flowing blade arcs created a kind of magical choreography meant to impress the gathered royalty, Aubs, and family members. But my thoughts wandered. In the end, nothing of note happened during the performance. It was just another tradition, flawlessly executed.

The music faded, and with it came a shift in atmosphere. Those performing the Dedication Whirl swiftly took their places on stage. We had already changed into our ceremonial attire during the sword dance’s transition. Among the seven of us chosen to represent the gods, I stood as the Goddess of Light. Wilfried took the role of Leidenschaft, Hannelore was Flutrane, and Ortwin stood for Ewigeliebe. The remaining gods were represented by archducal candidates from other duchies.

A hush fell over the audience—an expectant silence heavy with familiarity. They knew this ritual. Year after year, they had watched it performed. A staged offering. A symbolic gesture. The Goddess of Light descending in form, blessing the world with her radiance. They had seen it before.

But not like this.

I could feel it—the way their eyes searched for something more. They were looking for what I had once shown them: that unearthly brilliance from the moment the gods themselves had spoken through me. That was no performance. It had been real, even if fleeting. A divine manifestation that I would never forget… and never replicate. Today, I was only Rozemyne, standing beneath the weight of their unspoken expectations.

Naturally, Ferdinand hadn’t allowed me to approach this unprepared. My training had been relentless. Understandable, really, after what had happened with the divine mana. It took nearly a year for my body to stabilize after that near-catastrophe. Only once I had recovered did he focus on building up my strength again. I needed it—not only to fulfill the role of the Goddess of Light, but to function as an aub managing a duchy teetering on collapse.

I could now manage basic movement and physical exertion without relying on magic tools—though that didn’t stop Ferdinand from adorning me in enchantments anyway. His logic, of course, was that I should be overprepared rather than risk public failure. The result? Gasps echoed from the crowd as I stepped forward.

The difference was stark. Unlike Detlinde’s disastrous spectacle in years past—an eye-watering mess of clashing colors and poor taste—my outfit embodied restraint and brilliance. It was opulent, yes, but dignified. The accessories, down to the smallest gem, had been crafted specifically for this event. The layers of my gown, made from the delicately sheer silk popular in Alexandria, were designed to float and shimmer with every movement.

We’d even embedded a hidden surprise for the audience.

Creating the ensemble required the full strength of my retainers. I might have conceived the vision that made the artisans’ eyes shine with excitement, but my attendants were the ones who turned it into reality. The finishing touches—charms from Ferdinand, dots of invisible ink, gold dust in my hair gel—were calculated to make an impression without me having to say a single word.

Then, all at once, every performer on stage raised their voices in unison:

“I am one who offers prayer and gratitude to the gods who have created the world.”

The ritual began.

Ferdinand, standing offstage, barely suppressed a wince. The magic circle for identifying Zent candidates would activate again—he knew it. Of course it would. I had held the Grutrissheit. Everyone had expected me to become Zent before the succession was rerouted. While the formal transfer ceremony had resolved the matter, rumors still lingered, especially among sovereignty-aligned nobles who had bristled at the idea of an underage, female aub. They thought my moment of divinity was an anomaly, a flash in the pan. They believed Alexandria would crumble beneath me.

They were wrong.

The duchy not only survived, it flourished. The citizens held me in reverence, much like the people of Ehrenfest once had—only more so. My title as Saint had endured, and their devotion deepened. The incident with the divine mana that nearly killed me? That reckless expedition to extract the last remnants from my body? That very effort had become a cornerstone of Alexandria’s resurgence.

So yes, I needed to sparkle.

Each whirler had some freedom in designing their outfit within set parameters, and I had taken full advantage of that. My design was created with one goal: to match, if not exceed, the splendor of my last appearance. I couldn’t replicate divine radiance, but showmanship… that I could manage.

The thin silk trailed behind me as I spun, giving the illusion that gravity no longer applied. My posture was tight, upright, as if pulled upward by an invisible thread. While most whirlers spun on the balls of their feet, I had borrowed from the ballet training I once endured in my other life. The reinforced slippers allowed me brief moments on demi-pointe. The resulting effect was a fleeting, delicate suspension mid-spin—an illusion of effortlessness within a ritual meant to feel grounded.

I hadn't thought ballet would ever be useful again. I only took it for my mother's sake.

Normally, the whirl involved wide traveling steps punctuated by sharp turns. I replaced them with flowing chassés. Each movement was intentional, restrained, refined. The moment I first rose en pointe, the collective breath of the audience caught. They weren’t prepared. It wasn’t just the technical difficulty—they were seeing something entirely unfamiliar within the bounds of something traditional.

My gown helped. The outer silk shifted with every spin, clinging for a moment, then releasing. Every now and then, the fabric lifted just enough to reveal the deep gold beneath. At last, the surprise revealed itself.

Those small, invisible dots we painted with gold dust ink? They shimmered as I moved, catching the light at key intervals. We’d concentrated the pattern at my bodice and hemline. And in my hair gel, fine gold dust floated with each motion. Combined with Ferdinand’s charms, it looked as though I glowed with divine favor once again.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

My spins blurred into pirouettes. Every rotation was tighter, faster, almost too fast I almost lost balance once but i was able to regain control without drawing attention to it. The trailing silk formed a halo of fabric, alternately concealing and revealing the shape of my form. The audience had never seen a dedication whirl like this. Their silence said it all.

They weren't just awed. They were entranced.

Each lift onto demi-pointe drew me higher, the tension winding tighter in my limbs. The layers of silk floated and snapped with each turn, trailing behind like ribbons of light. I focused only on the steps—on the rhythm drilled into my body, on the power pulsing up from the floor.

The whirl reached its peak, a storm of gold and white and motion. Then—release. The final turn eased into stillness. My feet found the floor again, grounded. I dipped into a controlled, breathless curtsy, head bowed, chest heaving.

Applause erupted like thunder.

To the nobles, I must have looked majestic—some shimmering vision of divine grace. But if anyone from Earth had been in the audience, especially someone with real ballet experience, I’m pretty sure they would have winced. My arms were too stiff, my turns too shallow, and let’s not even talk about my transitions. If I had performed this at a proper recital, I’d have been the kid who got a pity flower and an encouraging smile. “Great effort,” they’d say, which is Earth-speak for “Please never do that again.” I would like to think I did pretty well though, since I didn’t have to display much flexibility I could rely on novel spins from everything.

I straightened and looked up—just for a moment—scanning the room instinctively. And my eyes caught his.

Ferdinand.

He was standing utterly still, his jaw tight, eyes sharp beneath his brow. There was something fierce in his gaze—not for me, I realized with a jolt, but for the men seated nearby. I wonder why.

But when our eyes met, it softened. His expression shifted—something almost gentle flickering behind the intensity.

My heart stumbled.

I quickly looked away, heat rising to my cheeks. I hadn’t expected that.

Not from him.

Not like that.

Chapter Text

I had seen Rozemyne rehearse the Whirl—awkward, shaky, and breathless. Her arms had flailed at odd angles. Her turns had been erratic. Her coordination with the beat of the orchestra had been tenuous at best. I had instructed her relentlessly, ensured she internalized the posture and rhythm even when she complained of aching muscles and exhaustion. I knew the music, the choreography, and the timing down to the measure.

But I had never seen her perform like this.

Not like this.

She stepped onto the stage clad in her Goddess of Light regalia, the divine mana woven into her dress catching the glow of the chandeliers above. When the music began, she moved—not with the clumsy eagerness of a student, but with the practiced poise of a figure shaped by purpose. The fabric of her gown rippled with each step, trailing divine light like stardust. Her arms lifted in a wide arc, fingers curved just so, her body spinning in controlled momentum.

She twirled across the stage like a living prayer. The soft shimmer of her silken outfit, alight with divine symbolism, clung just enough to her form to hint rather than reveal—but that was all it took. The hem of her skirt fluttered, and the sheer veil framing her face caught the air like wings of radiance. She had become the Goddess of Light, incarnate.

And the room saw her.

It was beautiful.

I inhaled slowly through my nose. My chest felt tight. There was a grace in her movements that no amount of memory-dredged training could have instilled. This wasn’t the product of rote instruction. This was something innate—an artistry that belonged solely to her, colored by a sensibility she no longer remembered consciously but had carried over from another life. Her body flowed with rhythm and light, her form outlined in motion and divinity.

And it was… too much.

I did not like the way she made me feel.

Worse still, I did not like the way she made them feel.

I felt it like a wave crashing over me—the shift in atmosphere, the drawn breaths, the subtle but unmistakable hunger. Nobles leaned forward in their seats. Lords let their eyes linger far too long. A priest’s lips parted in a whisper of awe that made me want to strike him where he sat.

My eyes swept the audience. Faces I had known for years—archdukes, scholars, high-ranking knights—watched her with open awe. Admiration.

Their eyes lingered.

And I hated it.

My teeth clenched. My fingers curled around the edge of the armrest. I glared out across the hall at the others gathered there—nobles who had no right to look at her with such naked yearning. They didn’t know her. They hadn’t watched her rise again and again through pain and sacrifice. She was not some ornament to be consumed with the eyes and cast aside with the next passing fashion.

A raw, ugly bitterness rose in my throat, one I had no right to entertain. I was not her husband. I was barely her fiancé, our engagement a matter of course. I had not touched her beyond what was required. Had not taken what was not mine. I could not stand the thought of losing her as my family.

But they had no such restraint in their gaze. They saw the Goddess of Light and forgot she was Rozemyne. They did not see the childish fool that still chirped when she was excited, the reckless devotion to books, the fevered mana that had nearly killed her more times than I cared to count. They did not know the girl who ran herself ragged trying to make the world gentler, fairer, more literate. They only saw the woman in gold and thought to covet.

Disgusting.

Not that I was innocent. Not really.

I wanted her too. I would not clothe it in false terms. I desired her presence. Her attention. Her trust. And yes, even her body—though I loathed myself for it. I had not earned the right. I, who had been her priest and protector, who had raised her up as a symbol of divinity, had no right to feel what I felt now. Not when she was so utterly unguarded with me. So trusting. So… innocent, in ways that only made everything worse.

If she thought of me at all in such terms, she never let it show. And I did not want her to.

No—she did not deserve to have to carry that. My desires were mine to battle. Mine to bury. To force that weight onto her would be intolerable. Dirty, yes. From me, it was filth. From them, it was something worse—violating. They did not even know her. I at least—

…I knew her.

I knew her in her entirety.

Her selfishness and selflessness. Her pride and shame. Her ambition and fear. Her pain. Her resolve. And still, I loved her.

Not as a political ally. Not as a vessel of the gods.

As Rozemyne.

She had offered her companionship freely. It warmed something in me I did not know I still possessed. But even then, I had not trusted myself. Years earlier, I had given her my namestone and asked her to keep it. To use it only if necessary. A safeguard. Because I knew there might come a day when I could not be relied upon to do what was proper.

Rozemyne, of course, had accepted with some hesitation. And had never once tried to wield that power. She despised the very idea of giving namesworn commands. She would let the world collapse before she used that magic for her own convenience.

That was why I trusted her.

Why I loved her.

And why, as I watched her draw the Whirl to a close, the final flare of her dress marking her last elegant spin, I stayed seated. I did not clap. I did not speak.

I merely watched her—light-bound, radiant, otherworldly—and committed every detail to memory.

This was Rozemyne.

And I was wholly, irrevocably hers.

There had been times—rare, quiet moments behind closed doors—when I allowed myself the smallest indulgences. A hand on her cheek that lingered too long. Fingers threading gently through her hair as she read beside me. A chaste hug when she came back from an exhausting meeting, the kind that other might gawk at if they were watching.

I had hoped—feared—that she might recognize the deeper sentiment behind those gestures. A spark of awareness. A flush of understanding. Anything. But Rozemyne, in her guileless, maddening way, simply accepted it as affection from someone she considered family. When others had asked her—bluntly, or with courtly suggestion—if she loved me, she would tilt her head and smile, saying, “Of course I do. He’s family.”

Family.

The word twisted like a knife.

Everyone who had ever called me that before had left me behind the moment it was no longer convenient. They had taken what they needed, and when I ceased to be useful or easy to bear, they had discarded me without hesitation. The bonds of family, in my life, had always been ephemeral things. Illusions. Traps.

Everyone but her.

She alone had defied that pattern. She had chosen me, time and time again. Not because I was useful. Not because I demanded it. But because she wanted to. She had challenged a duchy, a country, the gods themselves for my sake. She had stood against the High Bishop and defied the gods in the garden of beginnings. She had endured pain, isolation, exhaustion—carrying the burden of sainthood and rulership, shouldering my sins alongside her own.

And what had I done?

I had taken her love—pure, incandescent, unfiltered by lust or expectation—and I had tainted it. Warped it beneath the weight of my own unresolved longing. She offered me trust without reservation. Devotion without limit. And I, in my selfishness, had twisted it into something I barely recognized. I had told myself it was noble, restrained. That I had done nothing improper. No inappropriate touches. No unspoken promises.

But intent mattered more than action. And I knew what I felt.

The truth, brutal and unbecoming, was that I loved her in ways she might never understand. That the sight of her smiling from across a room, of her hair catching light, of her sleepless with a book cradled in her arms—those things destroyed me. I had buried my heart beneath layers of decorum, but she had unearthed it with frightening ease.

And yet…

She still did not see me.

Not fully.

To her, I was the mentor. The partner. The safe one. A figure she could lean on and trust, whose arms were never dangerous, whose presence was never threatening. And part of me—most of me—wanted to preserve that image. To protect her from the darkness I knew too well.

But part of me resented it. The distance. The obliviousness. The sheer innocence of it all.

Rozemyne was no longer a child. Her mind was sharp, her magic overwhelming, her responsibilities vast. And yet she walked through life with the clarity of someone unburdened by desire. Perhaps it was simply her nature. But she did not seem to want—not the way I wanted her. Not the way a man desired a woman.

And I would not sully her with that truth.

I had given her my namestone so she would have a weapon against me, should I ever fail to control myself. I trusted her more than I trusted myself. Because despite everything… despite the hunger and shame and conflict…

I loved her.

And I would rather be her family—her safe place—than become a monster she feared.

Even if that meant burying the part of me that longed for more.

And then—

She turned.

Her amber-gold gaze met mine. Unwavering. Bright. Innocent in a way that scalded me.

She smiled.

Not the polite one she gave to the crowd. Not the ceremonial smile of the Saint. The real one small, warm, meant for me alone. Like she had been searching for me in the sea of faces and, having found me, no longer cared for any other.

And in that instant, all my anger crumbled.

My scowl melted before I could stop it, my lips tugging into something soft. I couldn’t hold onto my rage—not with her looking at me like that. Not when she saw only me, even surrounded by a hundred others. Her gaze held no confusion, no awareness of the way the room devoured her with their eyes.

Good.

I would shield her from that ugliness. From the filth of the world. I would take every blow, shoulder every burden, bury every impure thought and never let it touch her. She did not see their desire, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Let her eyes remain on me—bright and trusting and untainted.

And I would do anything, anything, to keep them there.

Chapter Text

A wave of nausea passed as I was transported through the teleportation circle that transported me from the Royal Academy to Alexandria for the last time as a student. The years I spent there weren’t always pleasant but I survived. 

My retainers and mountain of luggage had gone ahead hours before. They had waited for us at attention by the circle in Alexandria in preparation for our arrival. Only Ferdinand, our guards, and I remained for the last jump—both out of necessity and because we’d been busy. Smoothing over last-minute frictions, receiving every last congratulation and plea for favor had dragged on longer than anyone liked.

Now we stood in the teleportation room of the Alexandria castle, cloaked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of clothes and clink of armor as knights relaxed from travel. I swayed slightly, knees wobbling under me.

“Don’t fall,” Ferdinand said, catching my elbow with practiced ease before I could tip forward. His voice was dry but tired, and he didn’t let go immediately. “It would be embarrassing to faint now, of all times.”

“I wouldn’t faint,” I muttered, wobbling a little more for effect. “I might simply… take a tactical nap.”

“You are not collapsing in the corridor. Walk.”

“My stamina is at its limit already. I might develop a fever if this goes on,” I complained, dragging my feet through the corridor like a withering flower in dire need of sunlight—or rather, books and sweets.

“You may take a rejuvenation potion,” Ferdinand offered with a pointed glance, completely unsympathetic.

“Disgusting. You may run yourself like a war horse, but do not pass those bad habits onto me. I enjoy a healthy relationship with potions—one where I avoid them unless death is imminent.”

“Then your other option is to increase your daily exercise regimen,” he said smoothly. “You clearly lack the endurance for your current workload.”

No! I gasped internally, horror freezing me mid-step. That would cut into my reading time!

I already barely had enough hours in the day to rule the duchy, endure the endless tangle of noble politics, manage printing and education efforts, and conduct diplomacy. 

Maybe—maybe—I could sneak in half a book before drooling on the page in my sleep.

“That is just plain evil,” I said, aghast. “You know how hard I work to steal even a few hours a day with my beloved library. My meager visits are the only thing keeping me sane!”

“There is still much to do before you can retire,” he replied without a shred of pity.

Of course, he was right. I hadn’t even eaten dinner yet, and I still needed to visit the Alexandria foundation to resupply mana. During the Interduchy Tournament, Letizia had been tasked with using the feystones filled with our mana, since Ferdinand and I were away. That was a difficult burden for a child.

We’d felt bad about sending her home early and asking her to shoulder such responsibility. She couldn’t attend the tournament, but she had been the only other person with access to the foundation. I needed to properly thank her and grant her an award for her efforts. The award could wait a few days—but I had to relieve her of her duties.

I turned pleading eyes on Ferdinand. “Can I at least ride my highbeast for the rest of the evening?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s unbecoming of your current position. Your highbeast no longer suits your image. As a child, it was charming. Now you are an adult. Grace is expected.”

I nearly collapsed right there. A dagger to the heart would have been kinder. Still, I must have looked thoroughly miserable, because he sighed, lifted his hand discreetly, and poured mana into my strength-enhancing charms.

“Just finish the day,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Then rest. Sleep in tomorrow. We’ll visit your lower city family after that.”

His whispers tickled my ear and I wanted to hug him.

I really wanted to hug him.

But people were watching, so I settled for a gracious nod and trudged on, newly strengthened, toward my next obligation.

By the time I actually hit my sheets, I was beyond exhausted. My retainers barely managed to get the styling gel out of my hair during the bath before I conked out. It was still slightly damp—no time to dry it fully with the towel.

The curtains were drawn. The lights were dimmed.

I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I woke up feeling… refreshed. Oddly so.

It was a disorienting kind of freshness—the kind that made you lie there blinking at the ceiling and thinking, Wait, I’m an adult now? I had technically been one this entire time, ever since arriving in this world, but now it was official. My coming-of-age ceremony was over. I had graduated from the Royal Academy. It was all very strange.

Somehow, it made me nostalgic for my past life in Japan. For Urano. For Mom.

My eccentric, overbearing, well-meaning mother who forced me into ballet lessons even though I had zero interest in them. And now look at me—I’d actually used that knowledge here. The whirl used during graduation dances was essentially just a contest of grace while disoriented and what could be more graceful than ballet. I had a rudimentary understanding of it, and I thought I’d be able to fudge it with my muscle memory and outfit alone.

Ferdinand, however, was not the type to let things be "good enough." He’d rooted through my memories using a criminal interrogation headband—criminal, I say!—and gone through every single ballet lesson I could recall. He said nothing about it, of course, but I was sure he liked what he saw. He spent so much time observing and extracting every detail that I slept for twelve hours afterward.

When I woke up, I received some rather scandalous looks from my retainers. Not accusatory ones, but the kind of looks kids give when they catch their parents kissing. Curious, a little embarrassed, a lot flustered. I guess our faces were pressed together to awhile while I laid on my bed. Completely scandalous by noble standards. 

They had been present when Ferdinand administered the potion. The potion.

Its official name was Mana Synchronization Potion, a tool generally used in preparing criminals for memory interrogation… and also for married couples intending to bear children. 

Ahem. Yes. That kind of potion.

I knew exactly what it was. It was meant to align the mana of the brewer and the recipient. If the two had mismatched mana affinities, the potion would taste foul. If their affinities were close—or, as in our case, nearly identical—it tasted sweet.

I drank that potion.

And it was very, very sweet.

Of course, we didn’t want anyone to know that our mana matched so well. Not even my retainers. My Devouring had left me dangerously susceptible to having my mana dyed by others.

Ferdinand had started making me practice the whirl daily afterward. Relentlessly. It became part of my routine leading up to graduation. We even began teaching it to my retainers, who watched my lessons with rapt attention. We didn’t have those giant wall mirrors like in normal ballet studios, but the castle had no shortage of ornate, oversized mirrors. They did the job well enough.

Thanks to all that training, my body—grown forcefully by the gods, mind you—had developed lean muscle like I’d never had in either of my lives. As Urano, I never exercised. I only ever cared about books. But if I’m being honest… I always kind of wanted a body like this. Strong, graceful, balanced. Not that I would’ve ever admitted it back then—reading was my whole identity, and caring about something like muscle tone felt off-brand. My body was an afterthought.

Still, none of this would have happened without the circumstances I’m in now. The divine growth, the endless dance rehearsals, the training Ferdinand insisted on. Even my current form—yes, even this body—was something shaped by duty, not desire.

It’s not like I would have done all this exercise before. My previous lifestyle was far too free for such discipline. Now, even my body was the product of circumstance. Of expectations. Of divine meddling.

Too bad I couldn’t show it off.

I’d gotten used to how modest the fashion was here, but sometimes I still yearned for a tank top and shorts. Just a lazy day at the beach, sipping something cold with a book or few in hand. Now I lived in a sweltering climate and was still forced to wear layers that covered me from neck to ankle. Cooling magic circles or not, it was the principle of the thing.

Criminal, really.

Just as I was imagining myself in sandals with a trashy paperback, the best kind of thing to read at the beach, and something ice-cold in hand, an ordonnanz zipped into my room. Ferdinand’s stern voice rang out three times: “It is time to prepare.”

Finally!

I practically leapt out of bed. Despite the ache in my shoulders and the vague sense that I hadn’t gotten quite enough sleep, I couldn’t help the bubbling excitement. I was going to see my family. 

My attendants helped me into my usual “rich commoner” attire—nothing too flashy, but made from expensive fabrics and finely tailored to look just right. The goal was to blend in with Alexandria’s upper-middle merchants, not stand out like a noble inevitably would. I was practically bouncing in place with excitement. It had been ages since I’d last visited my family, and today wasn’t just any visit—it was a celebration.

When I entered the teleportation room, Ferdinand was already waiting there, calm and collected as ever.

And then I stopped in my tracks.

He wasn’t wearing his usual noble robes, the ones so big and floaty that they covered him entirely. Nor was he in his bulky knight’s armor, which made him look like a statue. No, today he was in a fitted tunic and trousers. Fitted. Properly fitted. Not a single billowing sleeve or ceremonial clasp in sight. The dark fabric hugged his frame in ways I was absolutely not accustomed to, and his belt sat just right on his waist and the dark fabric of his tunic actually followed the shape of his body. His sleeves ended right at the wrist. His pants—well, let’s just say they existed, and that was scandalous enough. His hair was even tied back showing more of his face and neck then is normally visible The whole look was simple but devastatingly sharp. Honestly, it was a little unfair to all the people in the world who could appreciate a strapping man like that. 

I stared.

Oh. Oh.

Suddenly, a comment one of the older students at the Royal Academy made last year came back to me. “You know, there’s always something dangerous about the quiet ones with large robes.”

At the time, I’d thought they meant something like hidden weapons.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I mentally slapped my cheeks. Focus, Rozemyne. I am going to visit family!

“Wow,” I blurted before I could stop myself, giving him an impressed once-over. “You clean up really well, Ferdinand.”

His eye twitched. “I am always clean.”

I grinned. How silly.

But then his gaze swept over me, slow and assessing. My hair was pinned up fully for the first time, not a single strand left trailing down. Nobles wore their hair down when they were children or students, but adults kept it up.

Now that I was officially of age, my retainers had insisted on styling me properly. My hair was pin straight so I couldn’t achieve the same type of effortlessly elegant wispy curls Rosina had. 

Ferdinand's expression didn’t change, but I could feel him stare. Just a flicker—barely anything. But it told me enough.

I achieved passing marks.

Of course, he didn’t say anything nice. The rare “Very Good” was out of my reach. That would be unlike him to praise so easily. I pumped my fist anyway. 

Ferdinand raised a brow. “You are ready?”

“Yes! Yes. Completely ready. Let’s go. Now,” I said, too quickly.

Without missing a beat, he turned to activate the teleportation circle, and in a blink, we vanished—appearing just outside the door of my family’s home in the merchant district of Alexandria.

The door burst open before either of us could even announce ourselves.

“My baby’s here!!” Mama cried, arms wide, and I was immediately swept up into a warm, overenthusiastic hug.

“Happy coming of age!” Tuuli said brightly from behind her, already reaching for my hands. “You look amazing.”

“They’re going to squeeze her unconscious,” Luts whispered somewhere behind us, but I didn’t care. 

Kamil didn’t rush up to me to give me a hug so I did it for him. He was still shy around me but he had gotten more used to the idea that I was his sister. Probably due to the fact that my family could reminisce on my time with them openly now. 

The room smelled like home, even though I had never lived there, like flour and warm wood and the very specific scent of the family's homemade Rinsham. The house was bigger than our old one in Ehrenfest, but still just as lived-in, just as comfortably cluttered. The walls were lined with handmade curtains and little trinkets from everyone’s work, all woven into the warmth of daily life.

“Oh, come inside, come inside—don’t just stand there in the hall!” Mama urged, already tugging me toward the sitting room.

Ferdinand followed behind me with the composure of someone entering a temple, but when Effa turned back and gave him a cheerful, “Welcome, Ferdinand. Come, sit. You’re family too, aren’t you?”—he didn’t stiffen or deflect. Just gave a very small nod and a rare, polite smile.

He smiled. Genuinely.

We sat. Then there was food. So much food. Plates seemed to multiply every time I blinked—savory pastries, roasted nuts, fresh fruit, and things I knew weren’t seasonal but had mysteriously appeared anyway (Ferdinand definitely gifted those). I was barely seated when Tuuli was already fussing with my hairpins, admiring how my hair looked completely up.

“It suits you,” she said, gently flicking a dangling charm. “You look really pretty.”

Lutz dropped onto the couch beside us with a snort. “About time you started wearing it up. You’re a whole year late, if it looked funny that’d be kinda sad.”

“Hey!” I puffed up indignantly.

“Well, you look good,” he added with a smirk.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, was seated by the window with a cup of something light, nodding politely as Gunther recounted some over-the-top tale from his guard work, complete with dramatic gestures. I braced for an eyeroll or a sigh or some kind of grumpy correction—but no. Ferdinand just sipped his drink and let it wash over him.

After everyone’s bellies were good and full—Ferdinand included, even if he only ever spooned enough towards his mouth that a baby could swallow easily—Lutz pulled out a bottle with a triumphant grin.

“Now that you’re officially an adult, Myne, you can have the hard stuff. It’s a gift from Benno”

“Oh, generous,” I muttered, and he just chuckled.

Benno, Corrina, and Otto had apparently sent their regards—and, more importantly, alcohol. Lutz proudly pointed out the decorative bottle on the table with an exaggerated wink. “The adults said this one’s for the actual adults. Technically, you can drink for real now.”

Ferdinand immediately frowned. “Absolutely not.”

Mama added her voice to the objection, arms crossed and brows raised. “Do you all not remember what happened last year?”

Tuuli leaned close and whispered, “Don’t. It’s strong. Last time Benno gave Mama some, she climbed on a chair to dance and almost broke her neck”

“...Noted.” I still wanted some. 

But before Ferdinand could shut it down completely, Papa leaned forward and jabbed a thumb at himself. “She’s an adult now. And she gets it from me. Let her drink.”

And just like that, everyone launched into reminiscing about my actual first time drinking.

It was during Lutz’s coming of age, back when I was no longer the High Bishop but still knew the date by heart. His family had stayed behind in Ehrenfest, and only my family was here to celebrate with him. I couldn’t just not do anything—he deserved a proper celebration too.

I’d asked Ferdinand to pick out a good bottle for him. “Something nice,” I’d said, and he’d actually taken me seriously, picking something light and sweet. I even got special permission to stay late with my family that night.

Somewhere along the way, Tuuli and Mama decided we should make it a dual celebration. “You would’ve had your ceremony today too,” they said. And since I was their daughter first, they’d do it their way.

They did my hair up to look more mature—well, as much as they could without hair gel. It flopped in places, but honestly? I thought I looked cute. It was the version of myself that could’ve been if I’d stayed with them in the lower city: Myne, the commoner, all grown up.

Ferdinand didn’t even object when Papa poured us both a glass. He’d picked the bottle someone newly of age, after all. And wow, it was good. So good that Lutz and I finished it together, laughing the whole time like menaces.

At one point I just stared at them—Tuuli and Lutz—and declared, “You can finally marry her now. The world’s most reliable boy, and the world’s cutest girl. What is this feeling in my chest…?”

I made a silly grin.

“Is this what it’s like to ship?!”

Everyone blinked. No one got it. I refused to elaborate.

Then I started fighting Lutz. Obviously.

“You just wanna marry my sister for her boobs,” I accused, pointing dramatically. “You want all her squishiness to yourself!”

“You idiot,” Lutz groaned, then noogied me so hard I nearly fell off the bench.

I started crying about how I wanted to be an adult too, and clung to everyone I could reach. Especially Kamil. He was small and warm and cute and perfect. I wasn’t letting go. He complained the whole time but never tried to push me away. 

Ferdinand tried to intervene once or twice, but gave up. He just stood nearby, wine glass in hand, watching it unfold.

Eventually it was way past the time we were supposed to leave, and he finally came to drag me off. But I was still mid-cling.

“I don’t get enough hugs at the castle,” I mumbled into his chest. “No one’s of equal station anymore, and hugging retainers is not allowed. Nobody ever wants to hug me.”

“I’m aware,” he said, attempting to pry me off.

Even after we teleported back to the castle, I refused to let go. When he tried to walk away, I just started walking backwards with my arms still around his neck, and he got so annoyed he just picked me up.

And so he carried me.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and refused to budge. I was slurring complaints and rubbing my face on his shirt. Of course, a servant caught sight of us right as I said, “Please don’t let me go. Just a little bit longer…”

The rumors spread within the hour.

Back in the present, Ferdinand cleared his throat. “That was the evening after which your… unbecoming behavior became the subject of castle gossip.”

I rolled my eyes. “So what? Let them talk. Just another rumor for the mill. It’s not like people don’t already act like we’re in love. Besides, we’re getting married anyway.”

“That does not make your conduct appropriate. You are inviting commentary that suggests—”

“Suggests what? Premarital relations?” I leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. “Nobles really see everything as scandalous.”

“You are at an age where such wants are expected.”

“No one should expect such wants from me, thank you very much. Hmph.”

I crossed my arms with a huff, then narrowed my eyes at Ferdinand. “And anyway, how come you didn’t get drunk? You drank just as much as everyone else.”

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “If I weren’t drunk, I wouldn’t have let you cling to me and carry you throughout the castle while you begged for more hugs. My judgement was impaired.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

Ferdinand just gave me a long look over the rim of his cup and shook his head faintly. Papa patted him on the back in a slow, wordless rhythm. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but Ferdinand didn’t protest.

Once everyone finished laughing and teasing me about the past, I cleared my throat and picked up the bottle again. Ferdinand, after a long-suffering sigh, finally relented and let me pour drinks—under strict supervision, of course. I didn’t mind. I got to clink cups with Papa, toast with Mama, and make faces at Kamil when he pretended to be scandalized by the idea of his big sister drinking.

“And you, Tuuli,” I said, reaching over to refill her cup with all the enthusiasm of someone who had definitely had enough already. “You haven’t even touched yours. You’re the most grown-up-looking person here. Come onnn, drink with me!”

Tuuli’s eyes flicked to Lutz, then back to me. She gave a small, sheepish smile and placed a hand over her cup.

“Actually… I’m not drinking tonight.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

Lutz scooted closer, grinning like a fool. “Because we have an announcement.”

Tuuli swatted at him, but it was too late. Everyone turned to look.

“What kind of announcement?” I asked.

Tuuli flushed, fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, then glanced down and said softly, “We’re expecting.”

Silence.

Then Mama gasped so loudly Kamil actually jumped. “Tuuli!”

Papa nearly dropped his drink. “Wait, seriously?!”

Lutz put an arm around her and nodded.

I blinked.

Then blinked again, this time really looking at her. She was wearing something looser than usual—still pretty, still styled, but not her usual snug-waisted stuff. And now that I noticed… there was a slight curve to her stomach. Not just the kind you get from eating too many sweet buns. A small, but unmistakable bump.

My mouth fell open. “Wait.”

Tuuli gave me a nervous smile, but it was too late.

I pointed, eyes wide. “You’re pregnant?!”

Lutz beamed like an idiot. He reminded me of my dad when he told us about Kamil.

“...So that means you guys had sex?!”

The whole room went still.

Tuuli’s face went red immediately. She covered it with both hands and made a strangled noise.

Mama looked like she was trying not to laugh and scold me at the same time. Papa choked on his drink.

Lutz seemed to have taken after Benno far too much. He grinded his fist into my head hard.

“Ow ow ow ow— Stop it!” I squawked, flailing. “You’ll give me a bald spot!”

“You know where babies come from, Rozemyne!” he barked, still grinding. “Why would you ask something that dumb?!”

“Wha— I know that, obviously!” I flailed, ears burning. “It’s just—It’s my Tuuli!!”

He leaned in, puffed up with a cocky grin. “You mean it’s myyyy Tuuli~”

“You—ugh—your boy parts defiled my sister!” I screeched, dramatically pointing at him with one hand while rubbing my head with the other.

Tuuli peeked at me between her fingers, mortified. “Can you not yell that in front of our parents?!”

Ferdinand let out a very long, very deliberate sigh beside me.

“You’re an adult,” he muttered. “And yet somehow still shockingly immature.”

“I am mature! I just—! This is big!” I looked back at Tuuli. “You’re really going to be a mom…”

Tuuli lowered her hands, cheeks still pink, and gave a small, nervous nod.

A lump rose in my throat. “I’m gonna be an aunt.”

 “We weren’t planning to say anything yet, but, uh—someone kept trying to pour wine into a pregnant woman.”

“Oh shut up,” I snapped, trying to glare, but it didn’t hold. I was already tearing up. “I didn’t know!”

Ferdinand reached over and plucked the bottle out of my hands before I could do anything else impulsive. “No more for you.”

“Fine,” I mumbled, then turned back to Tuuli and Lutz and smiled. “Congratulations. I mean it.”

She smiled back. “Thank you.”

And then the table erupted—Mama crying, Papa cheering, Kamil saying he would make picture books for the baby.

Ah that boy makes me so proud.

Amid it all, I sat back and let it wash over me, hands folded over my chest, heart full.

Our family was growing. The world was changing again.

The celebration finally died down, everyone scattered with full bellies and bright eyes. I caught Tuuli sneaking off to the washroom and pounced before she could escape.

“Walk with me,” I said, grabbing her wrist. “Just for a bit.”

She gave me a knowing look—one only an older sister can give—and nodded.

We stepped into the quiet courtyard behind the house, away from the lingering chatter. The spring breeze tugged at our hair. I paced like a caged animal, then spun to face her, hands clenched in front of me.

“I have to ask,” I blurted, voice low and fast like I was confessing a crime. “Did you fall in love before or after you got married? Did you want to kiss him? Were you scared the first time? Was it weird? Is it really that embarrassing? What if I’m bad at it—Tuuli?!”

Tuuli blinked. Then laughed—not unkindly, but with the full force of a big sister who’d seen this coming for years.

“Oh, Myne…”

I buried my face in my hands. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

She gently pulled my hands away. “Alright, alright,” she said, tone soft. “Breathe.”

I inhaled like I was about to dive underwater. Tuuli leaned against the low wall, looking up at the clouds while she answered, her voice calm and reflective.

“It wasn’t love at first, not really. We knew each other for so long—we cared, but love came gradually. Like... the changing of the season. Before I knew it, the snow had melted and spring was there.”

I nodded rapidly, eyes wide, absorbing every word like scripture.

“As for kissing... I did want to. I was nervous, sure, but mostly excited. It felt right, even if I was embarrassed.”

“Was it awkward?” I whispered.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, smiling. “But we talked through it. We laughed. I was scared the first time, but Lutz was gentle. We went slow.”

I chewed my lip. “And what if I—what if I don’t know what to do at all? What if I mess up and make a fool of myself?”

“You won’t,” she said firmly. “Not if you trust him. And if he cares about you, really cares, he’ll be patient. Just like Lutz was with me.”

“It feels weird to hear that about Lutz. We were kids together, all of us. I never felt so odd about hearing other people discuss pregnancy.”

“Well you have always been happy to hear about babies. Don’t you want some with Ferdinand?”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t have to. Tuuli gave me that look again—half amused, half tender.

“I don’t think you’re nearly as unready as you think,” she said.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy carving every word into my memory like I was preparing for a high-level scripture test.

“Thanks,” I said finally, voice small. “I needed to hear that.”

Tuuli tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, just like she used to when I was little. “You’ll be fine, Myne. You always are.”

And when she said it like that, I believed it.

By the time farewells were said and the teleportation circle flared to life, the evening had mellowed into the warm hush of twilight. Effa stepped forward at the threshold, her hands folded tightly in front of her.

“Thank you, Lord Ferdinand,” she said, bowing. “For always taking such good care of my daughter.”

Ferdinand gave a slow, measured incline of his head. “It is a responsibility I have chosen. There is no need for thanks.”

His voice was steady as ever, but there was a quiet warmth underneath it that made my throat catch for a second.

Then—light. The teleportation magic pulled tight around us, and the world lurched.

We arrived in a hallway of the castle. My feet were steady beneath me, but my stomach flipped—not badly, just enough to remind me that teleporting and alcohol didn’t mix well.

I leaned forward with a soft groan, pressing a hand to my temple.

“You are unwell?” Ferdinand asked, stepping closer.

“Just a little… bubbly,” I said. “I shouldn’t have had that last glass.”

“You had more than you should have,” he noted.

“I also had dinner!” I shot back, defensive. “I am not that irresponsible.”

“Mm.” His hand came to rest lightly on my back, rubbing a slow, deliberate circle. His fingers were cold. Soothing. It felt ridiculously nice.

Without thinking, I reached back, grabbed his wrist, and tugged it up toward my hot cheek.

“Let me borrow this.”

“…My hand?”

“Yes. It’s freezing. It’s perfect.” I pressed the back of it to my face with a content sigh.

He quirked a brow, mildly alarmed. “You are a fool.”

“And you’re cold.” I turned his hand and pressed his palm to my other cheek. “It feels nice.”

“You are being strange,” he muttered. He didn’t pull away.

We stood like that for a moment, then he shifted slightly and pulled his hand free with the kind of patience he usually reserved for nobles explaining something obvious too slowly.

“I will walk you to your chambers,” he said, offering his arm.

“…Because I might stagger, or because you’re a little wine-softened and want an excuse to be close?”

“Yes.”

I squeaked. “How forthcoming.”

“Maybe,” he said with a straight face.

I took his arm anyway.

The hallways were dim and quiet as we walked, the sound of our footsteps soft on the polished floor. His pace was slower than usual, almost relaxed. The light brush of his sleeve against mine was oddly grounding.

“You were happy tonight,” he said after a while. “Unburdened.”

“Well… I got to be myself completely and Tuuli’s going to be a mother.” I smiled, looking ahead. “That’s not something I ever imagined, not really. But it makes me proud. Excited. Nervous. All of it.”

“She will do well,” he said. “And you will make an excellent aunt.”

I glanced up at him. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was. You may savor it—briefly.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, then laughed. It felt so easy.

When we reached my door, he didn’t immediately let go. His eyes searched mine for a moment, the edges of his mouth relaxed in something just shy of a smile.

“Goodnight, Rozemyne,” he said softly. Not distant. Not formal.

I stood there, caught in the warmth of it.

“…Goodnight, Ferdinand.”

He lingered a second more, then turned and walked away.

I slipped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it. My cheeks were hot, and I pressed both hands to them, trying to slow the rush of blood to my face.

“…He’s way too smooth when he drinks,” I muttered. Then, quieter:

“Next time, I’ll get to drink more, I really want to see him drunk. I bet it’s funny.”

And I giggled to myself, heart unreasonably full.

Chapter Text

Sometimes I had to remind myself to be grateful for Ferdinand. As much as I cared for him, he was someone with unrealistic expectations of those around him.  The memories of meeting with my family and having a blissfully relaxing evening felt like a distant dream.

I was already buried in paperwork. Apparently it was the brunt of the work I had been pushing onto Ferdinand while I was underage, all of it relating to managing the duchy.

I had so much mana now that I poured a massive amount into the duchy daily during the seasons I was out of school. We had decided not to use Ferdinand’s mana while he was handling all my work and I was completely okay with that but I had seen the kind of toll it had taken on him. With the face being that we stole the duchy there was not many people he trusted to delegate the work to either.

This morning, I had woken up early, intent on implementing the research developed at the Royal Academy into Alexandria’s library infrastructure and ask Ferdinand about some promises he had to fulfill. I went to him for consultation mentioning the library first since I figured that would be an easier topic to cover, only to be met with the sight of a vein nearly popping on his forehead. He launched straight into a lecture: “If you have time for recreational projects, then you clearly have time to handle your own official duties!”

I didn’t even get to ask about his promises. 

I had usually only done work involving budgets and ledgers, math being one of the subjects this world had been behind in.

Now in front of me was work involving projects I had wanted to start in Alexandria not related to book keeping.

We hadn’t actually be able to start the things I wanted while I was a child. We had a hard enough time being the duchy back into a state of stability and snuffing out the corruption that had become an integral part of nobility here. It reminded me of when I took over as high bishop of the Ehrenfest temple only on a grander scale.

We had to at least make sure the people were not suffering.

I had filled the land with mana which made all the agricultural industries thrive but it left us with problems no one expected. Such as storage. Lots of crops ended up rotting before they could be sold because we did not have the infrastructure to sell or trade everything which led to a crisis of waste disposal on a large scale.

Then there was the nobility.

The mana imbalance had become political. Noble houses that had once held power by virtue of exclusive mana access were now questioning their relevance, especially as commoners began to quietly—but confidently—ask why they should submit to those who had failed them. That kind of unrest didn’t just vanish because the land was flourishing.

To make matters worse, some nobles still saw me as a young girl. Others propped me up as a religious figure. Few viewed me as a duchy’s ruler.

“Her Highness should focus on ritual and remain above mundane affairs,” they’d say. And yet, when decisions needed to be made, when paperwork piled up, when the duchy faced a crisis—who did they come to?

Ferdinand had borne the weight of my responsibilities while I was underage, and now that burden had shifted. I could see the strain it had left on him. I was picking up the pieces—project management, noble diplomacy, internal audits, expansion of the temple system—and every part was more political than practical.

I couldn’t just say “let’s build a library” and expect it to happen. I had to file proposals with the financial council, gain approval from giebes, and coordinate with architects, artisans, and merchants. Every move sparked power struggles. Every resource allocation offended someone.

I’d gained power. I had the Grutrissheit. But authority didn’t automatically make people listen. It just meant their resistance got quieter… and more dangerous.

And yet, despite all this, I still wanted to move forward. To make Alexandria into a duchy that actually worked—for scholars, for merchants, for children who loved books.

But getting there would be like dismantling and rebuilding a temple brick by brick while worshipers still prayed inside.

There had even been people foolish enough to aim for my life. My knights dispatched them without issue. I never even had to activate any of Ferdinand’s protective charms. My retainers checked my food and drinks with ritualistic care, and nothing ever slipped past them.

But even that was only the part I could see.

What I hadn’t fully grasped—what Ferdinand deliberately kept from me—was the sheer number of problems that never made it to my desk. Assassination plots, bribery attempts, noble houses colluding to quietly sabotage policy changes… Ferdinand handled them all, silently and thoroughly. He didn’t report them unless it was absolutely necessary. He wanted me focused on building Alexandria, not weighed down by the constant ugliness of politics.

I thought things were hard now, buried under paperwork and reforms—but I was only dealing with the surface. The part of ruling that could be solved by logic and mana. Ferdinand was the one cleaning up the blood behind the curtain.

And I’d let him. Without even realizing it.

She decided she was going to be the most reliable aub ever.

If Ferdinand could shoulder the entire weight of the duchy’s shadows to let her live in peace, the least she could do was handle the visible parts without complaint. She threw herself into the pile of paperwork like it was a duel she refused to lose. After all, it wasn’t meaningless drudgery—this was about education policy. Her territory’s future.

At least it was for things she wanted.

Still, even as she scribbled notes and drafted proposals, she could tell. Ferdinand was still indulging her. The work in front of her had been filtered. Curated. Not light, but manageable. And she saw his hand in the selection.

Most of the material concerned the education of children across the duchy, particularly commoners and laynobles. She leaned on every resource she could recall—Earth’s historical educational reforms, Japan’s modern Ministry of Education guidelines, and pedagogical theories that had never touched Yurgenschmidt’s soil.

If she succeeded, the next generation of her duchy wouldn’t just be well-fed—they’d be literate, skilled, and self-reliant.

It was exactly the kind of project she could throw her whole heart into.

They had worked for eight hours straight, only pausing for lunch. By dinner, Rozemyne’s hand ached, her back was stiff, and her head was full of education policies, infrastructure plans, and all the bureaucratic madness that came with running a duchy. Still, she could feel a sense of accomplishment. Her pile was visibly smaller, and Ferdinand—though characteristically unreadable—hadn’t taken any pages away from her or red-penned them to death.

She stabbed her fork into a piece of steamed vegetable at dinner and pouted. “I went through the proposals for the library book retrieval system today,” she said. “It’s still nowhere near ready. Boo.”

Ferdinand glanced up, his expression faintly amused. “A shame, considering how many times you prioritized it in your lists.”

“It’s important,” she said with a huff. “But it’s also—well, complicated. And expensive.”

She set her fork down, then gave him a look. He didn’t blink, but she knew he recognized that look.

“I want to talk about one of your promises,” she said, steadying her voice. “The Bible.”

His hand paused over his wine glass. “The complete version?”

She nodded. “You told me to wait until I came of age.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, deeply. Not out of annoyance—more like resignation. Then, he set the glass down and met her gaze directly.

“Very well. But you need an explanation or first and foremost.”

Rozemyne tilted her head, not backing down. “I want to understand. I want to know all of it—what you’ve shielded me from, and what I need to know to lead properly.”

Silence fell between them, weighty but not hostile.

At last, he said, “After dinner.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“I am a man of my word,” he muttered. “Though I may come to regret this particular vow.”

After dinner, I followed Ferdinand into his hidden room—just the two of them. The door opened easily for her now, but no one else could enter. The thick mana barrier rejected anyone who lacked mana on par with Ferdinand’s, which meant only she could cross the threshold with him.

The two Bibles of Mestionora rested on the central table—one a tablet, one a thick book. These were repositories of divine knowledge granted by the gods. I had copied emergency passages into his during a dire situation years ago. Now, they were finally ready to complete them properly.

“I was thinking we could finish copying the rest,” Rozemyne said, lightly tapping her fingers against the cover of her book. “It’s about time we made a complete version.”

Ferdinand stilled. “You remember what happened the last time.”

“Yes. I touched your book, you slapped my hand away, and you told me to wait until I came of age.” She crossed her arms. “Well, I’ve come of age.”

Ferdinand gave a slow sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand why I stopped you then. ”

“Yes that is because you did not explain,” I said indignantly. 

“I could not. At least not then. Also time was of the essence”

I nodded as I remembered that much and I made a rolling gesture with my hand prompting him to continue.

He coughed—a deliberate, stalling kind of cough—then finally said with strained composure, “Your copy and place spell affects me, when copying pages made entirely of my mana at least.”

Rozemyne blinked. “Affects how?”

Ferdinand’s mouth tightened into a thin line before he said bluntly, “It’s sexually arousing. Intensely.”

Her entire face flushed. “…Wha— You— What?!”

“That’s why I stopped you. Not because the spell wasn’t working, but because it was.” His voice was measured but firm.

He refused to meet my eyes. I, meanwhile, was desperately trying to process this horrifying revelation.

“I-It’s not supposed to do that, is it?”

“It’s a consequence of mixing high-purity mana with divine texts via physical contact. The books are linked to us. They react to intent and emotion. It isn’t something that can be filtered out.”

“So… if you touch my book…”

“You’ll feel it,” he said flatly. “Which is why I will not be the one to preform or initiate it. You must be the one to do it if we’re going to complete this Bible. I can endure it.”

I was still beet red, but I cleared my throat and straightened. “So long as it gives us the knowledge… I want to do it. I have to know what’s missing.”

Ferdinand gave me a look of deep exasperation, but behind it was that familiar resignation. “Of course you do.”

“I want to see what’s in your Bible,” I said. “I’m going to do it.”

Ferdinand gave me a long, hard stare. “You are certain?”

“I swipe with two fingers to copy, then place on the target page. Easy.” I stepped forward. “You told me to wait until I came of age. Well—I have. So I’m finishing what I started.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Easy, she says.”

I ignored the comment.

With a faint sigh, he turned to a page thick with divine script, lines glowing faintly beneath his fingertips. “If you’re truly intent on this… proceed.” He gestured to the open book before him.

I took a breath, then pressed two fingers to the page. “Copy,” I whispered, dragging them carefully across the passage.

No reaction.

I nodded, steadying myself. Then: “Place.” I laid my fingers onto my own page.

Ferdinand didn’t so much as blink.

“Copy. Place.”

The transfer worked—clean, satisfying.

Another line.

“Copy. Place.”

“Next section,” I muttered. “Copy. Place.”

Still nothing.

I allowed myself a smirk. “Good so far.”

“Do not get ahead of yourself,” he said, voice low.

I swiped another. “Copy. Place.”

Again. “Copy. Place.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

My rhythm picked up—drag, lift, press. I didn’t even glance at him. I was on a roll, and who knew how long I’d have access to this?

He was still. Composed.

So I picked up speed.

“Copy. Place. Copy. Place. Copy. Place. Copy. Place.”

I risked a glance. “That seemed to go okay?”

Ferdinand’s posture was stiff, his jaw clenched. “Continue. Just… be quick.”

He shifted slightly. I saw the tension building in his shoulders. One gloved hand curled faintly at his side.

Still, he said nothing.

“Copy. Place. Copy. Place. Copy. Place. Copy. Place.”

I didn’t look up.

“Rozemyne,” he said tightly. “That’s enough.”

A soft exhale escaped his nose. He braced a hand on the pedestal, the other locked straight at his side.

“But it’s working,” I said quickly. “Just a little more. I need the part on divine harmonics. Please.”

“…Rozemyne.” The edge was sharper now. Still quiet—but firm. A warning.

“Copy.”

“Place.”

“I said enough.” His voice was strained, his expression controlled—but only barely. “I’ve allowed more than I should.”

I did the same for the next line. “Copy.” I traced the characters. “Place.”

His shoulders tensed further. His voice came low, raw: “Rozemyne.”

“But there’s still—”

“I said enough.” Not shouted—but it struck like a slap. His fists clenched. He wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m just trying to get as much as I can while we’re here,” I said, hurriedly tracing the next line. “Copy—”

He suddenly choked—a sound torn from his throat, sharp and involuntary. His hand flew to his mouth, his body locking up.

I froze.

His composure cracked—not broken, but fractured. His breaths came shallow, labored.

“Ferdinand…?”

He raised a hand—not toward me, but to the side. A signal.

“Stop.”

The word was soft. Absolute.

I flinched.

He turned away, covering his face.

I blinked. “Did I really…?”

“Yes.”

He gave a single nod, chest rising and falling in rigid control. He didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was calm—too calm. Chilled with effort.

“I asked you,” he said, “politely.”

I froze. He wasn’t composed anymore. He was arranged. Too still. Too careful. Holding himself together piece by piece.

“I told you it would be arousing. I told you that when you use the spell on my mana, I feel it.”

His tone wasn’t sharp, but it rang with restraint—a tremor held at bay.

He exhaled slowly and dropped his hand. “If you had stopped when I first said to, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“…I didn’t realize,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” He closed his eyes. “But intent doesn’t undo consequence.”

His voice softened—but it didn’t ease. “You didn’t care to realize,” he said. “You got greedy.”

I winced. I had.

“You need to leave.”

My stomach turned. “Leave?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “I need to be alone.”

Oh.

Oh.

He didn’t elaborate.

“…Right.” I carefully shut my book and backed away, cheeks burning. “I’ll just… go. You’ve been very cooperative. Thanks. Sorry.”

I clutched my tablet to my chest. The weight of what I’d done hit belatedly. I’d gotten swept up—fast, greedy—and ignored every sign. He’d said enough, and I’d kept pushing.

My face turned scarlet.

I didn’t say another word. I turned, hurried from the hidden room, and let the door seal behind me.

Only once I was alone in the hallway did I exhale. My hands were shaking.

What had I been thinking?

He warned me. I pushed anyway. Just a bit more, just another line—I hadn’t noticed how far I’d gone, how much pressure he was holding back under.

I hugged the tablet tighter to my chest and shuffled back to my chambers, face burning.

He wasn’t angry.

But I’d crossed a line.

And I understood now—exactly—why he’d made me wait.

He wouldn’t stop me from trying again. But next time, I’d have to earn back his trust.

And I had a sneaking suspicion it would be even more awkward.

I shut the door to my chambers behind me and pressed my back to it, still clutching the tablet. My heart wouldn’t settle.

He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t even looked angry. But that only made it worse.

That kind of restraint—it was sharp, suffocating. The tight control in his voice, the clipped phrases, the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He hadn’t wanted to scare me. He’d been trying not to feel too much.

And I’d ignored every warning sign.

I made for my writing desk and placed the tablet down with trembling hands. Then I just stood there, staring at it. My pulse was still too fast. My skin still too hot.

“I got greedy,” I muttered aloud, hearing his voice again in my head.

But he hadn’t pushed me away out of anger.

He’d asked me to leave because he needed to—because it was taking everything he had not to react. That wasn’t rage. That was restraint—desperate, cracking restraint.

I sank into my chair. My cheeks burned anew, but the feeling in my chest had changed. It was still guilt, yes. But under that…

My eyes drifted to the ceiling. I imagined him in the hidden archive, still braced against the pedestal, breathing through the aftershocks I’d left him with. The thought was mortifying.

It was also—

My legs pressed together.

I buried my face in my hands. “No, no, no.”

But I couldn’t un-think it now. He hadn’t been angry. He’d been affected. Badly. By me.

I bit my lip.

He had warned me. Several times. It’s arousing, he said. It affects me when you use that spell on my mana. I’d nodded, I’d understood the words, but I hadn’t really felt the implications until his voice cracked and he had to turn away from me.

And now he was alone, calming himself down. Because of what I did.

My toes curled. I hated myself a little. But not completely.

“…Serves me right,” I muttered, shifting in my seat.

I wasn’t ready to face him again. But I wasn’t exactly dreading it either.

If anything…

I kind of wanted to know what he’d say.

I kind of wanted to see if he could look me in the eye.

And that was a whole new problem.

I stared at the tablet for another moment, then sighed and reached out. With a small flick, I dismissed it.

My legs felt heavy. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

I shuffled to the bed, improper since I was still clothed in my day clothes. I couldn’t muster the energy to have my attendants come in right now. I collapsed face-down onto the bed, and let out a muffled groan into the sheets.

He wasn’t mad.

He should have been—but he wasn’t. He was just overwhelmed. So composed, so unreadable… until he wasn’t.

My breath hitched.

That sound.

I turned my head and stared up at the ceiling. The noise echoed through me again, unbidden—a raw, unguarded gasp, like the breath had been punched out of him. No polish. No restraint. Just… Ferdinand, undone for a single second.

It looped again.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t go away. That rough sound. His hand flying to his mouth. The way he physically turned away from me. Not to hide anger—but to hide everything else.

I bit down on my knuckle.

What had it even felt like, on his end? Every “copy” I whispered. Every trace of my fingers over his magic. I thought it was nothing—clinical, methodical. A spell and nothing more.

But it had clearly felt like something to him.

A slow, guilty warmth pooled in my stomach.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this.

But I was.

Over and over again.

That choked sound. His voice low and ragged. The tension in his posture. The effort it took for him to not react, to not touch me, to not say something he couldn’t take back.

My cheeks flushed. My legs curled under me.

“Stop it,” I whispered to myself.

But I didn’t stop.

My thoughts drifted, pulled inexorably back to that moment. The point he broke. The point I pushed too far. The point he had to tell me to leave because staying would’ve meant—

I squeezed the pillow.

I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.

He hadn’t been angry. Not really. Strained, yes. A little clipped. But he hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t punished me. He just needed… space.

Because of me.

Because I kept going.

I turned onto my side, gripping the pillow tighter. That sound he made—raw, hoarse, almost like a choke—kept echoing in my ears. Over and over.

What was he doing now?

Still in that hidden room?

Meditating?

Trying to cool down? Trying not to think about the way my mana felt mixing with his?

Or maybe…

My cheeks burned as I shifted restlessly under the covers.

Maybe he wasn’t succeeding.

I imagined him again—his breathing shallow, his composure unraveling, hand braced against the pedestal like he needed to steady himself.

Maybe he was alone in that stillness, replaying the way I’d said “Copy.” The rhythm. The repetition. His body reacting without permission.

Maybe he had to—

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Oh no.

I pulled the blanket over my face.

I’m thinking like this now?!

It was wrong. It was lewd. I should be ashamed. I was! But the image wouldn’t go away—his expression, the noise, the tension in his shoulders. What if I had seen more? What if—

The door slammed open.

I yelped and flinched, almost rolling off the bed in my panic.

Lieseleta stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, her eyes already narrowed with suspicion. “It is well past midnight. I knew it. You weren’t at your desk, so I assumed you’d actually gone to bed, but no.”

She strode in and halted beside the bed. I was flushed, tangled in sheets, too warm from thoughts I shouldn’t have let spiral.

“You promised to keep a proper schedule now that you’re of age. Adults need rest to function.”

“I wasn’t reading,” I muttered, trying to disappear under the blanket.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I wasn’t! I was just thinking.”

Her frown deepened. “You think too much at night. That’s half the problem.”

“I’ll sleep soon.”

“No. You’ll sleep now. Sit up and let me get you changed.”

I froze. “I can do it myself.”

“You cannot,” she said sharply. “Your robes fasten down the back. You always need help.”

She reached out and tugged me upright with alarming strength for someone so elegant. I tensed.

“No bath tonight?” she asked, already beginning to unfasten the clasps at my nape.

“I’ll do it in the morning. I just—can’t right now.”

“…Can’t?” She arched a brow. “You’re not ill.”

“I just can’t, okay?” I couldn’t face her.

Not after everything I’d just been imagining.

A bath would mean being naked. With those thoughts still fresh? Absolutely not.

She paused. “You always bathe at night.”

“I said I’ll do it in the morning,” I insisted, too quickly.

Lieseleta eyed me, clearly sensing something was off. “Are you unwell?”

“No!”

Her fingers resumed their work down the back of my robe. I stared straight ahead, locking every joint in place, trying not to think about how vulnerable I felt while someone else peeled the layers away.

She was only being helpful. Dutiful. But I couldn’t stop imagining how it might feel if he—

Stop. Stop. STOP.

The garment slid from my shoulders and pooled at my feet.

Lieseleta handed me the sleeping shift with practiced efficiency, still none the wiser. I yanked it on in a rush, desperate to feel covered again.

“You’re sweating,” she said, fussing with my collar.

“It’s warm,” I lied, cheeks burning. “Goodnight.”

She gave me one last look—half scolding, half worried—before sighing and turning away.

“I’ll braid your hair.”

“No. I’ll sleep on it.”

“That’s a terrible idea—”

“Goodnight, Lieseleta!”

She grumbled under her breath as she left, muttering about how I was an adult in name only.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

I lay back in bed, heart pounding. My shift clung to my skin. My body felt far too aware of itself.

Of what it had imagined.

Of what he might be doing now, alone, behind a locked door, voice breaking in the dark.

My hands fisted the sheets.

I needed to sleep.

I needed to not think.

But I was already thinking again.

And it wasn’t going to stop.

Chapter Text

I woke up with a clear head—and immediately hated it.

The haze of last night had lifted, and all that remained was clarity, sharp and merciless. I had gone too far. I had used him. I had known what I was doing and still chose to keep going. The worst part? I hadn’t even felt bad about it at the time. No. I had let my mind wander, let myself think about him even after he expressed discomfort.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m an idiot,” I muttered, disgusted.

It hadn’t even been about closeness, not really. I had been desperate for the information in that book, for knowledge. I’d ignored everything else—his warnings, his words, the power imbalance—because my stupid little brain had fixated on a goal and refused to let go.

Even now, when I thought back to the moment I placed my hands on each sheet made of his mana and cast the spell, I could vaguely remember feeling something strange. Heat. Pressure. My own head had clouded faintly, even if it wasn’t nearly as intense as what he had experienced. Maybe it had affected me too. Maybe the mana exchange clouded my judgment like alcohol.

But that line of thinking was just another excuse.

I shouldn’t have continued after he asked me to stop. Period.

I’d had enough presence of mind to keep casting. Enough awareness to ignore the way he tensed. Enough selfishness to keep reaching. That made it worse, not better.

He had asked me to stop. And I hadn’t.

What would I have done in his place? Nothing. I couldn’t overpower him, not physically. But he could’ve easily overpowered me if he had wanted to. The thought sent a chill down my spine.

And then, worse—if I considered the magic, the name stone—it wasn’t just physical power. I could take away his autonomy with a word. I could destroy his will if I wished. The realization twisted in my gut like poison.

“Disgusting,” I hissed under my breath and smacked the side of my head with the heel of my palm. Once, twice. It didn’t help. I deserved worse.

What stung most was that Ferdinand hadn’t even gotten angry. Not really. Not the kind of sharp, biting anger he usually reserved for my more idiotic stunts. He had shut down. Quiet. Cold. That was worse.

I had to face him today. Apologize. Sincerely. Not just to clear my conscience—he deserved better than whatever twisted version of me had taken over last night.

My attendants prepared me for the day without question. I barely registered it, too deep in my own spiraling thoughts. When the time came, I walked to his office with the steps of someone heading to their own execution.

He was already there, of course. Working, as always. A few of the Alexandria advisors were still lingering, finishing up what looked to be a morning report. I waited until they excused themselves, bowing with the usual niceties.

Then he looked at me.

And stood.

He didn’t say anything. Just moved—quietly, deliberately—to the far side of the room.

The space between us was measured. Intentional. And it said everything I didn’t want to hear.

I drew a breath, my voice tight. “Clear the room,” I said to the remaining servants.

Doors closed behind me, and I was alone with him.

“…Ferdinand,” I started, and my throat caught. I forced the words through. “I’m sorry.”

His face didn’t move.

I swallowed. “I—I crossed a line.”

Still no reaction.

“I didn’t stop when you asked me to. That was selfish and wrong, and I won’t make excuses. I hurt you. You were vulnerable and I ignored it because I was obsessed with getting what I wanted. I know better. I am better. But I didn’t act like it.”

My voice dropped to a whisper. “I am so, so sorry.”

Ferdinand stood by the window with his hands behind his back, rigid as always, but the stillness in his frame wasn’t the usual discipline—it was distance. I had seen him in every shade of exhaustion, but this was different. He wouldn’t even look at me.

“I didn’t mean to do that to you,” I whispered, my voice small in the silence.

His back remained turned. “I know.”

Silence again. Heavy. Stifling.

“I just wanted to finish my Grutrissheit—it was something only you could give me. And I…” My words stumbled, as if some part of me still wanted to justify it. “I waited so long.” 

I was trying to explain my actions and thought process but it all felt empty. 

He turned at that. His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse. He looked… disappointed... In me.

“I told you what would happen,” he said quietly. “I told you I explicitly. I trusted you to stop when I asked.”

“I know,” I said, ashamed.

“You always become narrow minded where books are involved. When knowledge is within reach, you forget everything else.”

The words sliced deeper than any reprimand ever had. I wanted to argue, but there was nothing to say.

“I have used people, Rozemyne,” he continued. “I’ve maneuvered allies and enemies alike. I’ve made choices no man should make lightly. That is the role I was given. I accepted it.”

He stepped closer—quiet, composed, but with a tension just beneath the surface.

“But you… You, I thought, saw me differently. As family. As someone you cared for. Yet in that moment, you treated me as a tool. A book you could pry open for the contents inside.”

My breath caught. “That’s not—!”

He raised a hand—not in anger, but simply to stop the excuse. “You were alone with a man, Rozemyne. An unmarried woman, closed in with someone you know would be in a compromised state. Had I not stopped—had I not been able to stop—it could have ended very badly. For both of us.”

I stood quickly. “But you did stop. You would always stop. You’d never hurt me. And besides you are already my fiancé”

He looked at me then. Really looked. “No,” he said. “I would never hurt you. And because I know you, I know that you are not ready for all that is entailed to occur during marriage.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again deciding not to argue that last point, throat tight. “I didn’t think. I just… I wanted what was in the book. I didn’t mean to treat you like that.”

“That,” he said, voice finally softening, “is precisely what frightens me.”

I reached into the small cage on my belt and pulled out the small name stone, “Quinta” it read. My fingers trembled slightly as I held it out to him.

“Here. Take it back,” I said softly. “If this is what you think of me now, maybe I don’t deserve it.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then he stepped back, crossing his arms, shutting down the moment like a wall closing tight.

“No,” he said firmly, voice cold. He didn’t take the stone. He didn’t want to talk about it.

The silence stretched again, heavier than before.

I hesitated, then stepped forward, pressing the stone gently into his hand despite the stiffness in his posture.

“Please, Ferdinand. I meant to bring this up yesterday—before everything happened…” My voice cracked slightly. “You said you would take it when I came of age. Just like you said I could finish copying the book.”

His fingers twitched around the stone, but he didn’t close them.

“I said that under the assumption you would understand the implications by now.” His tone was sharp but quiet, cutting. “Obviously you do not and I was wrong.”

“But I do understand,” I insisted, fingers curling into fists at my sides. “I’ve been waiting. I’ve been trying—”

“We would not be having this conversation had you truly understood,” he interrupted, letting the stone fall back into my hands without meeting my gaze.

I flinched, clutching the name stone tightly against my chest. It felt heavier than before.

“I don’t want it,” he said. 

I stared down at the name stone in my hands, then back up at him, heart thudding.

“Why?” I asked, the word trembling with frustration. “Why not take it? We had this discussion before, didn’t we? We are to be married soon.”

His jaw tightened, but I pressed on.

“This comes with the assumption that we will have children. That we will be bound for life. What if something happens to me?” My voice rose, sharpened by panic. “What if I die? Then what? You’ll die too, and that will leave our children orphaned!”

Ferdinand’s expression faltered—his eyes widened, just slightly. I didn’t stop.

“You always plan for contingencies. You prepare for every possible outcome. So how can you refuse this now?”

Ferdinand’s gaze was flat. “We do not have children, and we are not yet married. Your argument holds no water.”

I gripped the stone tighter, heart pounding. “It was still a promise you made to me,” I said, eyes burning. “I thought you said you were a man of your word.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you still have years left of being of age, as far as I’m concerned,” he said coldly. “I have yet to break any promise.”

His eyes were cool, unreadable behind the barrier he always wore when emotions stirred too close to the surface.

“You do not understand the implications.” He continued to speak. 

Ferdinand stood, slow and deliberate. “You are not ignorant, Rozemyne. But you are—” he paused, forcing the words through his teeth, “innocent.”

I recoiled slightly, offended.

“Just yesterday you saw the type of effect you had on me. Am I right in assuming you’ve never had that type of reaction to me before?”

I had let the curiosity cross my mind before. Wondered what it would be like—what it might feel like to be wanted like that. To want like that. But never—never had I been desperately aroused the way he had been the day before.

“I…” My voice faltered. “I suppose not.”

Ferdinand nodded once, the motion sharp. “Exactly. You were not in the same state as I was. You were composed enough to decide—without truly understanding what you were provoking.”

“That wasn’t—” I began, then stopped. I had wanted something. The book. The knowledge. I had seen only the goal and disregarded the path to it.

“I told you what would happen,” he said, voice tight. “I told you I would not be able to stop if things went too far. And I trusted you to stop me. You did not.”

I flinched. “You didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have.”

His expression cracked—just faintly. “And I wouldn’t. But it should not have been my burden to halt what you initiated.” He looked down at me. “You were alone with a man, Rozemyne. Unmarried and tempting. It could have led to something we could not take back.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There were no excuses to be made.

“I meant it when I said I would protect you, Rozemyne,” he said at last. “This stone… binds me to your will. If I ever become—unreasonable—it ensures you can stop me. I gave it to you because I feared I might fail.”

“Fail how?”

Ferdinand’s gaze was steady, but the weight behind it was enough to make my knees feel unsteady.

“You are… very dear to me,” he repeated, slower this time. “If you cannot even comprehend what failure I meant… then you do not yet see me clearly. Not as I am.”

I stared at him. My lips parted, but nothing came out. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

He turned away, his profile outlined by the morning light filtering through the window. “You admire me. You rely on me. You cherish me, perhaps. But you do not see me as a man who could lose control. As someone who could want too much. As someone dangerous, in the wrong moment.”

My mouth felt dry. “That’s not—”

“You see me as safe,” he said, voice cool. “As constant. As your guardian, your teacher, your fiancé in name and title. But you do not look at me and think ‘this is someone who might cross a line if pushed.’ And that’s the problem. You pushed, unaware of the danger.”

He finally turned to me again, his eyes sharp now, glinting with something fierce and guarded. “You didn’t stop because you didn’t think you needed to.”

I flinched. “I didn’t think—”

“That’s right,” he said. “But that was not your decision to gamble with.”

Silence settled between us like a chasm. I swallowed hard, my chest tight.

“…Do you think I don’t care for you?” I asked, my voice small.

“I think you care deeply,” he said, without hesitation. “But caring is not the same as understanding.”

My hands trembled slightly at my sides.

“You’re right,” I whispered. “I never… I never imagined you could lose control because of me.”

He stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. His voice dropped low. “Then understand it now. I am not some statue carved to serve your whims. I am a man. With limits. With desires.”

My throat closed. “Ferdinand…”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Ferdinand raised a hand—firm, final.

“That’s enough.”

The room fell still.

His expression shut down completely, as though a door had slammed behind his eyes. Whatever softness or tension had been lingering was gone, replaced by the crisp, impassive mask he wore with strangers.

“We have work to do,” he said, turning from me without another glance. “Summon the attendants.”

The quiet finality in his words left no room for protest. Slowly, I turned and walked to the door.

“Let them in,” I told the guard outside, my voice thin.

As the servants reentered the room and resumed their usual rhythm, I remained where I stood, a single thought echoing in my mind.

Ferdinand didn’t look at me again until he’d finished signing the top sheet of a new stack of documents.

I nodded faintly, clutching the name stone tighter in my hand as I moved to my desk.

The conversation was over. The stone remained with me. I put it away at my belt discreetly before doing the only thing I could think of.

Work.

Chapter Text

It had been days since my apologies to Ferdinand. The room was quiet save for the scratch of quills and the faint flutter of paper as I worked beside him, still shaken from our last private conversation. Nothing had been said about it since, but the silence had a different shape now—tense, measured.

As I set aside my finished document, Ferdinand handed me a silencing magic tool. He then spoke without looking up. “Bring my name stone with you tomorrow.”

I hesitated. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

No explanation. No glance my way. I didn’t ask again.

Ferdinand didn’t say much when I arrived the next day. He just looked at me—his eyes lingering briefly on the name stone at my hip—and gave a nod. “You brought it.”

I nodded back, “You asked me to.”

“Come here. Summon your Grutrissheit,” he said in a tone that was almost scholarly.

His voice was flat, unreadable. No warmth, no reproach. Just command.

I stepped toward the empty table, where his Grutrissheit was already laid open. I set my tablet next to his assuming that's what he wanted. The chamber was quiet. Too quiet. Even the air felt expectant.

Then he began.

He placed his hand on my book. “Copy and place.”

At first I thought I was imagining the sensation. The spell activated silently. My skin prickled, just the smallest brush. I’d seen this magic before—helped develop it, even—but the feeling was different here. A nascent hum beneath my skin, a suggestion of something, but nothing more.

He placed the words into his bible, then repeated the spell.

“Copy and place.”

Still, only a prickle. A warmth, faint and distant, like sunlight through a thick pane of grove of trees. I watched his hand, the steady movement, the focused intensity in his eyes. There was no tremor, no hesitation. He was unwaveringly steady.

“Copy and place.”

This time, the warmth deepened. It was a slow, creeping heat, a whisper of a tide beginning to splash at the base of my spine. It felt… intimate, though I couldn’t say why. Like a breath exhaled too close. My skin still just prickled, but now there was a subtle pull, a deepening pressure in the air around us, as if the very room was holding its breath.

He was pushing his mana into my tablet, yes—but that wasn’t all he was giving me.

“Copy and place.”

The hum amplified. It was no longer a whisper but a low thrum, vibrating through the table, up my arms, a distinct sensation, not just a suggestion. The heat spread, a slow blush across my stomach, then my chest. It felt less like warmth, more like a burgeoning pressure. My breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

His magic dragged sensations with it. The weight of what he’d felt that day. When he’d told me to stop. The mana was being infused, branded onto my very nerves.

“Copy and place.”

Now, the heat was undeniable. It coiled, a living thing, in my belly, tightening with each word, each surge of mana. My skin felt too small. The air felt thick, heavy with an unseen force. It wasn’t just invading; it was settling, claiming territory within me, asserting itself like a predator.

“Copy and place.”

The feeling escalated. It wasn't just heat anymore; it was a consuming fire, spreading through my veins, making my blood sing. My breaths went shallow, each one a struggle against the tightening in my chest. A thread of panic, sharp and cold, began to coil in my stomach, battling with the rising tide of heat. It was too much, too fast, an invasion that bypassed thought and went straight for instinct.

“Copy and place.”

Each invocation carved another line through my composure. It didn't touch my skin, not directly, but I could feel it invading anyway—like smoke through a crack in the wall. Like heat through glass. But now, it was as if the glass was shattering, and the smoke was pouring in, thick and suffocating.

Desire was flooding me. Not like a memory. Not like something mine. But my body couldn’t tell the difference.

My chest ached. A frantic pulse throbbed at my temples, between my legs. I braced myself against the table, my knuckles going white. It was too much. Too hot. Too tight. I wanted to scream—but not just from fear. That was the worst part.

Because I didn’t want it.

But I wanted.

It wasn’t mine, but it felt real. Like my nerves had been rewired.

“F-Ferdinand—” I whispered. My voice caught, a strangled sound.

He didn’t flinch. His eyes, fixed on the books, were fathomless. He was an unmoving pillar, while I was being swept away by a current I couldn't comprehend.

“Copy and place.”

My knees wobbled. Sweat clung to my skin, a clammy sheen. My lips parted, but I had no words. Only heat. Want. Shame. My whole body was taut, strung tight like a bow drawn too far. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I needed to move. I needed—

And then it clicked—awful and sharp.

I wanted him. Not gently. Not innocently.

He was too far away. I reached toward him—not physically, not fully—but inside, something reached. It was unbearable, that distance. My skin burned with absence, as though his touch would be the only thing that could stop the ache building inside me. A desperate, primal urge to close the gap.

I wanted to grab his robes, pull him against me, shove him on the desk and take what I didn’t even understand how to ask for. The hunger—his hunger—was in me now. My body moved forward, chest leaning toward him before I caught myself.

Why isn’t he closer? Why won’t he—?

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t right.

I wanted him to stop, but I wanted—

I wanted—

“Stop,” I breathed, the word a desperate plea. But not actually a word, it didn't come out right, more like a groan than human speech.

He didn’t move. His hand remained on the book, a silent, relentless presence.

“Stop it,” I tried again, louder this time. Desperate. My voice was a raw rasp, tears pricking my eyes, hot and stinging against the heat on my face.

He cast again.

“Stop!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. I clutched the name stone like a lifeline, my fingers digging into the cool, smooth cocoon, trying to ground myself against the rising tide. “Stop, please!”

And then—it stopped.

Everything did.

He froze, hand midair, as if someone had turned the world to ice.

Silence crashed down so hard it made my ears ring.

He turned his face away.

I stood there, trembling, hollowed out. I couldn’t tell if I was shaking from fear or something worse. Something I didn’t want to name.

I’d felt it.

I’d felt everything.

And I understood, now, why he’d been afraid of himself.

The name stone still burned in my palm, the weight of the command clinging to my skin like oil.

I backed away.

He didn’t stop me.

I turned and ran.

Through the secret door. Through the office. Down the hall. My legs moved without permission. 

I ran—really ran—all the way back to my chambers. My legs burned, lungs aching, and I didn’t stop even when the halls blurred. Angelica, having been guarding the door, caught sight of me from the corridor and actually reached for her sword, her eyes narrowing like she thought I was under attack.

“I’m fine,” I lied breathlessly, waving her off with shaking hands. “Nothing happened.”

She continued to follow me but I paid that no mind. I pushed inside before she could ask more.

My attendants were startled. Halfway through turning down the bed, folding linens, dusting shelves—no one expected me back so early. Certainly not like this.

“All of you. Out,” I said, sharper than intended.

They blinked.

“I said out.”

They went.

The door clicked shut, and silence rushed in to fill the space they left behind. My room looked the same as ever—sunlight soft through the window, air faintly floral from whatever perfume the maids had used on the sheets—but I felt… wrong in it. Too big for my skin. Too loud in my chest.

I paced, trying to bleed it out through movement. My limbs still buzzed, mana still prickling along my arms and down my legs. I’d burned some of it off while running, but not enough. Not nearly.

I sat.

The moment I did, something shifted. The soft cushion molded to me in a way that sent sparks straight through my spine. The way my thighs pressed together. The edge of the chair against—

I jolted upright, breath catching.

No.

But—

No.

But my body didn’t care what I told myself. Every inch of me still felt alive, like my skin was charged and waiting. My breath was quick and shallow. My chest felt tight. My stomach—lower—felt taut, like I was holding tension I couldn’t unspool.

I rubbed my arms, paced again. Sat back down, too quickly this time, and the friction—

Friction.

That was it. That was what it wanted. My body. It needed—

I swallowed hard, face burning. No. That wasn’t—I couldn’t. That wasn’t something I wanted. It wasn’t even mine, not really. I hadn’t felt like that before—not until the spell. Not until him.

Not until his mana filled me up, over and over, until I didn’t know what was mine anymore.

I pressed my knees together tightly.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

I sat still, trembling, unable to move. Everything in me was buzzing and aching and burning and hungry, and I didn’t even know what for anymore. I didn’t know if it was him or me or—

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I clenched my fists in my lap.

My chest heaved. I pressed a hand against it, as if that would still my racing heart.

But my body wouldn’t listen.

The heat hadn’t faded. It still throbbed low in my belly, crawling along my skin like it had soaked into my bones. I curled forward, forehead to my knees, breathing in shallow, broken gasps.

And the worst part—what made it impossible to breathe, impossible to think—was the way my mind wouldn’t stop showing me what I hadn’t asked for.

His hands. On me.

Not tender. Not gentle.

Desperate.

Gripping my hips, holding me down, driving into me like the ache in him might swallow us both.

I squeezed my eyes shut. But it didn’t stop. I could still feel it—the imagined weight of him pressing me into the desk, the hot edge of his breath against my neck, the growl of my name between clenched teeth as he—

No.

I slammed my fist the first thing I could find.

This wasn’t mine. This wasn’t me. I didn’t want that.

Except… part of me had.

I had looked at him. I had seen his mouth move, his hands glowing with mana. I had seen the line of his throat when he spoke the spell. And I had wanted.

Not love. Not closeness. Just—

Lust.

Ugly, hungry, consuming lust.

I shuddered and curled in tighter, trying to shrink away from myself. My nails dug into my arms. I needed to get control. I needed to breathe. I needed—

I didn’t even know what I needed.

He hadn’t touched me. He hadn’t done anything but cast the spell. But now I knew. I knew what he had meant when he said I didn’t see him clearly.

I hadn’t.

But I did now.

And gods help me—I was terrified.

I felt full. I felt empty. I felt wrong.

And I couldn’t make it stop.

I didn’t know how long I sat there. The minutes passed slowly, each one heavier than the last. My hands trembled, curled into my skirts as if I could wring the need out of them. I rocked slightly forward, then back, the motion unintentional—but it lit something inside me again, and I froze.

I couldn’t even breathe properly anymore. My chest ached with it.

I kept whispering, “Stop. Stop. Stop.” But nothing would stop. Not my thoughts, not my body, not the terrible heat curling low in my belly like a spell that wouldn’t break.

Was this what he felt?

No—no, it was different for him. He’d known what it meant. He understood this. I didn’t. I wasn’t ready even though he had told me.

But I’d felt desire. It had moved through me when he used that spell—every push of mana into my book had pushed something into me, and now I couldn’t unfeel it. My body had learned something it wasn’t meant to yet. It wanted something it shouldn’t.

I tried standing again. My legs were unsteady, like I’d run a marathon. Or like I’d been held too close, too long, and everything inside me had liquefied.

He’d stopped when I’d told him to.

He’d stopped because I commanded him.

I didn’t realize what I was asking for when I asked to complete  that book until it was too late—until I looked at him and saw him strained and panting and yelling at me to stop, and even then… a part of me let my curiosity take over after.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

I couldn’t tell what I wanted until I looked at him. I knew now how close he’d come to losing control.

Now? Now he was too far away. And I hated it.

I hated the space between us. Hated that I had to sit here alone while my body ached like it remembered everything.

I clenched my thighs and bowed forward, curling in on myself.

It took everything—every shred of discipline I’d ever learned—not to shove my hand between my legs and chase what my body begged me for. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know how. My hips twitched with every breath like they might move on their own.

And the worst part?

I still didn’t know if I wanted him to hold me or hurt me. If I wanted him to make it stop—or make it worse until it finally broke.

I squeezed my eyes shut and gasped in a breath that felt like drowning.

I couldn’t do this. Not alone.

But I couldn’t go to him either.

Not like this.

So I sat there, in the silence of my empty chambers, helpless, aroused, ashamed, and terrified of what I had become.

I grabbed a pillow to hug, but it wasn’t enough.

I clung to it, breath shallow, heart still beating like I had sprinted through the entire castle, but the ache in my stomach hadn’t left. It had curled into something sharper now, something needling, crawling under my skin like I was wearing clothes made of static.

I buried my face deeper into the linen. It smelled like my hair oil—lavender and the ink I had spilled on it weeks ago. Familiar. Safe.

But that only made the contrast worse.

I needed out. Out of my body. Out of this heat. Out of this helpless, trembling awareness of every part of myself.

My fingers twisted in the fabric.

I didn’t know what I was doing, only that I needed to do something.

So I pulled the blanket tight around me. Pressed my forehead to the mattress and curled tighter around the pillow. Small movements. Controlled ones. Rocking gently, grounding myself in the motion, in the pressure against my stomach, in the containment of the blankets.

My legs drew up tighter beneath me. I didn’t know what I was doing—only that I couldn’t stop. My limbs moved on their own, small repetitive shifts as I curled tighter, pressing into the mattress, chasing a kind of relief I didn’t understand. I wasn’t thinking about it.

I was trying not to think at all.

But my mind slipped.

His hand on mine.

His breath at my ear.

That moment I looked at him and—

And suddenly he had been too far away. I’d wanted to reach out. Cling to him. I shouldn’t have wanted that. But I had. Even in the panic, even as I fled, part of me had burned with the need to stay.

My body moved again, instinctive.

It wasn’t enough to erase the feeling—but it took the edge off. The shiver in my limbs slowed.

My breath stopped hitching.

Not gone. Not forgotten.

The pressure built. No understanding, no words—just tight, taut wanting.

When the tremble passed through me, it came with a sharp breath I didn’t mean to take.

And then… stillness.

The air felt too thin. My chest ached. My whole body hummed like a plucked string slowly settling into silence.

I blinked at the mattress beneath me, heart knocking against my ribs.

What had I—?

I curled tighter, shame blooming hot behind my eyes. My face pressed into the blankets. I didn’t cry.

I just lay there, listening to my breath, waiting for the pounding in my chest to ease.

Waiting for the silence to settle like ash.

I stayed there, motionless, for a long time. The warmth slowly faded from my skin, but not from my thoughts.

I’d heard girls talk about things like this before—back in Japan. In the bathrooms between classes. During sleepovers I was invited to only sometimes. They used vague phrases, laughed behind cupped hands, whispered names of pop idols and anime characters with faces flushed and eyes darting.

I had listened, curious but detached.

They described aching, wanting. A restlessness in their limbs. The rush of it.

I hadn’t understood it then.

Even when I’d tried to follow along—to feel what they felt—there was always something missing. A gap I couldn’t cross. I thought maybe I just wasn’t like them. That I wasn’t built that way.

But now—

I swallowed hard, pressing the side of my face into the mattress.

Now I understood too well.

It wasn’t the same. This wasn’t idle curiosity or a moment of harmless fantasy. This had a shape. A source. It had his voice. His hands. His heat.

But there was no relief. No release. Only the echo of motion without meaning.

I sat still, breathing hard, staring at nothing.

It was unsatisfying. Completely and utterly so. Like trying to catch fire with wet tinder. Like drinking water when what I needed was air. My body had done something, responded to something, but it hadn’t been what I wanted. Not really. Not enough.

I felt wrong. Uncomfortable in my own skin.

Like I’d touched something sacred with dirty hands.

I shifted, tugging at my robe, suddenly too aware of how it clung to me. Of how the soft fabric rubbed against my oversensitive skin. I hated the sensation—but not enough to move. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to exist.

Not like this.

Not with the lingering heat and no satisfaction. Not with the hollow pulse of a need half-met.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my forehead there, willing the silence to swallow me whole.

As I sat there, the uncomfortable emptiness settling deep inside me, a cold, sharp thought cut through the haze.

This—this feeling.

Exactly what I had caused him.

I had never understood before. Never truly seen what losing control, being overwhelmed, felt like.

But now, trapped in this hollow space between want and fulfillment, I knew.

He hadn’t been exaggerating.

He hadn’t been warning me for nothing.

I had pushed him, and now I was living the consequence of that push.

A helpless, aching want—forced upon me from the outside—that no release could satisfy.

What had I done? What had he done?

I couldn’t make the pieces sit still.

Had I brought the name stone? Yes.

Had I told him to copy the pages? No.

Had he pushed past my discomfort? Yes.

Had I stopped him?

…Not until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I curled tighter. It wasn’t just that I’d run—it was what I’d wanted before I ran.

And what I almost did.

There had been a moment, a horrible, raw second, when he was too far away—and I wanted him closer.

I hadn’t even known what I wanted until I looked at him. And I’d had to fight the urge to grab him, to cling to him, to shove the books off the desk and take—

I gasped. Clapped my hands over my mouth.

Had he done something to me? Had I done something to him?

Was I the victim? Or was I the villain?

The not knowing was the worst part. The story didn’t work if the heroine couldn’t tell which role she played.

And right now… I couldn’t.

The weight wasn’t just inside me. It was in him too.

And I had been the one who made it heavy.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

This was my fault.

And I was terrified.

The unsatisfying ache still lingering, the pieces clicked into place in my mind—slowly, painfully.

This—this hollow, restless hunger, this desperate, terrible want that no relief could soothe—this was exactly what he meant when he said it was dangerous.

This was why he gave me his name stone.

Because without it, without that bond, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.

He physical could not do anything about that burning need while his name is tied to me.

In that hidden room, when he was pressing his power into my book, when I felt that overwhelming heat swirling inside me—I wanted to push him down and take what I wanted. I barely held myself back enough to scream at him to stop.

Was that how he felt? Was that how it overwhelmed him?

If I hadn’t had his name stone, would he have tried? Would he have crossed the line I wasn’t ready to see?

I want to believe he wouldn’t have. But I don’t trust myself in that state. And I’m certain he didn’t trust himself either.

The weight of that knowledge settled like a stone in my chest. Fear mixed with something darker—a raw, trembling understanding of just how fragile control really was.

Chapter Text

I stared at the empty space where she had been, the lingering scent of her mana a phantom ache in the air. My hand, still poised mid-air, felt numb. The silence that had crashed down was absolute, broken only by the frantic drumming of my own heart. Horror clawed at me, cold and sharp, for what I had just done. The raw, desperate scream that had torn from her throat echoed in my ears, a testament to her terror.

I meant to scare her. That I chose fear as my instrument… it shames me now. But at the time, I saw no other way to make her see me—someone who wishes to possess her. I meant to make her understand, to force her to acknowledge the dangerous currents that flowed between us. To make her aware of her own vulnerability, and mine. I told myself that over and over. I meant for her to feel discomfort, to be confronted with the truth of who I am—not some asexual guardian spirit, but a man. One who had let her get far too comfortable in her misconceptions of platonic intimacy. 

Yet, beneath the horror, a colder, more calculated satisfaction flickered. She moved through this world with such naive disregard for the fundamental differences between us, for the inherent power dynamics of man and woman, of mana and spirit. She saw me as an asexual, scholarly entity, devoid of desire. I needed to shatter that illusion, to force her to acknowledge the evil that lay dormant inside me, of all men really.

It replays itself between blinks. The memory of her eyes—wide and dilated, brimming with a raw, desperate yearning that mirrored my own, lips parted, skin flushed with magic and fear—slammed into me. That hunger was so profound it stole my breath. For a fleeting, agonizing second, I saw myself reflected in her gaze—the unvarnished, aching truth of my own desire for her. Her body had trembled under my mana. 

For a moment, I thought it was real. That her reaction, however primal, was mutual. That I had not imagined all the charged glances over the years. And then, the crushing realization: it was a delusion. A trick of the spell, a forced resonance, not a genuine emotion. It was a lie, born of magic-induced arousal, and it cut deeper than any scream. It devastated me. Because for that brief, impossible moment, I had seen a reflection of what I craved, only to have it snatched away, revealed as a cruel, magical illusion.

It was a farce. A divine accident. A lie she would never have believed in any other circumstance. And I hate how deeply it cut me. The knowledge of that falsehood, of what I almost let myself believe, guts me.

She was not just the Goddess of Light to me; she was every god, every divine concept made flesh. She was infuriatingly, bewilderingly dumb when it came to common sense, yet possessed an intellect that could unravel the most complex ancient texts. She had no grasp of wealth, yet her innate understanding of value and connection made her a natural entrepreneur, building empires without even trying. And she was so innately, blindingly compassionate, a quality that both drew me in and terrified me. She is everything I should not want, and yet all that I do.

“She’s innocent,” I told myself again. I’d told myself that for so long it calcified into truth. But somewhere between her blushing fumbles and probing questions, she'd already begun to see me as something more—if only in the fumbling way of a teenager clutching feelings too big to name. I hadn’t seen it, couldn’t allow myself to. It was easier to look down and believe I was safeguarding something pure than admit I’d failed to notice the shape her gaze had begun to take.

The thought of apologizing surfaced, a weak, fleeting impulse. The words of apology circled like songbirds, landing on my tongue only to be swallowed again. I dismissed it. She would forgive me too easily. Her boundless compassion would absorb my transgression without truly understanding the calculated cruelty behind my actions. No. An apology would be meaningless, a cheap absolution I didn't deserve and she wouldn't truly benefit from. I don’t deserve absolution—not when I deliberately pushed her, knowing full well what it would awaken. I had meant to make her understand, but I’d misjudged. She saw danger, yes—but not the kind I intended. She saw fear, not truth.

I resumed my control routines, burying myself in the endless tide of governmental affairs. The stacks of reports, the diplomatic correspondence, the complex financial ledgers—I welcomed the deluge. I send Justus to fetch updates faster than the scribes can produce them. My hands scrawl signatures through half-seen print. When the headaches creep in, I reach for potions instead of pillows, anything to stave off the dreams, the memories. Especially the memory of her face, twisted in a desperate, spell-induced reflection of my own yearning, before she turned and ran. It haunted me, a persistent phantom limb of regret and longing.

I knew she would command me. That was the intention when I told her to bring my name stone. The pain of being forced to stop, the abrupt severance of the mana flow, was a necessary consequence. A painful, but intended, outcome. It was a failsafe, for both of us.

Later, in the quiet solitude of my research chamber, I poured over ancient texts, my mind a frantic whirlwind. Why had the spell affected us so violently? From my understanding of normal mana mixing, it was supposed to be a bit painful, yes, but only because most people did not have mana that matched so closely. It was a mild discomfort, a brief discord before harmony. But what had happened today was a tempest. Mana mixing is typically mild. A prickling sensation. Painful, if the mana types repel. But between two well-matched people, the act can become... euphoric.

It was probably because while the pages were crafted from our own mana, yet bore of divine imprint. That resonance must have amplified the normal effect of pleasure when a couple is completely 'dyed' by each other’s mana, trying to dye more. That, combined with our unusually similar mana, created something volatile. Too similar. Too synchronized. As if we were not just dyeing each other, but fusing.

That’s why mana mixing is normally done during intimacy, when the body and spirit are already aligned for such profound connection. It was also why nobles were so prudish; even holding hands could let you mix mana, even if an infinitesimal amount. It was something children with fiancés would do with each other as an act of rebellion, a small, illicit thrill of connection, though it usually only happened with marriages of love, which most nobles did not do.

Our mana, so perfectly matched, like the invisible ink that only we could activate, had found an unprecedented conduit in the divine concepts. The rapid-fire succession of the spell, "Copy and place," had acted like compounding exposure, forcibly synchronizing our mana, pushing it beyond mere connection until it began simulating a physical bond typically formed in marriage. It was a forced intimacy, a spiritual violation that had manifested as profound physical sensation. A dangerous, beautiful, terrifying thing.

I found myself taking her administrative work, the less demanding tasks, and placing them on her desk, hoping she would read them. It was a small, pathetic gesture, a silent apology I couldn't voice. I needed her to have something to occupy her mind, something familiar and safe.

Days bled into weeks. I pushed myself relentlessly, performing governmental affairs until my vision blurred, consuming potion after potion to stave off exhaustion. Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford, for it brought with it the risk of dreams, of memories, of her face.

She hasn’t dismissed me from her service. But she does not summon me, either.

All my life, my worth was weighed in results. Competence. Mastery. Usefulness. The moment I faltered, I was unwanted—cast aside like a broken tool. If she saw anything in me, I could only assume it was the image of the high priest, the mentor, the one who saved her. It couldn’t be me, stripped of pretense.

But she had looked at me with something disturbingly tender, as if I were not a tool but a person. As if she wanted me.

Then, Hartmut came. He found me in my office, surrounded by towering stacks of documents, the air thick with the scent of ink and exhaustion. His gaze, usually so deferential, was sharp, analytical. He had noticed. Of course he had. Rozemyne had retreated from her usual effervescent activities; her messages were minimal, her work done solely within the confines of her library, and her obedience had become unnervingly absolute.

Her library remains her sanctuary, and I have not stepped foot inside it since. She works in silence. It’s unlike her.

He corners me outside the High Bishop’s chambers, expression light but eyes too sharp.

“Lord Ferdinand,” he began, his voice polite, almost too smooth. “I’ve noticed a… shift in Lady Rozemyne’s demeanor. She seems… quieter. More compliant than usual.”

I kept my expression neutral, my quill scratching across the parchment. “She is simply maturing, Hartmut. The duties of an archduke candidate are considerable.”

He stepped closer, his eyes unwavering. “Perhaps. But she was quite… agitated, after your last private meeting. And then, this sudden change.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “You’ve never raised a hand to her, Lord Ferdinand. But you of all people know how to wound without touch.”

The accusation hung there, precise and cutting. He knew. He didn't know what, but he knew I had done something. My grip tightened on the quill, but I forced my hand to remain steady. “Your concern for Lady Rozemyne is commendable, Hartmut. Rest assured, I have her best interests at heart.”

“Do you?” he murmured, a faint, unsettling smile touching his lips. “I sincerely hope so, Lord Ferdinand. For everyone’s sake.” He bowed, a perfect, formal gesture, and then he was gone, leaving behind a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air.

I am glad to see him before I can say something I regret. Or admit something I cannot.

He is right.

I stared at the door, the words echoing in my mind. Bruise her soul without leaving a mark. He was right. I had. And the chilling irony was that in trying to teach her a lesson, I had inflicted a wound on myself that bled far deeper. The image of her eyes, wide with that false, devastating yearning, flashed behind my eyelids. It was a wound I couldn't heal, a phantom pain that would forever remind me of the line I had crossed, and the terrifying, beautiful truth it had revealed.

I hurt her.

But she needed to know.

And now that she does, I am drowning in the aftermath.

Chapter Text

The unusual stillness was the first sign. Not the quiet of a working castle, but a muted tension that hummed beneath the daily routines of Alexandria. Lasfam, accustomed to navigating the nuanced moods of both Lord Ferdinand and Lady Rozemyne, felt it acutely. Lady Rozemyne, in particular, was an altered person. She accepted her morning reports and the meager work Lord Ferdinand assigned without her usual spirited comments or keen questions. Her schedule, once a lively dance inovation, was now a rigid march: foundation replenishment, obligatory meetings, daily exercise, meals. She even spent more hours than ever in her beloved library, yet the serene blankness that usually enveloped her face while reading was replaced by a frustrated, almost pained furrowing of her brow.

Across the castle, Lord Ferdinand was equally alarming. Lasfam knew from his brief forays into the wing of Ferdinand's residence that the scent of potions now clung perpetually to the air. Lord Justus and Sir Eckhart moved with the heavy weariness of constant vigilance, always just a step behind a master who never seemed to rest.

Lasfam knew something was profoundly amiss. He had to bring the others together.

The smaller meeting chamber off the noble servant common room felt tight, the air thick with unspoken worries. Cornelius, Leonore, Hartmut, Clarissa, Angelica, Lieseleta, Roderick, Matthias, Laurenz, and Gretia were all present.

“Lady Rozemyne is not herself,” Cornelius stated, his voice clipped, his gaze sweeping over the concerned faces.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. “She’s withdrawn,” Leonore added, her voice low. 

“She’s been excessively compliant,” Clarissa noted. “A rigid obedience that belies her usual spirit.”

The discussion continued, focusing on working backwards to when this shift in behavior started. 

It was Angelica who shifted then, her brow furrowed in simple recollection. “That day… when she went to see Lord Ferdinand in his hidden room, I was guarding the door, just like always.” She paused, struggling to articulate the vivid, confusing memory. “She came out… very fast. Like something had startled her and made her bolt. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing… oh, so hard. And she was trembling, like she’d been out in a storm.” Angelica shook her head. “My hand went for my sword, I thought some harm had come to her, but she just… waved me off. Said she was fine. But she wasn’t! And then she just… ordered everyone out of her chambers. So sharp. And the door slammed shut. I stayed on guard, but it was just quiet after that.”

Cornelius’s knuckles went white where his hands rested on the table. He’d always harbored a quiet disapproval of Ferdinand’s private experiments with Lady Rozemyne, his “high mana” requirement for entry a flimsy excuse for their seclusion. He had long considered their unmarried intimacy unbecoming, even if Lady Rozemyne seemed innocently oblivious to it. But Angelica’s raw, unvarnished account—the flight, the flushed distress, the demand for immediate solitude—ignited a dark, protective rage within him. A thousand unspeakable thoughts rushed through his mind, considering every terrible way a nameswearing could be circumvented, every violation possible.

Hartmut, seeing the storm brewing in Cornelius’s eyes, interjected smoothly. “Let us consider this logically. Lady Rozemyne would have called upon her namesworn if she faced any danger. She has done so before. None of us felt such a call.” He paused, allowing this truth to settle. “Whatever transpired, it was not a direct threat that would break the oath.”

The tension eased, but only slightly. The retainers exchanged knowing glances. Physical danger, perhaps not. But other forms of distress…

“Then what could it be?” Lieseleta whispered, voicing the question on everyone’s minds. “She was so excited that day. She spoke of finally ‘completing her bible.’ I had assumed she referred to a physical text, but now… perhaps she meant her Grutrissheit?”

A murmur of agreement. “We had all presumed it was complete, given by the gods,” Clarissa mused. “But I recall Lady Rozemyne mentioning Lord Ferdinand had hidden parts from her, meant to be revealed only upon her coming of age.” Clarissa’s voice dropped, edged with a noble’s suppressed scandal. “What if he had hidden… debaucherous portions of the text? Unseemly truths about the previous Zents, or dark rituals from ancient times?”

A cold dread spread amongst them, different from Cornelius’s earlier fear, but no less profound. Lady Rozemyne, the Saint of Ehrenfest, their innocent, pure mistress… exposed to such things by Ferdinand? The thought twisted their guts. It explained her terror, her shock, and her subsequent withdrawal. It even explained Ferdinand’s gentle easing of her duties. He was going easy on her, knowing he had inflicted this profound spiritual discomfort. But it did not explain her continued avoidance of him, nor the frustrated manner in which she now read her books.

Angelica, oblivious to the nuanced horror of their speculations, scowled. “Honestly, they’re both being such… idiots.” The crude word hung in the air, but no one corrected her. “They clearly like each other, but they’re too strange to just admit it. He probably showed her something scandalous, and she got scared, and now she’s just upset with him for it.” She threw up her hands. “It’s like when she used to be afraid of feystones—she just avoids him because of some bad feeling.”

The comment felt like it came out of nowhere but trust Angelica to say something on a tangent. Though only tangential to the current conversation, it was something the retainers had all noticed as well. They knew Rozemyne had always avoided such romantic inclinations, though, and never brought it up. Now that they are to be married that probably should.

Hartmut leaned back, a weary frustration settling over him. “Lady Rozemyne views Lord Ferdinand as her infallible mentor, her perfect guardian. And Lord Ferdinand, in turn, sees her as his ideal research partner, his brilliant disciple, his all gods.” He rubbed his temples. “They hold each other up as these ideas. But beneath that, they clearly feel something more.” He looked around at his fellow retainers, exasperation clear in his voice. “They are simply too oblivious, too proud, and too inexperienced to navigate such… complicated desires. They simply do not know how to contend with the profound dissonance between their idealized perceptions and their undeniable mutual attraction.”

The retainers nodded, a collective, frustrated understanding dawning upon them.

“Lord Ferdinand suffers,” Lasfam stated, his voice grave. “He is consuming potions in place of food and sleep. He is pushing his body terribly hard. Sir Eckhart is quite concerned for him.”

Cornelius’s expression hardened, a renewed resolve setting in. “He is harming himself, then?”

“It would seem so,” Hartmut confirmed, allowing himself a small, knowing nod. 

Leonore straightened, her gaze fixed on the task at hand. “Lady Rozemyne harbors deep affection for Lord Ferdinand. If she perceives someone she cares for to be in danger, she is compelled to face her fears. She would not wish him to suffer, especially if she believes herself to be the cause.”

“She would be more inclined to confront whatever unsettling truth she has encountered,” Clarissa agreed, her voice firm, “if she believes it is for his well-being.”

The retainers exchanged resolute glances. A plan, simple in its emotional manipulation, began to take shape. They would approach Lady Rozemyne, presenting Lord Ferdinand’s distress in such a light that her compassion would compel her to act.

Later that day, after Lady Rozemyne had concluded her reading in the library, her retainers approached her. They spoke with grave concern of Lord Ferdinand’s relentless work schedule, his increasing reliance on potions, the visible strain etched upon his face. They relayed Eckhart’s deep worry, how their master seemed to be wasting away without proper rest. They did not accuse; they merely presented the stark facts of his deteriorating health, allowing Lady Rozemyne to draw her own conclusion.

When they departed her presence, a quiet, resolute determination had settled in her eyes. It was a subtle shift, yet undeniably present.

Cornelius watched her disappear down the hall, then turned to his fellow retainers. “Do you believe it will succeed?”

Hartmut offered a small, cryptic smile. “We can only speculate, as we always have. The full truth remains elusive, and it is unlikely either of them will ever fully confide in us. We must simply trust in our instincts, and in our master’s inherent goodness.”

The retainers reflected on their bold intervention. They had pushed her towards him, hoping that her profound compassion for his welfare would outweigh her current withdrawal. They just hoped the outcome would prove less fraught than the silent suffering they had witnessed.

Chapter Text

“He isn’t eating properly. He’s living on potions. He isn’t sleeping. Eckhart’s worried—really worried.”

Their voices kept ringing in my ears, overlapping, repeating, stabbing into me like needles. They hadn’t said “dying.” No one spoke the word. But the implication was there—bold, brutal, inescapable.

And I hadn’t even noticed.

I was supposed to know him. I was supposed to help. Hadn’t I said that? Hadn’t I sworn to myself that I would make him happy, that I would take some of the burden off his shoulders? I was supposed to be his family now. But I had been so consumed with my own feelings—embarrassed, scared, confused—that I had shut everything out. I locked myself in the library as if it could insulate me from reality.

It hadn’t. Not really.

My self-absorption, my singular focus on my own reeling emotions and the lingering strangeness that clung to me from that day, had blinded me.

I had been given more library time than usual in these past weeks, and it had taken my mind off the situation somewhat, offering a fleeting reprieve. But the peace was a lie. Even while I read, the worry never left. I kept telling myself I was being silly, that he was just busy. But somewhere deep down, I had known. And now that my retainers had forced it into words, it felt like someone had punched through my ribs and torn the guilt out for me to see.

A flush of shame burned across my cheeks. I had resented Detlinde for thoughtlessly overburdening him. And now I was the same—no, I was worse. I had left him alone, telling myself I needed space, that I wasn’t ready to face him again. And in the meantime, he had quietly begun to destroy himself. He was working himself to the bone, and I had let it happen. No. I had enabled it.

He was the intricate machinery that kept Alexandria functioning. My projects existed because of him. My entire way of life here… it was all rooted in him. He was the unwavering presence I had come to rely on. And now, apparently, he was falling apart.

No. He couldn’t fall. I wouldn’t allow it.

His well-being was vital, not just for the duchy, but for the very essence of my work, my existence here. This undeniable truth, this profound sense of responsibility, finally overrode the cold knot of fear in my stomach, the lingering desire to avoid him. He was essential. I could not allow him to suffer.

Despite my resolve, the memory of that day was a phantom ache, a cold knot in my stomach that tightened with every step. My legs felt like lead. The closer I got to his hidden room, the more that memory resurfaced—wild and unwelcome.

That day.

The mana spilling over.

My heart started pounding in my ears. My hands trembled.

It was supposed to have been a simple spell—just finishing the book I had waited so patiently for years. But what had happened wasn’t simple at all. It wasn’t just mana. It had felt like he reached inside me and touched something I didn’t even understand. My whole chest had gone hot and strange, like something was trying to bloom and collapse all at once.

That day… I had felt my mana pulled, stretched, fused with his. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but an intense, overwhelming sensation that had stolen my breath. Then, a crushing pressure, as if something within me was being remade, unraveling. And then… his gaze. So raw, so hungry. And for a fleeting, horrifying second, my own body had responded, a surge of unfamiliar heat, a desperate yearning.

The look he gave me.

The phantom tremor that still ran through my limbs, the fleeting warmth that had flared, terrifying and alien, in my chest.

I had feared wanting it, feared that something within me had broken, had opened to such an overwhelming, incomprehensible desire.

I had run away.

Because if I hadn’t, I didn’t know what I would have done. And that terrified me more than anything.

My breath caught in my throat as I reached the hidden door. The faint pressure of his mana, tinged with the familiar, slightly bitter scent of his potions, emanated from within. I had known about mana sensing for a while now. I knew whenever Ferdinand was close, but all that meant to me was that we would have no problem conceiving; it never felt more intimate than knowing he was a man. It was just a part of the sexual education nobles received. It was actually a comfort knowing he was near even without him in my line of sight. After that day in his hidden room, though, I couldn’t stand to feel it. It felt like it was licking my skin.

Angelica, offering to stand guard, gave me a subtly worried glance, her usual boisterous demeanor softened by concern. I forced a polite nod, lifted my hand, and knocked.

He opened the door himself.

I had expected to see Ferdinand—calm, poised, untouched by the chaos he always shouldered. But the man standing before me was a shadow of that image.

His face was pale, almost gray. The skin beneath his eyes was dark, the kind of hollowness no healing spell could fix. There was a subtle tremble to his movements, a sluggishness to his posture that made my heart lurch.

His usual impenetrable mask firmly in place, though a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled, crossed his eyes.

And for a moment, the world seemed to tilt. My idealized image of the ever-composed, endlessly capable Ferdinand shattered, replaced by a ghastly reality. Dark circles, deep as bruises, shadowed his eyes, eyes that seemed sunken into a pale, drawn face. His movements, normally precise, held a subtle tremor. Not even a healing spell, I realized with a pang, could mend this exhaustion.

I didn’t breathe.

I had thought I was prepared, but the reality hit harder than expected. His presence, which was always so strong, so there, felt thin. Stretched. Hollow.

The scent of mana potions lingered thick in the air—bitter, medicinal, cloying. My stomach turned. So many of them. Even the air around him felt brittle with overuse of mana.

This wasn’t just overwork.

“Lord Ferdinand,” I said. Too stiff. Too formal. But I had to start somewhere. “My retainers have informed me of your condition. You’re clearly—”

He blinked slowly, the only sign of surprise. His voice, when he spoke, was a low rumble, betraying a hoarseness I hadn’t heard before. “My retainers are prone to exaggeration, Lady Rozemyne. I am managing.”

“That’s a lie.” I stepped inside, the words escaping more sharply than I intended. “You’re not managing. You’re dying. If you die, Lord Ferdinand, I will never forgive you.”

I hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but the words came out anyway.

“The smell of potions is as clear here as freshly applied perfume. You are not well. You look—Ferdinand, you look like you’re dying.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then I suggest you adjust your expectations. I don’t have the luxury of slowing down.”

He tried to argue—of course he did—but I wasn’t having it.

“You’re not well,” I said firmly. “And I was being stupid, letting this go on when you’re barely upright. If you die, I’ll never forgive you,” I snapped. “Never, for as long as I live—”

I bit the word off.

He scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “How harsh. I had assumed my death would be punishment enough. You would have me climb the towering stairway with your resentment hanging from my spirit?”

That hit like a slap. “Don’t say that.”

He turned away from me, moving deeper into the room, not inviting me to sit, not looking back. "I am merely fulfilling my duties. The burden of Alexandria falls upon me, as it always has. There is nothing to discuss."

“You’re not a tool.” I followed him in, shutting the door behind me. “You’re a person. You’re allowed to rest.”

“There is no one else.”

“There is. Me. I’m here. Let me help.”

I watched him, searching for a sign of recognition, of self-awareness.

“You are essential,” I said. “To this duchy. To my work. To me.” My mana stirred with my frustration. “You cannot continue like this.”

Ferdinand did not answer.

He stopped and shook his head wordlessly as if what I said was laughable.

"Don't dismiss me!" I pressed, my voice rising with indignation. This stubborn refusal to acknowledge his own suffering, to accept help, was infuriating.

“What’s causing this?” I pressed. “You cannot simply discard your own well-being! My retainers speak of your extreme reliance on potions, your lack of sleep. This is not normal, even for you. What has caused this sudden… decline?"

He slowly turned, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, fixing on mine with an unsettling intensity. “And what exactly do you think is wrong with me?”

“What?”

"What do you imagine?" he asked, his voice low, deceptively calm, a dangerous edge to his tone. "That I am simply weakened by the weight of my responsibilities? That a scholar can be broken by mere paperwork?" His gaze became sharp, piercing.

My mouth went dry. A shiver ran down my spine.

I didn’t want to answer. But I couldn’t lie. “I… I don’t understand.”

He stepped closer. “You know what this is. You were there. You remember. You felt it.”

I froze.

His words sliced through every wall I’d built in my mind. I couldn’t pretend not to know. That day—how he’d looked at me. The heat. The fear. The part of me that hadn’t wanted to run.

His words were a direct assault, violating the carefully constructed walls I had built around the incident. His gaze was too familiar, too raw. I clutched my hands, the phantom tremor returning.

"I... I don't understand," I managed, though my voice wavered. "What are you speaking of?"

“You want to believe the best in people. Even me. Especially me. So you tell yourself it was just magic. An accident. But you should fear what I did to you.”

The room was too quiet. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.

"You forgive too easily, Lady Rozemyne," he rasped, his voice rough.

That bothered me more than I expected. He said my name with no hint of familiarity, like I was a stranger. He was trying to provoke me.

"You have such boundless compassion that you would absolve any transgression without truly grasping its calculated cruelty. You would believe the fault lies with some vague burden, rather than with the man who deliberately pushed you to the brink." His voice dropped, becoming a low, chilling confession. "You should fear the man who would do that to you. What a man could do to you. How they see you. How they undress you in their minds.”

I recoiled.

My mind reeled. His words were a direct blow, tearing open the wound of that day. His gaze was too familiar, too hungry. The question, unspoken for weeks, now tore from my lips, raw and vulnerable. "Do you?" I whispered, the word escaping before I could stop it. "Do you see me that way?"

The silence that followed stretched too long.

Then, almost like it hurt him: “Yes.”

One word. Just one. But it changed everything. Not spoken with longing, not even desire—but with something else, guilt. Self-loathing.

As though the word disgusted him, he took a step back, his hand rising slightly, as if to push me away, a desperate attempt to create distance, to enforce the chasm between us.

“Leave,” he whispered. “Now.”

My breath caught.

He had said yes.

The word struck like a hammer blow—loud, final, reverberating through the bones of my chest. A chill swept over my skin. The air, still thick with the residual heat of my mana, now felt cold against my skin. I looked at him—this man who had stood unwavering beside me, who had carried me through politics, danger, grief—and watched him flinch as though the word had seared him from the inside out, turning his face away like he couldn’t bear to see my reaction.

Like he expected me to run.

But I didn’t.

Instead, my knees felt weak. My head buzzed with questions. “When?” I asked, my voice faint. “When did this start?”

Ferdinand did not answer.

I stepped closer, my voice sharper now. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you were so innocent,” he finally said, his voice strained. “Because you didn’t understand. Even when I tried to flirt, it was like your mind never even registered me as a partner, let alone as a romantic interest.”

Ferdinand faced me and his expression was a study in contradiction—weariness and fire, shame and defiance. He gave a bitter exhale, not quite a laugh. “It is no matter, you know now,” he muttered. “That’s enough.”

My brow furrowed. “Enough? You—” I caught myself, biting back the rise in my voice. “You thought it was fine to let me go on without knowing what you were suffering?”

“You were still a child. It’s not your burden to bear.”

“You know I was never actually a child!” I countered, my voice cracking. “Just because I didn’t have the right kind of common sense and was a little naive doesn’t mean I was innocent. You should have just told me. I don’t go around adding justification to actions. I take them at face value.”

“You know now,” he repeated, turning to face me again. His expression was strained, as if he had aged years in the last few minutes. “And it changes nothing. We will proceed as we are. I will recover. The Starbind Ceremony is seasons away. Until then, we can simply—endure.”

“Endure?” I echoed, and my heart twisted. “That’s what you call this?”

I stepped closer. He didn’t stop me. But he didn’t meet my eyes.

“It’s not enough.” My hands clenched. “You thought it was acceptable to let me go on, oblivious, while you tore yourself apart? You thought I wouldn’t care? You were going to let me go on, thinking it was just overwork? Let me believe it was something fixable, something I could help with?”

“You can’t help,” he said. “You’re the cause.”

"And I’m supposed to stand by and do nothing? Say nothing? Just because it’s easier for you if I stay ignorant?” My throat tightened. “That’s not fair. That’s cruel.”

His voice cracked.

“I shouldn’t feel this way. Not about you.”

“But you do.”

He didn’t deny it.

Ferdinand said nothing.

I stared at him, disbelief mounting, frustration blooming like wildfire in my chest. “You think this can go on like this for ten more months? You think I can just go back to reading and acting like everything is fine, while you—while you—” I cut myself off, words failing under the weight of my emotion. “You’re not even eating.”

“I am eating,” he said, and the lie was too thin to stand.

“No, you’re surviving. Ferdinand. The only thing you've let pass your lips has been potions, nothing of substance. That’s collapse delayed.”

He looked away. “It is necessary.”

“No,” I snapped, “it’s not! You didn’t even give me the option of choice in this matter. Coward!”

His head snapped back toward me, eyes narrowing, but I didn’t flinch.

“You’re so afraid of me seeing you as a man that you’d rather destroy yourself than let me understand. You think you’re protecting me—but you’re not. You’re isolating yourself so you can suffer where I won’t see it."

“Because you don’t want to understand,” he shot back, finally showing the edge of temper I’d been waiting for. “Because if you truly knew, you would look at me with fear again. You would run. Just as you did that day.”

My breath hitched. “I was scared of the spell, not you—!”

“It was not only the spell,” he cut in, voice rising now. “You felt it. You felt the way my mana pulled at yours. That wasn’t a mistake. It was instinct. It was me, Rozemyne. Me wanting—” He cut himself off, chest heaving slightly.

There was a long silence.

My voice, when it came, was low. “Why do you keep talking like I’m some kind of child?”

Ferdinand froze.

“You act like I’ve never thought about these things. That I can’t. That I’m incapable of desire or longing or choosing someone on my own.” I stepped forward, my eyes narrowing. “You think I’ve never prepared myself for the idea of marriage? That I haven’t stood in front of the mirror and imagined myself beside Wilfried, or some other noble Sylvester might have picked? That I didn’t steel myself for the duties that come with being a wife and aub?”

His expression contorted into something pained.

“Just because I didn’t dwell on it—just because I never said it out loud—doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about what it would mean. I never thought it would be you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle the idea of being with you. Of choosing to be with you.”

Ferdinand’s jaw clenched. He turned away again, pacing once, then twice, his fingers twitching restlessly at his sides.

“Stop pretending I’m so innocent that the mere thought of being touched would break me,” I said. “You’re not protecting me when you talk like that. You’re just pushing me away to preserve your own control.”

“Because I have to stay in control!” he snapped, spinning toward me. “Because if I don’t—”

His voice broke.

“If I don’t… I will ruin you.”

My heart thudded so hard it hurt.

The words fell between us like thunder.

He was breathing like he had just confessed to a crime, chest rising and falling with quiet desperation, waiting for my judgment.

And I… didn’t know what to say. My mind was buzzing too fast and too loud with the things he had just laid bare. Lust. Hunger. Wanting everything. The image of Ferdinand—my Ferdinand—gripping his self-control by its fraying edges because of me…

I swallowed.

It was terrifying. Not because I didn’t like him—I did, more than I’d ever been willing to admit, even to myself—but because this wasn’t a gentle admiration from afar anymore. This is no longer an abstract, distant love defined by familiarity.

This was want. It was the kind of hunger I’d read about in romances I never fully understood—one that made sense now, finally, painfully.

This was something real. Adult. Tangled with want and fear and the raw ache of restraint.

My face felt hot. My arms curled around myself instinctively. I dropped my gaze to the floor, because meeting his eyes right now was too much.

But I didn’t run. I didn’t step back.

“I… I didn’t know you wanted me like that,” I said, voice tight and small, trying to sound braver than I felt.

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, still too close and yet somehow worlds away, waiting for me to say what came next.

I took a breath. Then another. The words weren’t easy, but I forced them out.

“I’m not used to being wanted like that. I mean… that way.”

Ferdinand looked away, shame crossing his face again—but I reached out suddenly, fingers wrapping lightly around the fabric of his sleeve.

He froze.

“I can handle it,” I said, more firmly this time. I was still trembling, still blushing, but I didn’t let go. “You’re going to be my husband. You’re already my family. If it’s you…”

My throat worked. I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence, not directly, not when my ears were ringing with everything he’d just confessed. But I stepped in closer, closing the gap between them, and rested my forehead lightly against his chest.

“If it’s you, then it’s okay.”

His breath shuddered out of him.

“You say you can handle it, but you don’t understand,” he said, voice low and rough. “You’ve only just begun to see. I’ve been holding this back for years. Every time you smiled at me, every time you touched me without thinking, every time you came to me for comfort. I held it back. Because you were innocent. Because you didn’t know.”

He pressed closer, and I froze—not out of fear, but because I felt it now. The weight of his desire pressing down between them like gravity.

“If you give me permission with that same voice you use to give praise to your retainers, if you let me touch you because you think it’s expected—I will break. I won’t be able to pretend it’s duty. I’ll know it isn’t what I want. I won’t be able to lie to myself.”

His hand hovered near my face. Trembling.

“I don’t want your obedience. I want your want. I want you to reach for me the way I reach for you in dreams. I want you to burn for me like I burn for you. And if you can’t, if you won’t ever look at me like that, then I’ll endure it, I have endured it—but don’t tell me it’s fine. Don’t offer yourself to me like a noble fulfilling her role.”

I swallowed hard.

Ferdinand’s breath caught. He didn’t move, didn’t touch me—but I could feel the tightness in him, the restraint wound like iron bands around his body.

His voice, when it came, was almost inaudible. “You say that it is okay. But you do not understand what you’re offering. What you are asking of me.”

“No,” he snapped. Not loud. But sharp. “No, Rozemyne. Because if I take from you, I won’t stop. I won’t want to stop. I am not… safe to be around you,” he said. “And you are not ready for what I want.”

The words should have struck terror into me. To some extent they did, though likely not the type of fear Ferdinand was expecting. I didn’t fear what he wanted. Try as he might to explain, his twisted logic amounted to little more than shame for lusting after me.

What I feared was his absence. His pulling away from me. Be it emotionally or physically, I couldn’t have that. His absence in recent days showed me that I didn’t see Ferdinand as a friend; I didn’t see him as a sibling or as a guardian.

I was certain.

Whatever he feared, whatever shame he carried from that spell and everything it awakened, it hadn’t changed the truth I’d already seen: he was still Ferdinand. The same man who had protected me with bloodied hands. Who had built this duchy as my playground. Who had never asked for anything he wasn’t owed.

And now that he wanted something, he hated himself for it.

I resolved to give myself completely. I didn’t know how to offer myself, though. I’d never wanted to keep someone near me the way I wanted Ferdinand. Not quite like family nor like a friend. This was different.

“I’m not ready,” I said honestly. “But I’ll get ready.”

His brow twitched.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I continued. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

A long, ragged exhale. He closed his eyes, but the tension didn’t leave his frame. He looked—desperate. Like someone who had been holding back for so long that the very idea of release had become unbearable.

“Then you are a fool,” he murmured. “And I… am worse.”

“I’ve thought about it. About that stuff. The kind of things you said.” My voice trembled, barely audible beneath the pounding of my heart, but I kept going, words slipping out faster now, like they’d been waiting just beneath the surface for too long.

“I’ve thought about… s-sexual things,” I admitted, flushing so hard my ears burned. “With you.” My stomach flipped with embarrassment. I couldn’t believe I’d said that out loud.

Ferdinand held his breath. A terrifying silence followed that admission. He looked away, fists clenched at his sides.

“I couldn’t ever imagine it with anyone else. Every time I tried—even when I thought I was supposed to—my whole body just… recoiled. It felt disgusting. Wrong. But when I think about it with you…”

I faltered, my hands tightening in his sleeve. I didn’t dare look at him while admitting this.

“…it’s not gross. It makes me feel weird. All tingly and warm and… I don’t know if it’s the same feeling you meant. It’s scary, but… good. Like I’m alive all over.”

My voice cracked.

“I wanted you to know that. I don’t want you to think I’m just doing this out of obligation. I know I’m inexperienced. I know I’ve never done any of this before. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I want to try.”

Now that I had finished giving my embarrassing confession, my gaze slowly lifted to meet his. Nervous and unsteady.

“I’ve wanted to be closer to you for a long time. Even if I didn’t have the right words for it.”

Ferdinand looked dazed.

His eyes were wide, almost pained, like my words had cracked open something he’d buried so deeply.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His expression said everything. The longing in his eyes, the raw way he looked at me—like I’d just stepped into the center of his soul—told me more than words ever could.

I felt like I was going to faint from how fast my heart was beating. It thundered through my chest, echoed in my ears, pulsed through the tips of my fingers like a fever. My body felt like I might come apart from within.

I never thought I would put a name to my feelings. For years, I hadn’t even realized there was a name. It had always been hidden behind duties, rituals, prayers, books. Behind a careful distance that I maintained not because I didn’t want him, but because it had never felt like I could want him. Like that.

Because I knew him.

I knew his trauma, his chains. I knew the way his voice turned to steel when he spoke of duty, and the deep yearning that bled through when he spoke of family. I wanted that family too. I had always believed their married life—when it came—would be quiet and dutiful. That intimacy, like so many other things, would be one more obligation between them. A matter of practicality. Of expectation. A means to a noble end.

Now, as he looked down at me with those exhausted, aching eyes, something broke open in me.

I realized—this wouldn’t be transactional.

This wouldn’t be just because they were supposed to.

It would be because he wanted me.

And because I wanted him.

The realization stole my breath. My thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking some anchor in the flood of sensation overtaking me. I couldn’t stop thinking—if he touched me now, I wouldn’t stop him. I might not even want to stop him.

That terrified me. And thrilled me.

I had never thought myself capable of that kind of desire. Had never imagined that it could live in me too—not just in abstract terms, not just in books, but in me. In the raw, pulsing way I felt it now.

And Ferdinand…

If he wanted me now... if he reached for me.

I would let him.

He swayed slightly. And for the first time, I realized how close he was to collapsing.

I moved forward on instinct, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my forehead lightly against his chest. He stiffened immediately.

“You’re overworked, sleep-deprived, underfed, and manastone-sick,” I muttered into his robes. “And you think I’m the dangerous one in this room?”

“Rozemyne—” His voice cracked.

“Schlaftraum.”

I tapped his forehead with two fingers, my word final. The blessing settled over him like fog rolling in over a quiet lake. His eyes flickered once, then closed. His whole body slackened almost instantly, his head dipping toward my shoulder.

He was out cold.

I exhaled, the tension leaking from my chest—only to be replaced by immediate regret. "Oh... right."

Ferdinand, unconscious and deadweight, was now slumped against me. I blinked down at him, realization dawning like a slow, creeping sunbeam. He's not getting up on his own. And I can't carry him. Not easily. Definitely not far.

I glanced toward the door, then remembered the bed across the room. It might as well have been a mile away.

Calling for help wasn’t an option either—not unless I could suddenly raise their mana reserves exponentially in a moment.

My brow twitched. "I really didn't think this through," I muttered, adjusting my grip to keep him from sliding entirely onto the floor.

I stared at Ferdinand. Then at the door again. "...Okay. I'll drag you if I have to."

And so, with all the dignity of a girl hauling a fully-grown man like a sack of potatoes, I got to work. Because if anyone was going to tuck him in tonight, it was going to be me.

Chapter Text

Important Hiatus Notice
Hello everyone,
I need to put the continuation of this story on an indefinite hiatus.
I recently experienced a serious personal crisis concerning my family and our safety. The subject matter of the next chapter deals with sensitive, potentially triggering trauma, and I feel strongly that I cannot approach that material with the necessary care and attention while I am dealing with this real-life situation.
This is a private and non-negotiable family matter, and I kindly ask for your respect and understanding by not asking any questions about the nature of the crisis. I will not be discussing it further.
My family and my mental health need to be my absolute priority.
Thank you for your incredible patience and enthusiasm. I will return to writing when I am in the right mental state, but I do not have a timeline at this moment.
Thank you for your understanding. Please take care of yourselves.