Regulus sat on the edge of the ruined bed, his head in his hands. The thrill of victory had evaporated, leaving only exhaustion and a simmering frustration. His body ached, his mind was frayed, and his Falna—damn it all—had barely budged.
This isn't working.
He wasn't some plaything to be passed around. He wasn't some novice to be molded by their games. He was—
A weight pressed against his back. Warm. Soft. Unclothed.
"Helena," he growled, not turning. "Get off me. Get dressed first."
She giggled, her breath tickling his neck as her arms looped around his waist. "Heh heh, don't be so down, my king." Her fingers traced idle patterns over his stomach. "You simply have to get stronger."
Regulus' grip on his own knees tightened. "I need to fight to get stronger. Any non-combat excelia barely increases the Falna—you know that."
Helena hummed, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Mmm, true. But..." Her voice dropped, playful but pointed. "Who said this was just about excelia?"
Regulus stiffened.
She pressed closer, her lips brushing his ear. "This was about breaking you. About making you understand that strength isn't just in your arms." A pause. "And, well... you did break. Just a little."
His jaw clenched.
Helena sighed, finally releasing him and stretching lazily. "But fine, fine. If you want combat so badly..." She snapped her fingers.
The door burst open.
Standing in the threshold was a woman Regulus had never seen before—tall, scarred, clad in leathers instead of lace. Her arms were crossed, her smirk sharp as a blade.
"Meet Selene," Helena purred, flopping back onto the bed. "Our resident battle maniac. And your new sparring partner."
Selene cracked her knuckles. "Heard you like fighting, pretty boy." Her grin widened. "Let's see if you can handle real pain."
"And where were you the entire time I was here? How come I only met horny maids for weeks?"
Regulus sat, the afterglow of exertion clinging to his skin like a second layer. His fingers curled into the crumpled sheets, knuckles white with something between frustration and exhaustion.
Helena's voice cut through the haze, softer now, stripped of its usual teasing lilt.
"We hid them away from you until you finished Phase two," she murmured.
He didn't ask. He didn't need to.
A slow nod. That was all he gave.
Then, after a beat too long, he let out a hoarse laugh. "Why is everyone I meet here so godsdamned horny?"
The mattress shifted as Helena settled beside him, her bare shoulder brushing his. For once, she didn't press closer. Didn't tease.
"Because," she said, staring at the far wall, "most of us were Vespera's courtesans. The ones who got 'rescued' a decade ago." Her fingers traced an old scar along her ribs—thin, precise, the kind left by knives, not flames. "The ones who weren't freed by some hero. We were only the byproduct of retaliation."
Regulus went very still.
"Lady Hebe offered us a place," she continued, voice flat. "Not as victims. Not as whores. As maids. As warriors. As whatever the hell we wanted." A sharp smile. "Turns out, when you spend years weaponizing desire, you don't just… forget how to use it."
Regulus went very, very still.
"And we just wanted sex, you were the perfect candidate, the only one really. Fucking some random guy would have ruined the Familia's reputation."
The air between them loosened—Regulus' face deadpanned,
Regulus exhaled. "Give back my sympathy would ya? And the… games?"
Helena's grin returned, edged but real. "Practice. For the next time someone tries to cage us." She leaned in, this time stopping just short of contact. "And for making men like you remember who's really in control."
Outside, the first bells of dawn rang across the city.
Regulus stood, pulling his shirt on with deliberate slowness. "Selene," he said. Not a question. A demand.
Helena laughed. "East courtyard. She's been waiting for you since midnight."
He left with Selene, ready for a warmup before the next phase begins.
The east courtyard was a ring of packed earth and weathered stone, its edges lined with maids in varying states of disarray—some still flushed from the night's activities, others sipping tea like they were at a theater performance. All eyes were fixed on the center, where Selene cracked her knuckles with a grin that promised pain.
Regulus rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance. "Alright, let's—"
Selene's fist connected with his solar plexus before he could finish.
Air exploded from his lungs as he doubled over, only for her knee to meet his chin with a crack that sent him sprawling onto his back. The crowd erupted in cheers.
"Again!" someone shouted.
"Make him dance, Selene!" another laughed.
Regulus wheezed, rolling onto his knees. "I thought—" he gasped, "—after everything, we had some kind of—"
Selene's boot caught him under the chin, snapping his head back. "Rapport?" she finished for him, cracking her knuckles. "We do. This is our rapport."
The maids burst into fresh giggles as Regulus spat blood onto the stones.
He continues to get beaten up, all the while having to listen to the not so helpful comments of the unwelcome spectators.
"Oh, the way he whimpers...!"
"His form is atrocious. Like a newborn fawn with concussion."
"Someone fetch more bandages. And wine."
Regulus, spitting out a tooth: "I thought we were past the violent part of our relationship."
Selene wiped his blood from her mouth. "This is our love language."
When Regulus finally stopped complaining and watched—really watched—the way Selene moved, something changed.
Her attacks weren't random. Every strike had purpose. Every dodge taught him something. Even the maids' catcalls held fragments of real advice beneath the cruelty.
His next block connected properly. His counterattack made her grunt.
The courtyard fell silent.
Then—
"ABOUT TIME!" shouted three maids in unison.
Selene's grin was all teeth. "Now we begin."
"How many times," he wheezed, dragging himself upright using a rose trellis, "do I keep having enlightenments during not-really-fair fights?!"
Selene cracked her neck. "Life's not fair."
"SHUT IT, SELENE!" Regulus' voice cracked like a teenager's. "We keep doing this repeatedly—" He gestured wildly at his bruises. "—I'm ending this NOW!"
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
Regulus moved.
Not with skill. Not with grace. But with the kind of desperate, flailing rage that made even seasoned warriors hesitate. His fist connected with Selene's nose in a wet crunch.
The maids gasped in unison.
Selene staggered back—and grinned. "Finally."
Regulus didn't stop. He tackled her to the ground, their limbs tangling in a mess of elbows and knees, rolling through the dirt like feral cats. The maids' cheers turned to shrieks as they nearly collided with the tea table.
"MY SCONES!"
Helena, watching from the sidelines with her clipboard, sighed. "Note: His Majesty has developed spirit. And possibly rabies."
When they finally separated, both panting and bleeding, Selene clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to dislocate something. "Good. You have guts at least."
Regulus groaned.
The maids applauded.