I woke up with Jules' foot in my face. Again.
Not that I minded, exactly. He had surprisingly soft skin for someone who spent half the day causing chaos. But there's something humbling about opening your eyes to the scent of lavender lotion and a toe dangerously close to your mouth. Maybe I needed my own bed. Or maybe I just needed to stop recruiting such clingy femboys.
I stretched, yawning theatrically as I kicked him off of me.
"You drool in your sleep," I muttered.
Jules blinked up at me. "You snore. Like a haunted church bell."
Touche.
The townhouse was unusually quiet. No Roderick polishing his boots. No Miko cooking in silence like a domestic serial killer. And no Elian flirting with the furniture. I padded down the narrow hallway, the wood creaking beneath my feet, and peeked into the common room.
Empty. Odd.
I scratched my head, hair sticking out in a thousand directions. Then I noticed the note pinned to the fireplace with a butter knife.
Gone to scout. Roderick thinks someone's onto us. Stay inside. Don't do anything weird. —Miko.
I stared at the last line.
Don't do anything weird?
That was like asking a fish not to be moist.
I had a plan, of course. A grand plan. I wasn't just turning people into femboys for the hell of it, well, not just. As I explained before, I was building a nation. A community. A divine pantheon of soft thighs and piercing gazes, bound not by blood, but by affection and impeccable grooming standards.
The world had kings and tyrants. I would give them something better: a kingdom of kindness, seduction, and strategic moaning.
Of course, that also meant I had enemies. Like the Grand Inquisitor and his subjects. The Capital's favorite torturer. Rumor said he once turned a man's spine into a wind instrument just to play funeral dirges at parties.
His name?
Albrecht Hollow.
Real dramatic bastard. Cloak like black smoke, eyes like burnt silver. He ran the Church's anti-sorcery division, and from the way Miko's note read, he was sniffing around Greywatch.
And if there's one thing I hate more than nobles with superiority complexes, it's religious men who think they can't be seduced.
The problem was, Hollow didn't qualify for my gift. He hadn't wronged me. Yet. Which meant I had to be patient.
Ugh.
I grabbed my coat, tucked my pen into its holster, and locked the townhouse behind me. If Miko could go scouting, so could I. Preferably while loitering around sweaty sparring fields or watching upperclassmen duel in unnecessarily tight trousers.
All in the name of research of course.
Greywatch Academy was buzzing.
Students darted between classes like wasps with scrolls. Professors floated on rune-discs. One girl was crying into a statue of the Archmage who invented magical contraception.
And there, at the center of the courtyard, stood a boy I'd never seen before.
He had fire-orange hair that curled at the tips, skin the color of soft sand, and a jacket made of stitched-together silken house crests—each one cut from a different noble. Either he was a collector, or he had a very specific kink.
He looked up, and as our eyes met I felt my pen twitch in my pocket like a dog smelling steak.
I approached slowly, calculating angles, posture, and lighting — the holy trinity of any good first impression. Not every student was turn-worthy, but this one… I had a feeling. The kind of feeling you get when you see an unattended coin purse in a busy marketplace.
He tilted his head, appraising me with the casual arrogance of someone who'd been attractive long enough to get used to it. "You're Cecil, aren't you?"
My lips curved. "That depends. Are you planning to challenge me, seduce me, or monologue at me?"
His grin was quick, sharp, and untrustworthy in the best way. "I like to keep my options open."
Definitely a candidate.
"I'm Salem," he said. "Just transferred. My old school exploded. Long story."
We shook hands. His palm was warm, slightly calloused — the kind of grip that says I fight things but the slight linger said I might also write you bad poetry.
A possible ally… or rival.
We ended up by the fountain. The water gurgled behind us like a drunken monk gargling holy wine. Salem leaned in, his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on me. "There are rumors about you, you know."
"Only half are true," I said. "And the other half are true but exaggerated."
He laughed at that, which was suspicious in itself. "They say you turned Pharren Vaunte into a—well. You know."
"A better person?" I offered. His eyebrow lifted in disbelief. I leaned forward, lowering my voice like I was letting him in on a dangerous secret. "Pharren used to throw first-years down stairwells for fun. He got a makeover. Sue me."
Salem's eyes glinted. "You're building something, aren't you?"
Smart boy.
"You're not like the rest of these maniacs," I said. "You didn't even try to slap me with a dueling glove."
He shrugged. "Violence is overrated. I prefer insinuation. And cinnamon rolls."
We might just be friends after all.
But he was watching me closely — tooclosely. His gaze wasn't just lingering; it was taking inventory. Tracking my expressions, my posture, the faint twitch when my pen brushed against my thigh. He wasn't just flirting. He was assessing me like a jeweler inspecting a suspiciously shiny gem at a thieves' market.
So I gave him a test. "Wanna see something cool?" I asked.
He nodded. I pulled the pen out into the sunlight, letting it catch in just the right way. It shimmered — elegant, unassuming, dangerous if you knew how to read it. I drew a symbol in the air — a heart, split down the middle, stitched shut with delicate little Xs.
Salem's pupils dilated instantly. "Blood magic?" he whispered.
"No," I said. "Something older. And way cooler."
His hand brushed mine — deliberate, just a hair too close to be innocent. I pulled back with a grin. "Careful. You flirt any harder and I might think you're ready to join the club."
He smirked. "What club?"
But there was something in his expression — a flicker, quick as a blade in moonlight.
Was it fear? Arousal? Or maybe recognition?
Like he'd seen the pen before. Like he knew exactly what it could do. That would be inconvenient. And also, if I'm being honest, oddly exciting. Either way, I decided right then and there — I liked him.
By the time I returned to the townhouse, the others were already home.
Roderick sat on the windowsill like a gargoyle in silk. "You were followed. At least for a little while. We diverted them away from your trail before you reached the townhouse."
I frowned, irritation prickling at the base of my neck like an itch I couldn't scratch. "By who?" The question snapped out sharper than I intended, more a demand than curiosity.
"Church agent," Roderick replied without blinking. "White gloves. Hollow's pet apprentice, probably. Didn't get a name." He leaned back slightly, the shadows swallowing half his face, and I hated how calm he looked while delivering news that made my gut twist.
Miko drifted closer, the ever-reliable balm to my frayed nerves, and placed a cup of tea into my hands. The steam curled up, faintly perfumed, as though fragrant leaves could undo the insult of being hunted.
"He was sniffing around the tavern you like," he murmured, his eyes sharp even as his voice stayed soft. Always gentle, always precise, as though even his comfort came with calculated weight.
I scowled into the cup, my reflection wobbling in the surface of the tea. "I hate being popular," I muttered, the bitterness bleeding through despite the sweetness on my tongue.
Elian, falling across the couch like a cat that had never once known fear, smirked without lifting his head. "Liar," he drawled, the single word slinking into the room like smoke.
Suddenly, Jules sprawled into my lap without warning, thighs parting just enough to press flush against mine, his weight settling with the slow gravity of something practiced and provocative.
The air changed then.
His breath hitched when I let my hand trail down his spine, fingers teasing past silk and skin, pausing at the waistband just long enough to let him feel the anticipation pool between us.
My touch was slow, coaxing, deliberate—a glide, a press, then the subtle, knowing curl of my fingers just where he needed it most.
Jules arched with a soft, shivering gasp, hips twitching in silent permission. Heat bloomed beneath my hand, tension winding tight through his slender frame. He was trembling, every breath a confession he didn't have to speak.
His chest rose against mine in sharp little bursts, sputtering every time pressure found itself in just the right spot.
"So. What's next?" Elian asked leaning into me with a smirk.
I ran my fingers through Jules's hair, absentmindedly. "We find out what Hollow wants. We stay hidden. And if anyone threatens us…"
Roderick finished for me. "They get pretty."
Exactly.