Silence.
The air in the hall stilled, thick with disbelief.
The green-haired woman blinked. Her smirk slipped away, eyes widening in disbelief.
The Dame's jaw dropped.
Even Mira, who had been keeping a polite distance, fumbled and dropped the leather bag she carried. The thud echoed in the corridor.
It was, without question, shocking.
Then—
"HOW DARE YOU!"
The Dame exploded.
"You dare speak to my lady that way?! Did you forget your place?! You pathetic…!"
Her voice boomed through the hall like a war horn. Eyes blazing, jaw clenched, she stomped forward. One hand flew to the hilt of her sword; the other curled into a trembling fist. Her armor clinked with every furious breath.
Julien winced slightly.
He raised his pinky to his ear and wiggled it lazily.
"Now another bitch is barking."
He no longer cared about laying low. Not with the constant headache and the flood of old Julien's garbage memories, and this parade of nonsense. He felt rotten, and his words came out the same.
The Dame's face turned crimson. A vein throbbed at her temple. She took another step, mouth twitching, fury about to boil over—
Then Mira stepped forward, cutting through the tension.
"Good morning, Lady Seraphina."
Her voice was crisp. Clear. Formal.
She bowed low, one hand at her skirt.
The Dame stopped mid-step. Her body jerked slightly, caught between etiquette and rage.
Julien's brow twitched.
'Seraphina?'
Something clicked.
Seraphina de Rothvale. Wife of his eldest brother, the firstborn. From the Marquis Valentine household. Nobles of the neighboring Princeton Principality.
So that's who the curvaceous, venom-tongued noblewoman was.
And suddenly, the Dame's outburst made sense. She wasn't a Rothvale knight; she was Valentine's dog. A personal guard, trained and bred to die for her mistress's honor.
He should've guessed from the colors.
Before the Dame could draw another breath, Seraphina raised one hand.
The gesture was elegant. Effortless. But absolute.
The Dame froze.
Her shoulders tensed. Lips parted. She hesitated, visibly. Fury still bubbled beneath her skin, but discipline won. She stepped back half a pace.
Even if reluctant, the order was obeyed.
Julien saw his chance. Without a word, he stepped forward and began to walk.
He didn't look back.
But Seraphina did.
Her eyes dropped, just briefly, to Mira—specifically, the faint red marks along the girl's throat. Subtle. But there.
And Julien's changed attitude…
His tone. His words. That look in his eyes.
Something was off.
A smile touched the edge of her lips.
'Interesting.'
Julien's footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow and measured.
Mira lingered behind, caught between the Lady, the furious Dame, and the man she was supposed to serve. She bit her lip, gave Seraphina one last nervous glance, then turned and hurried after him.
He veered down the main hall, moving in the opposite direction of the breakfast wing.
Mira's brow furrowed. "Young Master, the dining room is—"
"Not hungry." His tone was blunt. Final.
She flinched at the cold edge in his voice but fell silent.
Outside, pale sunlight bathed the stone steps in gold. A crisp breeze swept across the estate grounds, fluttering the banners atop the black iron gates.
At the base of the stairs, a sleek black carriage stood ready—lacquered wood polished to a sheen, the house crest carved into its door.
A black lion rearing over a scattered crown, etched in gold and obsidian. The Rothvale sigil spoke not of legacy, but conquest—bold, defiant, unbowed.
Julien didn't wait for a servant. He stepped up, yanked the door open, and climbed in. Mira rushed to follow, settling into the seat opposite him, back straight and hands folded neatly in her lap.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Stillness.
Julien's eyes drifted to the window. The manor loomed behind them. The carriage hadn't moved.
He turned his head, slow and deliberate. "Why aren't we moving?"
Mira tensed. "Ah… the knight hasn't arrived yet, Young Master. We were instructed to wait—"
"Tch." He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
A shift—his spine straightened, presence sharpening.
"Move," he said, voice like frost cracking through glass.
Mira blinked. "Pardon…?"
Julien turned his head slightly, gaze cutting toward her like a blade.
"Do I need to repeat myself?"
He paused just long enough to let the silence settle.
"Move the carriage."
A command. Not a request.
She jolted. "P-please, just a few more minutes. The knight—"
"Mira." He leaned forward, voice low but piercing. His gaze pinned her, and for just a moment, the violet in his eyes seemed to glow.
"Does a master wait for his servant?"
She froze. Breath hitched.
She knew it wasn't a question. It was a threat—thinly veiled in civility.
But even afraid, she tried. "B-but Sir Auren is assigned—"
"Do I?" he cut her off, eyes like stone.
Mira's throat bobbed. Her eyes dropped.
"…No, Young Master."
"Good."
He leaned back again, as if dismissing the entire issue.
Mira bowed her head, then rose quickly and slipped outside. She hurried to the front, whispering to the coachman. Her hands moved quickly, checking the rear supplies and adjusting the strap on the trunk.
Then, with one last breath, she climbed back in and closed the door.
A moment later, the reins snapped.
The carriage lurched into motion.
Outside, soft golden light spilled across the gravel road, dew still clinging to the grass. The trees lining the path blurred into streaks of green as the wheels picked up speed.
Inside, the quiet settled again.
Julien leaned back into the plush leather seat, eyes half-lidded as the carriage rocked gently over cobbled stone. The headache had dulled, but something still itched beneath his skin. A wrongness he couldn't name.
The spell had worked. That much was certain.
He had slipped his soul into this body, shed his rotted flesh, and escaped that accursed tower. That prison.
But something was off.
The original theory said nothing about emotional volatility. And yet, back in the bedroom, his hands had moved before he could think. He'd choked Mira without hesitation—his anger too sharp, too sudden.
Even with Seraphina and that Dame. He'd snapped, provoked, when he could've simply ignored them.
That wasn't him.
Not the kind of man who survived a bloody crucible.
"Side effects," he muttered.
'Why this body?'
Of all the souls he could have possessed, why this one? Why a trembling, spineless noble brat with a ruined name and soiled sheets?
His jaw tensed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
His thoughts spiraled.
'And what now?'
He had clawed his way to this point through blood and madness, driven by obsession to escape. But now that he was free… now that the long experiment had ended… he had no goal.
He didn't crave conquest. Had no thirst for revenge. No glory to pursue.
He just wanted peace.
But peace wasn't an option. Not with things as they were.
Even if he let them excommunicate him, someone would come to destroy his peace. The Rothvale name had made many enemies. And enemies held grudges. Some would want ruin. Others blood.
Just thinking about it doubled his headache. It felt like his past all over again.
Kill or be killed.
He exhaled. Slowly.
His gaze shifted.
Mira sat across from him—quiet, composed. Spine ramrod straight. Legs pressed neatly together. Hands folded in her lap.
Trying to be invisible.
But she wasn't.
Her chest rose and fell with each breath. The subtle sway of the carriage made her breasts shift beneath the fabric—perky, full. Pressed tightly together by the black uniform. A faint jiggle with every bump in the road.
His eyes drifted lower.
'Those legs...'
That image returned—her crumpled on the floor, skirt hitched up, apron twisted at her hip. Smooth, pale thighs exposed—creamy, supple, inviting.
But he'd seen more than that. Just beneath the hem, a glimpse of her undergarments. Thin cotton clung to her slit, the shape faintly outlined. The tops of her stockings hugged her thighs—black, tight, slightly indented.
Just remembering it stirred him.
A twitch of arousal ran through him, hardening him. A sensation he hadn't truly felt in years. Not in the cold rot of the place he once belonged.
He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp. Focused.
"Mira."
She looked up at once, startled. Her hands clenched tighter in her lap.
"Yes, Young Master?"
He didn't answer immediately. He held her gaze a moment too long.
Then he patted the empty seat beside him. Slow. Intentional.
"Come sit here."
She blinked. Her lips parted. Her brows knit faintly in hesitation. A flicker of confusion crossed her face. She glanced at the seat, then back to his eyes.
"Pardon? How can I—"
Julien didn't respond.
He simply said her name again. Soft. Measured.
"Mira."
And then he smiled.
It wasn't warm. It wasn't kind.
It was the kind of smile that sent a cold shiver down her spine.