Elliot blinked awake, sunlight bleeding through the tall windows of his villa. The sheets felt too warm, his chest heavy with the memory of last night—her skin, her whispers, the quiet gasps she tried to stifle, and the ring on her finger that glinted even in the dark.
He let out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. "I need to stop letting my dick make decisions."
The villa's guest wing was quiet. Morning had passed into late noon, and the staff had long learned not to disturb him until he rose. He sat up and stared at the polished stone floor, memories flickering like embers in his head. Kira. The maid. Married, sweet, devoted—and now tangled in something neither of them could ever speak of again. Or could they?
He shook his head and muttered, "I didn't plan any of this."
But a part of him, deep down, knew this was only the beginning.
---
The carriage wheels clattered softly against the cobbled roads, a rhythmic lull that gave Elliot too much room to think. He sat back in the plush seat, legs crossed, one hand absently tugging at his collar.
Outside the small window, the capital of Elandor slowly passed by—elegant towers, ivy-wrapped balconies, merchant stalls lit with crystal lanterns, and armored knights patrolling the streets with polished pride.
It was beautiful in a way Earth never was. No trash-littered gutters, no choking smog, no concrete jungles masking dying souls. Everything here felt cleaner, richer… more alive.
But it was also deceptive.
Magic hummed beneath the surface. Power dictated hierarchy. And monsters weren't just fairy tales—they were real. Demons, heroes, gods—all characters in the fantasy novel he once read… and now lived.
He sighed.
I was just a guy trying to pass his exams and avoid office jobs. Now I'm tangled in curses, women, and aristocratic drama.
The worst part? He wasn't even the protagonist.
Lucien was.
And Elliot was just trying to keep close to the chosen one while navigating a world that demanded he play a far darker game.
The carriage slowed.
The tavern was just ahead.
---
The tavern was loud and warm that evening, candles flickering on dark wooden walls, smoke clinging to the air. It was reunion night—after three long months of break, the academy's elite students had gathered to drink, eat, and boast about their experiences.
Lucien was already seated when Elliot arrived, his signature confident smirk plastered across his face.
Dressed in a sleek black coat with his family's golden insignia—a roaring gryphon—he looked every bit the illegitimate son of a Duke who didn't give a damn what the world thought.
"Elliot!" Lucien called, raising a glass of crimson wine. "You finally woke up from your beauty sleep?"
Elliot gave him a grin, settling into the empty seat beside him. "Unlike you, I need my sleep to look this good."
"Brother, you're already a walking scandal. Sleep just makes you more dangerous."
They both laughed, drawing the attention of a few girls nearby. One of them giggled behind her hand, blushing when Elliot winked at her.
The rest of their group began filing in—familiar faces, all students from noble or wealthy merchant families. Roland, the muscle-headed axe user from the north; Darien, the tactician with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue; and Seraphina, the Academy's golden princess, who immediately sat beside Lucien with a perfectly calculated, casual elegance.
Seraphina's ice-blonde hair fell in waves down her back, and her blue eyes lit up when she spoke to Lucien—but dimmed ever so slightly when he turned away. Her feelings for him weren't hidden, not to Elliot at least.
"Have you heard?" Roland leaned in, sloshing his ale. "The kingdom's posted a bounty board near the border. Real monsters this time—not just bandits."
Darien adjusted his glasses. "They're expecting demonic interference. Quiet signs, small anomalies... but it's happening."
Elliot's gaze flickered. He knew exactly what was coming—this world would not remain whole for long. The demons were real. The coming war was real.
But his job wasn't to be the hero. It was to survive.
"I'm not going demon-hunting," Elliot said smoothly, pouring himself some wine. "I've got my hands full with a different kind of monster."
"Women?" Lucien smirked.
Elliot raised his glass. "The most dangerous kind."
They all laughed. Banter flowed like the drink, rich and easy. Even Darien cracked a smile when Roland began recounting how he'd accidentally insulted a baroness by comparing her hair to a sheep's wool.
The fire in the hearth crackled behind them, casting golden light across their faces. They were young, talented, and privileged—at least on the surface. Beneath it all, Elliot could sense the shifting politics, the unspoken alliances, and the weight of expectations.
But in that moment, he allowed himself to feel like a friend among friends.
---
Halfway through the night, the tavern musicians struck up a lively tune. A few couples rose to dance, spinning between tables and chairs with ease.
Lucien nudged him. "Come on."
Elliot blinked. "What?"
"Dance floor. Let's go."
"I don't swing that way," Elliot deadpanned, though his lips curled in amusement.
Lucien rolled his eyes. "It's a dance, not a proposal. You're always complaining you don't fit in—so fit in."
Elliot hesitated, then stood. "If I step on your foot, I'm not apologizing."
"You couldn't if you tried."
They moved to the open space near the fireplace, where a few other students danced in pairs. At first, they were awkward—two tall, handsome young men trying not to look like they were trying too hard.
But then the rhythm caught them. Lucien led with ease, years of noble dancing etiquette drilled into his muscle memory. Elliot followed, quick-witted and light on his feet.
They twirled, laughed, bumped shoulders. A few cheers erupted from their classmates, some teasing, some impressed.
They stepped apart. Lucien said nothing, just smiled with that easy charm of his. Elliot swallowed and turned away to fetch a drink.
And that's when he saw her.
She was seated in the shadows, alone—pink-haired, statuesque, with an air of bored nobility clinging to her like perfume.
Vivianne de Rouselle.
A third-year student. Daughter of a wealthy marquis. And engaged to one of his classmate.
Her rose-gold eyes glittered under the chandelier, her gown a deep wine red that hugged her curves too well to be decent. She wasn't watching the crowd. She was watching Elliot.
He frowned slightly. Had she been there the whole time?
As he turned to pour himself another drink, something brushed his hand. A folded slip of paper.
He looked around—no one near him. Just the music, laughter, and shadows.
He unfolded it slowly.
"Bathroom. Now."
He froze. Looked up. Vivianne wasn't in her seat anymore.
Elliot set the glass down and scanned the room. No one was watching.
Little did he knew somewas was infact watching him. She stood by the bar, pretending to sip her wine, eyes barely narrowed, observing.
Elliot smiled to himself.
Well, shit. I should go.
He moved casually through the crowd, brushing past Darien and Roland, nodding at Seraphina, who was laughing at something Lucien had said.
He didn't look back as he disappeared down the hallway.
Behind him, Clarisse placed her glass down quietly and followed after him, her expression unreadable.