He crossed his arms, eyes fixed on the map spread before them. The parchment crackled slightly under his fingers, and the faint smell of old ink mingled with the warm air from the hearth. Every line, every border marked on the paper seemed to pulse with danger, reminding him of the stakes at hand.
"So the region is still under the control of the kidnappers," he said, voice low, yet firm. Each word seemed to weigh heavier than the last, pressing the air around them into tense silence.
The other nodded gravely, voice tight with tension.
"And the problem is that they are formidable. The elves could, at any time, declare war, using this situation as an excuse." His fingers tapped lightly against the map, tracing invisible routes, as if the faint rhythm could summon a solution.
A heavy silence followed before he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke from his cigarette curl and twist lazily toward the ceiling. "It is true, this is problematic," he admitted, his gaze lingering on the flickering firelight that danced across the polished wood. The warmth of the room contrasted sharply with the cold weight pressing on his chest.
He took another drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke swirl like a phantom. "So, the agreement is that the royalty intervenes in exchange for your daughter's hand?" he continued, voice calm but edged with unease.
William let out a small, ironic smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes.
"Always perceptive," he replied, a hint of amusement masking the tension beneath.
Straightening slightly in his chair, fingers brushing the armrest absentmindedly, he let his gaze drift to the window. Daylight has filtered gently through the curtains, casting muted shadows on the walls. He exhaled, voice deeper now.
"The royal family underestimates the elves. They are few, yes, but their magical prowess is formidable. Far more dangerous than numbers alone would suggest."
Silence settled again, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire. Édouard frowned, turning the ring on his finger absentmindedly — a habitual sign of reflection. "I can't disagree with that," he said, measuredly, though the weight behind his words hinted at deeper concerns.
The butler advanced then, each step deliberate, precise. The white gloves gleamed against his black uniform, the contrast almost symbolic of the balance between service and power. In his hands, a silver tray held a steaming teapot and two delicately patterned cups. The aroma of tea, infused with subtle hints of herbs, filled the room and mingled with the ever-present scent of waxed wood and old books.
The guest, seated elegantly on the velvet sofa, observed silently, a faint, polished smile brushing his lips. Fingers lightly brushing the fabric, he noted the butler's choreography: the subtle shifting of weight, the tilt of the head, the placement of the cups. It was a performance of discipline and precision, and yet it spoke to something more — the meticulous order upon which their world depended.
At the coffee table, the butler set the tea with ceremonial care. Once done, he stepped back, hands crossed behind his back, awaiting the noble invitation to serve.
Édouard lifted his cup, savoring the warmth, a moment of delicate normality amidst the tension. "Thank you, George. The tea is, as always, excellent," he said, a genuine smile touching his face.
The butler bowed. "Your compliments honor me, sir Édouard."
William waved him off. "You may go, George."
The butler withdrew silently, the door closing softly behind him. The room felt momentarily emptied of distractions, leaving only the weight of the conversation and the soft crackle of the fire.
William turned to Édouard, more serious now. "Now that we are alone… tell me, am I wrong to impose this on my daughter?" His voice carried a vulnerability rarely permitted to escape, the kind that only appeared behind closed doors.
Édouard placed his cup down, meeting his eyes steadily. "You do this for your country. We would have lost the war twenty-four years ago without your leadership. Thanks to you, we have the support of the beastmen. Follow your instincts, William. That instinct is your greatest weapon. And you know it."
A slow exhale escaped William's lips. Relief softened his face, but a shadow lingered there. "Thank you. Speaking with you always brings clarity," he murmured, leaning back in his chair.
He straightened slightly, easing into the comfort of routine and familiarity. "So, what brings you here?"
Édouard allowed a faint smile to appear, one tempered with courtesy. "Just a courtesy visit. I must leave soon, but it was… reassuring, to speak with you."
He adjusted his jacket, adding with a casual respect, "Say hello to my sister and take care of my niece."
William rose to accompany him, nodding. "Thank you. And goodbye to you."
The office door closed with a soft click, leaving the dimly lit corridor outside. Édouard's gaze scanned the hall, sharp and measured. And there, leaning casually against the wall, was a figure he had not anticipated.
The servant.
Katarina stood tall, one shoulder slightly tilted, the cold stone behind her a makeshift throne. Her arms crossed under the embroidered apron, each thread catching the faint glow of the flames. Silver hair, luminous as moonlight, cascaded freely, strands drifting softly with the subtle draft from the open windows.
Her eyes, sharp and blue, measured him with a calm, unsettling intensity. They were not merely observing; they were analyzing, weighing, deciding. A subtle, ambiguous smile played across her lips, one that seemed almost out of place, given her station — yet it conveyed a confidence both disturbing and magnetic.
Her legs, crossed elegantly, added a theatrical poise. She raised a brow, eyes gliding over him in silent evaluation.
"Wow… look at you," she said, her tone teasing yet sharp.
"Who would have thought a servant could listen in at doors?"
The silence that followed was thick and almost suffocating. Katarina shifted, steps deliberate, each movement radiating authority. She stopped mere centimeters away, eyes icy.
"You know I am your superior. Are you trying to die?"
He stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "S-sorry," he whispered, voice trembling.
Katarina inhaled deeply, regaining control, voice now calm and measured.
"You think he will cancel the marriage?"
He shook his head, defeat etched into his features. "No, he seems resolute."
Her lips curved into a hard smile, eyes sparkling with unyielding determination.
"Well, Evelyra will remove the sealing soon. Be ready."
He looked at her, admiration mixed with anxiety. "Even without memories of your past life, you stayed, even among your subordinates."
Katarina shrugged lightly, a small smirk at the corner of her mouth. "Hm… if you say so. By the way, what did you do with the body?"
His hoarse reply betrayed fatigue. "I burned it. Staying in his form is… exhausting."
Katarina's smile became mocking, provocative. "For a demonic army general, you complain a lot."
He straightened, trying to regain composure. "Well… what did you want to tell me?"
Katarina softened slightly, maintaining professionalism. Hand resting on the chair, calm authority in every gesture:
"Remain in this form a few more weeks. Gather all the information possible, Mr. Viscount."
He sighed, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. "Why must it always be me?"
Her eyes glinted, serious and resolute. "No reason to fret. You must succeed. She chose me as her replacement for the demon king, and you serve her purpose. That is all that matters."
A wave of heat and excitement washed over her, and despite herself, her joy spilled outward. Eyes sparkled with an innocent, almost childish light, a radiant smile illuminating her face. Her hands fluttered against her chest, her steps turning into small, joyous leaps, a spontaneous dance she barely noticed.
He watched, a mixture of concern and awe. "It is clear how much you have changed."
A thought flickered through his mind, tinged with worry. "I should leave… or we might be seen."
Without another word, he turned and left, disappearing from the corridor.
Katarina, cheeks flushed, let out a soft, crystalline laugh — spontaneous, unrestrained. Each movement radiated pure, innocent delight, a dream brought to life.
Her thoughts drifted, fantasies painting vivid pictures of the future:
"When this is over… we will marry, adopt children, a dog… and then…"
A voice shattered her reverie, sharp and commanding:
"My little Kata, why aren't you cleaning?"
She jumped, words caught in her throat. "Uh… I… well…"
Turning, she saw another servant, lips curled in sarcastic amusement. Panic rose in her chest.
She seized a broom frantically. "I'm sorry!!!"
Her hands shook as she cleaned, glancing nervously around the room, mind still buzzing with joy, anticipation, and the recent confrontation.