The flying ship descended slowly through thinning cloud, its hull humming as the mana engines eased their output. Snow drifted past the deck in lazy spirals, carried by a wind that never truly rested over Morgain lands. Below, the gardens of the Euclid estate came into view, wide, disciplined stretches of white broken by dark stone paths and trimmed hedges now buried beneath frost.

The ship touched down with a muted thud, metal meeting ground. Steam hissed briefly along the landing struts before fading into the cold air.

Trafalgar stepped forward to the railing, eyes already scanning the garden out of habit rather than excitement. And then he saw them.

Arthur stood at the front, straight-backed despite the cold, hands folded behind him in formal readiness. Around him waited the familiar silhouettes of the mansion's maids, cloaks drawn tight, the elven maid unmistakable even beneath layers of winter fabric. All of that registered in an instant.

And then his gaze stopped.

Mayla stood a little apart from the others.

For a heartbeat, everything else fell away.

She was smaller than he remembered, no, not smaller, he corrected himself immediately, just framed differently by the open space and falling snow. Her brown coat blended almost perfectly with her hair, the fabric dusted white along the shoulders where flakes had settled. She must have been waiting for a while. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her, hands clasped together as if to keep warmth in.

Trafalgar felt the surprise hit first. Clean. Genuine.

Then relief followed, warm and sudden, spreading through his chest before he could stop it.

And immediately after that…

Alarm.

'What are you doing here?'

The thought came sharp and uninvited. Euclid wasn't Velkaris. It wasn't safe by design. It was safe only because he made it so—and even then, only to a point. Too many eyes. Too many enemies who shared his blood. Names surfaced without effort: Seraphine. Rivena. Maeron. Others who smiled politely and planned quietly.

Arthur could protect her from threats that came openly. From assassins, mercenaries, hired blades.

But not from a Morgain who decided to act.

The ramp lowered with a metallic groan, breaking the moment. Trafalgar forced himself to move, posture settling back into control as he descended with the others.

Alfred stood near the helm, one hand raised in a lazy farewell. "Try not to freeze solid down there," the old captain called. "I'll expect the weight back in one piece."

Trafalgar lifted a hand in response. "Safe travel old man."

Behind him, Caelum stepped onto the ramp, and then didn't. One blink he was there, posture loose, eyes half-lidded. The next, the space he occupied was empty, the air barely disturbed.

'Just as always.' Trafalgar thought.

He stepped onto the snow-dusted stone just as Arthur moved forward and bowed deeply.

"Lord Trafalgar du Morgain," Arthur said, voice firm and clear. "Welcome back to Euclid."

Trafalgar exhaled quietly. "Arthur. That's enough." He gestured lightly. "We'll speak inside. For now, make sure my guest is comfortable."

Arthur's eyes flicked, briefly, to the cloaked figure waiting near the ramp. He nodded once. "Understood."

Aubrelle said nothing as Arthur approached her, hood still drawn. The maids fell into place with practiced ease, their movements smooth, respectful. Arthur inclined his head toward her. "Please. You are welcome here."

She followed without protest, disappearing into the mansion's shadowed entrance alongside the others.

The garden felt suddenly emptier.

Snow continued to fall, soft and unhurried.

Trafalgar turned back, and found Mayla still watching him, eyes fixed as if confirming he was really there. Up close, he could see the faint redness at the tip of her nose from the cold, the way her shoulders relaxed a fraction when their gazes met.

The world narrowed to the space between them, quiet except for the wind and the distant hum of the ship powering down.

They stood facing each other beneath the falling snow.

"You're back," she said, voice tight with restraint. She took a step closer, eyes scanning him openly now, as if checking for wounds that might be hidden beneath coat and composure. "Are you hurt? Did anything happen? You look—" She stopped herself, swallowing. "You look thinner."

Trafalgar exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to be noticeable. "I'm fine," he said gently. "Really. It wasn't—"

He didn't get to finish.

Mayla closed the remaining distance in a single step, rising onto her toes as if driven by instinct rather than thought. Her hands caught the front of his coat, fingers tightening as she pulled him down just enough for her lips to meet his.

The kiss was sudden.

It carried everything she hadn't said, the fear that had followed her all the way from Velkaris, the days of waiting, the nights imagining worse outcomes. Relief crashed into desire, urgency into affection, and she kissed him as if confirming he was real, warm, alive.

For a heartbeat, Trafalgar froze.

Then he kissed her back.

Not with the same urgency, but with steadiness, grounding the moment instead of letting it spiral. One hand came up to her back, anchoring her there, thumb pressing lightly as if to reassure them both that this wasn't going anywhere.

Snow continued to fall around them, unnoticed.

When they finally parted, Mayla rested her forehead briefly against his chest, breath uneven. "I know you said it wasn't dangerous," she murmured. "But I still worried. I couldn't just… stay there."

"I know," Trafalgar replied softly. "We should go inside. It's too cold for you."

She nodded, fingers still curled into his coat. "Yes. Inside first. You can tell me everything there."

For him, the cold was little more than a background sensation. For her, it was already seeping in. He didn't argue. Together, they turned toward the mansion, leaving the snow-filled garden behind.

Above them, unseen by either, Pipin circled once before settling into a higher glide.

From the far side of the garden, Aubrelle watched.

She sat beneath the shelter of an overhang, both hands wrapped around a warm cup, the steam rising in soft curls against the cold air. Pipin's vision overlapped with her own, the scene below sharp and unfiltered.

She saw the kiss.

Saw how naturally Mayla moved toward him. How Trafalgar responded, not surprised by the closeness. Steady. Choosing to stay in the moment instead of pulling away.

Something twisted quietly in Aubrelle's chest.

It wasn't jealousy. Not at first. It was… awareness. A hollow ache she hadn't known how to name until now. Her thoughts drifted, uninvited, to another moment, Lorian's sneer, his rejection turning sharp and public, the way his words had cut deeper than they ever should have.

Then Trafalgar's voice overlaid that memory.

'Your eyes are beautiful.'

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

Watching them disappear into the mansion, Aubrelle felt the truth settle with unexpected clarity.

Not the kiss itself, but what it meant. The closeness. The trust. Being chosen without having to prove worth or hide wounds.

She let out a slow breath, eyes following the door long after it had closed.

"I see," she murmured, quietly enough that only Pipin heard.

And for the first time since the Ritefield, Aubrelle au Rosenthal allowed herself to acknowledge it fully.

She wanted Trafalgar du Morgain.

Inside the room, they were finally alone.

They had desired this for a long time. Trafalgar had thought about Mayla more than once during the journey back, and now that she was here, the distance that had separated them felt unbearable.

He stepped closer again, capturing her lips in another kiss, just as passionate as before, deeper this time, heavier with everything they had held back. Mayla responded immediately, her hands gripping his clothes as if afraid he might disappear again.

They began to undress each other slowly, though impatience slipped through their movements. Trafalgar's fingers worked at the buttons of her coat, pushing it from her shoulders, while Mayla did the same with his clothes, their mouths breaking apart only to breathe, to look at each other, to take in what was right in front of them.

For a few seconds, they simply stared.

Brown eyes and dark blue eyes traced each other's bodies in silence, admiration unspoken but unmistakable.

Trafalgar's body was lean and defined, muscles carved with precision, pale skin smooth and unmarked, almost porcelain-like, a result of his Primordial bloodline. Mayla remembered the boy he had once been and felt the difference now, the weight of what he had become.

He, in turn, looked at her and felt something tighten in his chest.

Once, when she had still been his maid, her body had been thin, worn down by poor nourishment and exhaustion. Now, she looked different, healthy, cared for, confident. The change was undeniable, and Trafalgar found himself completely captivated by her.

Clothes fell away, forgotten.

Soon, both of them lay naked on the bed.

This time, Trafalgar was beneath her, watching as Mayla moved with certainty, desire clear in her expression. She leaned down, whispering close to his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

"I missed you so much," she murmured.

Straightening, she guided his hand to her chest, inviting him to touch her, to feel her. At the same time, her other hand moved between them, stroking him slowly.

Trafalgar could feel how ready she was.

With no hesitation, Mayla positioned herself over him, guiding him inside her and beginning to move, setting a rhythm that drew low sounds from both of them. Her movements were eager, needy, driven by the time they had spent apart.

She leaned down again, kissing him deeply, never stopping, never slowing.

They stayed like that until neither of them could hold back any longer.

Afterward, they lay together, Mayla curled against him, her head resting on his chest, both of them breathing slowly as the tension finally faded.

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