BANG!

The office door flew open, and a gust of cold wind trailed in as Aithur stormed through, his dark coat sweeping behind him like an angry shadow. His boots clicked sharply against the marble floor, and the faint tremor in the air made the servants freeze mid-step.

Without looking at anyone, he grabbed a glass from the tray on the counter, filled with amber liquid, and lifted it to his lips. The bitter sweetness of wine hit his tongue, but before he could take a second sip, a quiet, unimpressed voice came from the side of the room.

"That's your fifth glass today, my lord. At this point, you're drinking more grapes than sense. Try milk instead — it won't bite you."

Aithur's jaw flexed. His black eyes slid toward the speaker — a woman with long black hair, neatly tied at the nape of her neck, spectacles perched on her nose, and a navy-blue uniform fitted with soldier-like precision. She balanced a stack of books in her arms as if she'd been expecting the chaos.

Vera dropped the books on his desk with a heavy thud, sending a puff of dust swirling into the air. Her sharp eyes glanced over the paperwork scattered like battlefield corpses, then she sighed.

"Judging by the look on your face, I assume the council or the Elders have done something stupid again."

A pause. Her brow arched slightly.

"Or perhaps… it's marriage talk?"

The sound of glass creaking under pressure filled the silence. Aithur's grip tightened around the cup until tiny cracks spidered along its surface.

He said nothing — but that was answer enough.

"Ah," Vera muttered, half-smiling. "I see."

Aithur dropped the cup on the table with a soft thud and crossed the room to the couch, his movements heavy and deliberate.

He sank into it, head tipping back, one arm flung over the side like a man who'd fought three wars and lost all patience.

"They want me married, Vera," he said flatly, eyes staring at the ornate ceiling. "As if the word itself isn't cursed enough."

Vera walked around the desk and leaned against its edge, folding her arms.

"And I suppose this time they've prepared another round of carefully selected noblewomen with perfect manners, perfect lineage, and absolutely no sense of self?"

Aithur gave a short, humorless laugh.

"Perfect puppets, more like."

He reached beside the couch and lifted a basket, heavy with neatly sealed envelopes — wax crests gleaming under the afternoon sun. He dropped it onto the table between them, and the dull thump echoed like a declaration of war.

"Behold," he said dryly, "the latest collection of desperate pleas and false affections. Every letter smells of perfume and hypocrisy."

Vera blinked at the sight. "You're kidding."

"I wish I were."

Aithur ran a gloved hand through his navy blue hair and exhaled deeply, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Apparently, the moment you earn a few medals, kill a dragon, and scare a few nobles into silence, you suddenly become the kingdom's most eligible bachelor."

Vera couldn't help but chuckle — a rare sound that carried more amusement than sympathy.

"Well, you can't exactly blame them. You're young, powerful, and tragically obsessed with a woman who doesn't even look your way."

Aithur's eyes snapped open, glinting. "Vera."

She smirked. "Oh, come now, don't glare at me. Everyone knows. Your 'fixation' with Count Liliana is about as subtle as a storm in the middle of a ball."

He clicked his tongue and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You talk too much for someone who values her job."

"You wouldn't fire me," she said without hesitation. "I'm the only one who dares tell you the truth."

Aithur tilted his head slightly, studying her — and reluctantly, a corner of his lip lifted. She was right.

No one else dared tease him like this.

"Even if you have this… unhealthy devotion to her," Vera continued, shrugging, "it won't stop these noble ladies from throwing themselves at your door. Especially now that your title and status are rising. The Elders won't stop pestering you either — they see your marriage as a political move."

He scoffed, voice low and sharp. "Political move, my foot."

He rose from the couch in one fluid motion, his coat swaying with his steps as he moved toward the window. The golden sunlight outlined his broad shoulders and angular features, making him look every inch the noble he was born to be.

"You know, Vera…" he muttered, his tone thoughtful but laced with bitterness, "for all their holy talk, the Elders are no different from crows fighting over scraps. They speak of utmost duty to the crown, yet all they crave is power."

Vera hummed, watching him carefully.

"Spoken like a man who's seen too much of the court."

"I've lived in its filth since I was a child," he replied, eyes darkening. "And all it's taught me is that holiness is the easiest mask to wear."

A heavy silence followed, only broken when Vera, perhaps to ease the tension, said with a faint smile:

"You know, you sound just like your father when you say that."

The word father struck something in him. His body tensed.

Slowly, Aithur turned to face her. "Don't compare me to him."

Vera raised a brow, unshaken. "Oh, come on, I'm not saying you're as bad. I'm saying the irony is beautiful — your father was obsessed with divinity, and you're obsessed with Liliana. You two would've been best friends."

The cup on the table trembled slightly — a faint ripple in the leftover wine as magic stirred in the air.

"We are not the same," Aithur said through clenched teeth.

Vera only smiled wider, clearly amused. "Really? Because you're both stubborn, both dramatic, and both have questionable taste."

That earned her a glare so sharp it could cut steel. "You're treading on thin ice."

"And yet, you won't stop me," she said lightly. "Because you know I'm right."

Aithur pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'insufferable woman.'

But Vera was undeterred. She adjusted her glasses and said, "You never really told me the full story about him. You always call him an idiot, but never why."

Aithur's gaze drifted toward the far corner of the room — somewhere distant, as if the memory replayed before him.

"Because he was one," he said finally. "A fool drunk on divinity."

Vera tilted her head, waiting.

"He wasn't always like that," Aithur continued quietly. "Before… he was a respectable noble. Strict, proud, but grounded. Until one day, he gets into a duel — a minor one, barely worth mention — and ends up with a scar on his face."

Aithur snorted, half laughing, half bitter. "A small one. Barely visible unless you squinted. But to him, it was a tragedy of epic proportions. And then a saint's apprentice healed it."

Vera blinked. "That's it?"

"That's it."

He turned away from the window, walking back to the couch, his steps heavy with the weight of old disgust.

"From that moment on, he was convinced the gods had personally chosen him. He started visiting the temple every day, abandoning the estate, the family, everything."

Aithur's voice deepened, mocking as he continued. "He'd come home with incense on his clothes and sermons on his tongue. Called himself a 'humble servant of light.' People even started calling him the God Lackey."

Vera's lips twitched. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" he shot back. "He turned our home into a shrine. Sold off lands to 'donate' to the temple. Left my mother crying over empty halls and me dealing with the mess. And for what? A scar that wasn't even visible after healing!"

Vera let out a soft sigh. "Maybe for him, it wasn't about the scar. Maybe it was the miracle — being healed by holy power."

"No," Aithur snapped. "It was vanity. He loved that face of his more than he ever loved anyone."

He sank back into the couch, resting his elbow on the armrest, chin against his knuckles.

"The kingdom loved him. The 'holy noble,' they called him. Meanwhile, I had to clean his filth — smiling to the same priests who robbed us blind."

Vera watched him quietly for a while, then smiled faintly. "You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you talk about him with a lot of fire."

"That's called resentment," he said dryly.

"Or maybe," she teased, "you just hate that you inherited his face."

Aithur blinked — then groaned and threw a cushion at her. She ducked, laughing.

"Vera."

"Aithur?"

They locked eyes for a moment, the atmosphere shifting — a silent exchange between two people who'd known each other too long to take offense.

Finally, Aithur sighed and leaned back again, muttering, "He was an idiot."

"And yet," Vera said softly, walking to the door with a small smile, "his idiot son turned out just fine."

He glanced up at her — but she was already leaving, books tucked under her arm. The door closed gently behind her, leaving Aithur alone with his thoughts.

He stared at the flickering candlelight, expression unreadable.

Just fine, huh?

He reached for the wine again, hesitated… and replaced it with the cup of milk she'd left on the desk.

A sigh escaped him — half laughter, half defeat.

"I hate milk," he murmured. "But maybe today deserves it."

He took a sip.

And nearly spat it out.

"By the gods—she put salt in this, didn't she?"

Aithur's glare turned to the door.

Somewhere down the hall, Vera's laughter echoed faintly.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

"That woman will be the death of me."

He slumped back, eyes closing — a reluctant smirk ghosting his lips as the candlelight dimmed.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.