The ballroom's opulence faded into a distant, gilded hum as Selvaria Rosenthal stood alone at the edge of the grand terrace. Crystal chandeliers burned above like frozen stars, their brilliance casting sharp reflections upon polished marble and silk-draped nobility. Yet Selvaria had long stopped hearing the music.
The rustle of gowns, the laughter of dukes and duchesses-all faded into silence as her eyes found the spectacle just outside the colonnade.
The night air was sharp, but the scent of roses, wine, and ambition clouded its chill. Moonlight spread across the estate's immaculate gardens, cloaking hedges in shadow and turning fountains to silver. And there, seated beneath an arch of blooming duskroses, was him.
Anwir.
Selvaria's butler stood with his back slightly turned, elegant even in repose, his posture relaxed as he spoke with the girl seated beside him. Lira—yes, the guest from the fallen house. Young, harmless. Her shoes were scuffed. Her laughter, however, was not.
Selvaria narrowed her eyes.
Anwir was laughing.
Not the measured curve of lips he gave during formal occasions, nor the rare smirk he reserved for Selene's irreverent banter. No—this was real. Unpracticed. Light. A quiet, unguarded moment, and it was not hers.
Lira tilted her head toward him, her eyes bright, a half-eaten pastry in her hand as though the world had narrowed to this shared sliver of moonlight. Anwir said something, too low to hear, and the girl laughed again—high, clear, delighted.
Selvaria's lips pressed into a line as thin and precise as a drawn blade.
It was nothing. A servant's gesture. Perhaps even strategic. Anwir was nothing if not deliberate. Loyal. Efficient. Above all—hers.
But the sight of him smiling like that—a face he had never once shown her—rattled something beneath her usually impenetrable calm.
She did not want him as a lover. Such indulgence was beneath her station, beneath the Rosenthal name. To need someone in such a way was weakness. Filth.
But she wanted him. As a blade. As a shadow. As the instrument of her will. Unwavering, unshared.
The idea that he could be comfortable, unguarded, with someone else? That was not jealousy. That was a violation. A deviation from the role she had shaped him for.
Her hand rested on the stone balustrade, asher fingers tightened ever so slightly over it. Moonlight caught the edge of her signet ring with her family emblem, turning it to glinting ice.
A voice interrupted her reverie.
"Something on your mind, Mistress?" Selene's familiar lilt cut through the quiet, light as spun silk but not without awareness.
The maid stepped beside her, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, her eyes following the path of Selvaria's gaze. They paused on the bench below. Her expression faltered for half a breath.
Selvaria didn't respond immediately.
Then, cool as the garden breeze: "Nothing of consequence."
Selene's throat worked in a nervous swallow. "Oh—uh. Don't worry about Anwir, Mistress," she said quickly, voice pitching up with false cheer. "He's just helping that guest who tripped near the steps. Really, it was nothing. She looked a bit dizzy, so he... um, offered assistance. Gentlemanly, you know? That's all it is! I told him I'd cover for him if anyone noticed."
Selvaria's expression didn't change. Her eyes remained on the bench. "See that he remembers his place," she murmured, voice like frost on velvet.
Selene nodded fast. "O-of course. He'll be back soon. Wouldn't want to miss the next round of noble gossip, right?"
A new voice chimed in before Selvaria could answer—smooth, sharp, and too amused.
"Well. It seems your sword is enjoying someone else's scabbard tonight."
Selvaria turned slowly, her gaze falling upon the tall, imperious figure of Aurianne Elodie Kallenhart. The Kallenhart heiress was all gold and shadow: golden hair cascading down her shoulders, dark silk gown cinched like armor, and an expression carved from contemptuous delight.
"Aurianne," Selvaria said, tone polite enough to cut glass. "Did you lose your way to the mirror again? Or do you simply enjoy prowling around conversations uninvited?"
Aurianne's smile sharpened. "Oh, I'm simply observing. Like you. Though I must admit, I didn't expect your Anwir to be so... accommodating. He laughs, he serves pastries, he flirts. Who knew the Rosenthal blade had such charm?"
Selvaria's eyes turned glacial. "I wasn't aware House Kallenhart made a habit of cataloguing the expressions of servants. How small your world must be."
Aurianne tilted her head. "You misunderstand me, Selvaria. I'm merely fascinated. A loyal butler, after all, is a rare treasure. But loyalty," she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hush, "can be such a fragile thing. Especially when someone else makes him smile."
Selvaria didn't blink. "Anwir serves me. That will not change."
Aurianne leaned in, lips close, eyes bright with challenge. "Even the sharpest sword cuts its wielder when mishandled. Just a warning. Don't forget who's holding the hilt... and who isn't."
Selene, sensing the tension like a pressure drop before a storm, inserted herself with a nervous laugh. "If you two are planning a duel, maybe wait until after dessert? I'm pretty sure the Duke's wife will faint if anyone bleeds near the tapestry."
Aurianne chuckled, pulling back with a smirk. "No blood tonight. I'd rather not stain my shoes."
Selvaria's lips curved into something small and icy. "Then stay out of the mud."
For a long, breathless moment, the three women stood suspended—power, implication, and unspoken war humming in the air like a drawn bowstring. Below, Anwir's laugh carried up again. Clear. Free.
Selvaria turned first. Not with defeat, but with the silent dignity of one who would never show weakness in public. Her exit was fluid, her gown sweeping behind her like a silken tide. Yet her mind was anything but calm.
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
Anwir slipped back into the ballroom, the garden's cool air and moonlit laughter already fading like a dream behind him. His steps were measured, posture impeccable, but his jaw was tight with irritation.
'Of course. The one time I get to have a normal conversation—no death flags, no veiled threats, no etiquette drills—Kael has to show up and glare like I'm the villain in his story.'
He adjusted his cuffs with practiced ease as he navigated through knots of nobles, each one wrapped in silks and secrets. I was actually relaxing. 'For once, I wasn't the perfect butler, the flawless bodyguard, or some walking symbol of status. I was just... a guy. Sharing pastries. Trading dumb jokes with a girl who didn't expect anything from me.'
He glanced over his shoulder, just once, back toward the terrace. Kael and Lira were still out there—locked in whatever awkward little emotional duel they were destined to have.
'If I wasn't typecast as the "villainous butler" and Kael the late-game hero, I might've been tempted to beat the shit out of him for ruining the mood.'He caught his reflection in a polished silver tray and snorted under his breath.'Just kidding. I know my limits. Without the element of surprise, I'm about as threatening as a ceremonial sword at a tea party.'
He rolled his shoulders, a silent attempt to shrug off the frustration.'Still. It stings. I was actually having fun.'Then, quieter, darker:'Maybe that's the real danger in this place—forgetting, even for a moment, that you're surrounded by wolves.'
By the time he reached the Rosenthal retinue, his mask had settled back into place—expression calm, movements crisp, nothing out of order. But beneath the veneer, his thoughts still simmered, caught between the lingering warmth of a fleeting moment and the cold tug of duty.