The market street buzzed with mid-morning chaos—vendors shouting prices, enchantments zipping through the air, a rogue firework exploding from the alchemy stall three streets over. And in the center of it all, Arila Vellion was lying on the cobblestones with a face full of flour and a full-blown internal crisis.
She groaned. "I've triggered a romance flag," she muttered into the street, still sprawled on the ground. "I was just trying to buy a whisk. I didn't consent to a cutscene."
The stranger she'd collided with pushed himself up with the grace of someone who'd clearly made a career out of dramatic entrances. Blond hair tousled just right, a gold-trimmed crimson jacket now lightly dusted with flour, and a smile so charming it could probably be declared a national hazard.
"Are you alright, Miss... runaway bakery?" he asked with a grin.
Arila blinked at him through a fine mist of powdered sugar. "Only emotionally damaged and covered in carbohydrates."
Lira scrambled to her side in horror, face frozen in an expression that said, 'I just watched us tumble off a cliff and now I'm dragging us back up with sheer etiquette.'
"My lady—I mean—miss! Are you hurt?!"
"I'm fine," Arila mumbled, letting Lira haul her upright. Her disguise as a commoner was holding, though her ego had suffered a fatal blow. "The real victim here is the butter croissant."
Before Lira could offer a more dignified apology, another figure stepped into the scene like someone had summoned the cold front from the north. Tall, composed, dressed in navy and gray, his sharp green eyes scanned the scene like a battlefield strategist assessing a disaster.
"Julian," he said, voice cool as winter rain, "did you trip over a pastry again?"
The flour-covered stranger—Julian—brushed a smear of powdered sugar off his shoulder. "She's not a pastry. She's a disaster. In a cute way."
Arila deadpanned, "Flour is a known threat to public safety."
Julian grinned like she'd told the best joke of the day.
Lira groaned softly behind her hand.
Arila dusted herself off with minimal dignity and adjusted the plain hood over her head. "Sorry for the inconvenience, gentlemen. We'll just go back to doing non-criminal things. Like shopping."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "You've got flour on your nose."
"Good. That's where I store it."
Lira was mouthing "What are you doing?" behind her, but Arila kept her expression flat. Her inner monologue, on the other hand, was screeching like a broken karaoke machine.
Julian Vexhart.
That's JULIAN VEXHART.
The flirty noble route. Love interest number two.
Game knowledge: confirmed.
Panic: absolute.
Julian, undeterred by sarcasm or common sense, offered a hand to pick up a spilled bag of sugar. "You sure you're not nobility? You've got the posture of someone who's judged an entire ballroom before lunch."
"I'm just a humble flour enthusiast," Arila said. "We're a proud people."
The tall, icy brother—Vincent Vexhart, no doubt—watched her like a mystery that required dissection.
"You don't speak like someone from the lower districts."
"My tongue trained itself in self-defense," Arila replied, blinking innocently. "It's had a rough upbringing."
Julian let out a bark of laughter. "She's sharp. I like her."
"I'm right here," Arila said flatly. "You don't have to narrate your romantic awakening."
"I might," Julian replied.
Vincent, unimpressed, glanced at the sky like he was hoping a divine bolt would strike the both of them. "We're wasting time. Let's go."
Julian lingered a moment longer, handing Arila a bag she hadn't even realized she'd dropped. "Try not to fall for anyone else before lunch."
Arila accepted the bag without a word, turned on her heel, and walked away as fast as she could without sprinting. "No promises," she muttered. "The pavement's still out to get me."
They turned the next corner, Lira tugging Arila's sleeve in silent horror. "Do you realize who that was?!"
"Yes."
"Do you REALIZE—"
"Yes, Lira, I do. I crashed into a walking fireball of flirtation and his emotionally repressed older brother. I need cake."
Ninko, invisible but ever-present, flicked someone's cloak as they passed, causing a noblewoman to shriek.
Arila muttered, "Good fox. Very subtle distraction."
Back in the plaza, Julian watched the mysterious girl vanish into the crowd, rubbing his chin with a thoughtful smile. "She's strange. I like her."
Vincent sighed. "She's reckless."
"But clever."
"You're not falling for another merchant girl, are you?"
"She wasn't a merchant," Julian said. "She was something else."
Vincent didn't reply. But he didn't disagree either.
By the time Arila and Lira returned to the Vellion estate, their baskets full and their identities mostly intact, they were greeted by a welcome committee of doom.
Evelaine sat in the drawing room like an elegant executioner. Caelan leaned against the wall, arms folded, wearing his patented "I'm not mad, just disappointed" look. And Daelen Rowe, her terrifying tutor, stood like a shadow with a clipboard and too many judgments.
"You missed training," he said.
Arila cleared her throat. "I was, uh, exploring alternate energy sources. In the market."
"Ah," Daelen said, not blinking. "Was flirting with noble heirs part of your curriculum?"
Arila froze.
Evelaine raised an eyebrow. "Did you at least bring something edible?"
Wordlessly, Arila held up a jar of imported berry jam.
"I see," Evelaine said. "A peace offering."
Lira tried to vanish into the floor.
"Both of you," Caelan said, voice calm, "are grounded. Until further notice. Also, Professor Rowe has volunteered to double your training hours."
"Wonderful," Arila croaked. "A full magical boot camp. For one jar of jam."
As the adults discussed consequences, Ninko chose that exact moment to saunter into the room, reappear mid-stride, and steal a lemon tart off the silver tray. He did not apologize.
Later that evening, Arila collapsed onto her bed like a dying heroine in a tragic opera.
"I just wanted a whisk," she groaned. "Not a flirt battle. Not an emotionally complex nobleman with a snowglobe soul. Just. A. Whisk."
Ninko hopped onto the pillow beside her, smug and silent.
"I blame flour," she muttered. "It's always the flour."
He curled his nine tails around her shoulder and promptly began licking frosting off his paw.
Arila sighed. "I miss being a hermit."
The moonlight through the window painted soft patterns across her room, but she didn't notice. Her mind was too full of sharp smiles, icy eyes, and the undeniable feeling that she had just walked into another chapter of a dating sim she wanted nothing to do with.
"…Please don't be a main route," she whispered.
Ninko flicked his tail.
Too late.
To be continued...