Chapter 92 – Are You Happy, Princess? (2)
The guest room ceiling had seventeen wooden beams.
Olivia knew because she'd counted them.
Twice.
Sleep refused to come.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again: Erynd's hand on Noelle's waist. The deliberate slowness of him leaning in. The soft, broken sound that followed. The way he'd looked at her—at *her*, Olivia—over Noelle's shoulder, unapologetic and ruthless.
*This is my life now. If you step into it, you don't get to pretend you're untouched.*
She rolled onto her side, then her back again.
The mana lamp on the wall hummed its steady, flameless light.
Outside, she could hear distant sounds: the wind through the trees, the far-off clang of something metal, the low murmur of voices from somewhere in the estate that never seemed to fully sleep.
This place was *alive* in a way the palace wasn't.
The palace was a mausoleum dressed in silk and ceremony. Beautiful. Cold. Empty in all the ways that mattered.
Here, even the walls seemed to breathe.
She threw off the covers.
If she couldn't sleep, she'd walk. Clear her head. Maybe the night air would wash away the image of—
No.
She wasn't thinking about that.
She pulled on a robe over her nightdress—simple cotton, not the elaborate silk she wore in the capital—and stepped into the corridor.
***
The estate at night was different.
Quieter, but not silent.
She passed another mana lamp, its light casting steady shadows. No flicker. No smoke. Just that odd, clean glow that shouldn't exist but did because *he* had made it exist.
Her feet carried her without conscious direction.
Down one corridor. Then another.
She told herself she was exploring.
She told herself she wasn't looking for him.
She was lying.
The truth was, she needed to see him. Needed to ask—what? She didn't even know. Just… something. Anything that would make the ache in her chest make sense.
She turned a corner and stopped.
Ahead, light spilled from beneath a door—warmer than the mana lamps, like candlelight, but steadier.
His room.
She knew because she'd asked the servant earlier, casually, as if it didn't matter.
Her heart hammered.
*Turn around. Go back to your room. This is beneath you.*
Her feet moved forward.
As she got closer, she heard… sounds.
Soft.
Muffled.
Her hand froze halfway to the door.
A voice—low, feminine, breathless: "—yes, like that, please—"
Another voice, overlapping: "—don't stop, don't—"
And beneath it all, steady and commanding: "Breathe. I've got you."
Erynd's voice.
Her face burned.
She should leave.
She should run back to her room and pretend she'd never heard this, never walked down this corridor, never left the palace in the first place.
Instead, she stood there, frozen, as the sounds continued.
Not loud. Not crude.
But unmistakable.
Satisfaction. Pleasure. The rhythm of bodies moving together.
Her chest tightened until she couldn't breathe properly.
This was what she'd interrupted earlier.
This was what he had, what they had, what she—
*No.*
She pressed her palm flat against the cool stone wall and forced herself to think past the roaring in her ears.
He was with them.
Of course he was.
He'd made that abundantly clear.
And she—she had no claim. No right to feel this… this *burning* thing clawing up her throat.
She was a princess.
Princesses did not stand outside doors listening to—
The sounds inside shifted.
Softer now. Murmurs. The rustle of fabric.
Then footsteps.
She panicked.
Turned to flee—
The door opened.
She froze.
Erynd stood in the doorway, shirtless, a towel slung over one shoulder. Sweat gleamed on his skin, catching the light. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face. His chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths.
He didn't look surprised to see her.
"Olivia," he said quietly.
She couldn't speak.
Her eyes betrayed her, flicking past him into the room—just for a second—and catching a glimpse of movement. Fabric. Bare shoulders. Someone laughing softly, the sound cut off by a hand over a mouth.
Her gaze snapped back to him.
His expression was… unreadable.
Not smug. Not embarrassed.
Just… calm.
Like he'd expected this.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
Her throat worked.
"I—" She stopped. Started again. "I was walking. I didn't mean to—"
"You did," he said. Not unkindly. Just factual. "You came here on purpose. You just didn't expect to find what you found."
She flushed deeper.
"I should go," she said.
"Probably," he agreed.
He didn't move from the doorway.
She didn't move either.
They stood there for a long, terrible moment, the air between them thick with everything neither of them was saying.
Finally, he stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him.
The click of the latch sounded too loud.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get some air."
***
He led her up.
Through another corridor, up a narrow staircase, onto the roof.
The night was cool, clear. The sky spread above them like spilled ink, stars scattered across it in patterns she'd memorized as a child but never really *seen* from the palace.
Too much light. Too many walls.
Here, the stars felt close enough to touch.
And the moon—
"Why is there a moon?" she asked, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "And why is it only half?"
Erynd leaned against the low wall edging the roof, arms crossed, gaze tilted up.
"Because that's how it works," he said. "The moon waxes and wanes. New moon, crescent, half, full, then back again. Thirty days, give or take."
"I've never seen it before," she said softly. "Not like this."
"The palace faces east," he said. "And the light pollution from the city drowns it out most nights. You'd have to go to the tallest tower, at the right time, to see it properly."
She stared up at the half-circle of pale light, bisected perfectly by shadow.
"How do you always know these things?" she asked. "About the moon. About the lights. About—everything."
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "It's not time for you to know."
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"That's not an answer," she said.
"It's the only one I can give you right now," he said.
She turned on him, frustration boiling over.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why is it never time? Why am I always the one left outside, waiting for you to decide I'm *worthy* of the truth?"
He met her gaze steadily.
"Because the truth isn't kind," he said. "And once you know it, you can't unknow it. It will change you. Break you, maybe. And I've broken enough people, Olivia. I don't want you to be one of them."
"Maybe I'm already broken," she said, voice cracking. "Maybe standing in that palace pretending to be whole is worse than anything you could tell me."
His jaw tightened.
For the first time since she'd arrived, she saw something flicker across his face—something raw and unguarded.
Pain.
Guilt.
Regret.
It was gone in a heartbeat, but she'd seen it.
"I miss the old days," he said quietly.
The admission hung between them.
She blinked, startled.
"What?" she whispered.
"The old days," he repeated. "When we were children. When the hardest decision I had to make was whether to steal pastries from the kitchens or sneak into the library after curfew. When you'd stomp your foot and demand I share and I'd say no just to see you get mad."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
"When you still thought I was invincible," he went on. "And I still thought I could keep you safe by keeping you close."
Her throat burned.
"You were happier then," she said.
"We both were," he said. "But we were also children. And children don't get to stay children forever. Not in this world."
He turned to face her fully, leaning back against the wall.
"Life has been… hard," he said. The understatement was almost laughable. "Harder than I ever thought it could be. I've lost people. I've done things I can't take back. I've made choices that haunt me every time I close my eyes."
He paused.
"My father," he said, voice carefully controlled. "Is missing. Has been for months. I don't know if he's alive or dead. I don't know if I'll ever see him again. And I have to carry that while building all of *this*—" He gestured vaguely at the estate below them. "—because if I stop, if I let myself feel it, I'll fall apart. And I can't afford to fall apart."
Olivia's breath caught.
She'd known, vaguely, that Lord Milton was absent. But she hadn't known—hadn't let herself think about what that meant for Erynd.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be," he said. "I'm telling you because you asked. Because you deserve to know that the boy you remember? He's gone. What's left is… this. Someone who has to make terrible decisions because no one else will. Someone who has to hurt people to save them. Someone who can't afford the luxury of nostalgia."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
"But I do miss it," he said softly. "I miss you. The version of you who used to chase me through the gardens and laugh when I tripped. The version who believed I could do anything."
"I still believe that," she said.
"You shouldn't," he said. "I'm not a hero, Olivia. I'm just… stubborn. And lucky. And too angry to die."
Silence fell between them.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of earth and growing things.
"Stay," he said suddenly.
She blinked.
"What?"
"Stay," he repeated. "Five days. Let me show you what I'm building here. Let me show you the truth—not all of it, not yet, but enough. Enough that you can make your own choice about what you want."
"Choice about what?" she asked.
"About whether you go back to the palace and live the life they've laid out for you," he said. "Or whether you step into this mess with me and see what else is possible."
Her heart pounded.
"That's not a fair question," she said.
"I know," he said. "But it's the only one I have."
He pushed off the wall and moved closer—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"Five days," he said. "See the mills. See the training yards. See the people we've brought in, the Awakened we're sheltering, the infrastructure we're building. Talk to Tamara, Lyra, Noelle. Ask them anything you want. They'll tell you the truth."
"And then?" she asked.
"And then you decide," he said. "Stay in this world, or go back to yours. I won't force you either way. But you deserve to see both clearly before you choose."
She wanted to say no.
She wanted to run back to her room, pack her things, and flee back to the capital where everything was safe and familiar and *hers*.
But the words that came out were:
"Five days."
He nodded slowly.
"Five days," he agreed.
They stood there on the roof under the half-moon, the stars burning cold and distant above them.
Somewhere below, the estate breathed and shifted and lived.
Somewhere below, three women waited for him to return.
And Olivia—
Olivia stood on the edge of something she didn't have a name for yet, terrified and exhilarated and utterly, completely lost.
"I should go back to bed," she said finally.
"Probably," he agreed.
He didn't move.
Neither did she.
"Erynd," she said softly.
"Hmm?"
"Are *you* happy?"
The question surprised them both.
He was quiet for a long time.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I'm… less miserable than I was. That's something."
It was the most honest thing he'd said all night.
She wanted to reach out.
Wanted to touch his arm, his hand, his face—something to prove he was real and not just a ghost wearing her childhood friend's shape.
She didn't.
Instead, she turned and walked back toward the stairs.
"Five days," she said over her shoulder.
"Five days," he echoed.
She descended into the warm glow of the mana lamps, her heart a confused, tangled knot in her chest.
Behind her, Erynd stayed on the roof, staring up at the half-moon.
Melody materialized beside him, translucent and judgmental.
"That," she said, "was cruel."
"I know," he said.
"She's going to fall," Melody said. "Completely. And you're going to let her."
"I know," he said again.
"And when she realizes what you've done?"
He closed his eyes.
"Then I'll deal with it," he said. "Like I deal with everything else."
Melody sighed.
"You're a terrible person," she said.
"I know," he said for the third time.
She faded.
He stood alone on the roof for a long time, listening to the wind and the night and the distant sounds of the estate settling.
Five days.
Five days to show her enough truth to make her want more.
Five days to corrupt a princess.
He hated himself a little more with each passing second.
But he didn't stop.
He never did.
***
Inside the room, Tamara lay sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes.
"That was exhausting," she muttered.
"You're the one who insisted on the—" Lyra started.
"Don't," Tamara interrupted. "I don't want to hear it."
Noelle sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her nightdress back on with shaking hands.
"Do you think it worked?" she asked quietly.
"She heard," Lyra said. She was already dressed again, fingers combing through her hair. "She definitely heard. And she saw him after. Shirtless, sweaty, walking out like—"
"Like he'd just finished fucking three women," Tamara finished bluntly. "Which he had. So. Mission accomplished, I guess."
Noelle flinched at the language but didn't argue.
"I feel dirty," she whispered.
Tamara sat up, expression softening.
"Hey," she said. "We agreed to this. All of us. He asked if we'd be willing, and we said yes."
"I know," Noelle said. "I just… I didn't think it would feel like *this*."
Lyra moved to sit beside her, hand gentle on her shoulder.
"What we just did," she said carefully, "was theater. Very intimate, very real theater, but theater nonetheless. We made noise at the right moments. We let her hear enough to understand. And now she's going to spend the next five days trying to reconcile the version of Erynd she remembers with the version she just heard."
"Corrupt the princess," Tamara said flatly. "That's the plan. Make her want what we have. Make her desperate enough that when he finally offers, she'll take it without thinking about the cost."
"It's cruel," Noelle said.
"It's necessary," Lyra corrected. "Or that's what we're telling ourselves."
The door opened.
Erynd stepped back in, still shirtless, expression unreadable.
The three of them looked at him.
He closed the door.
Leaned against it.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Tamara snorted.
"Don't apologize," she said. "We're adults. We made our choices. Just… don't ask us to do that again unless you absolutely have to."
"I won't," he promised.
Noelle stood and crossed to him, small and determined.
She looked up at his face.
"Did it work?" she asked.
"I think so," he said.
She nodded once.
Then, very deliberately, she reached up and pulled his head down so she could kiss him—soft and claiming and *hers*.
When she pulled back, her eyes were fierce.
"Good," she said. "Then it was worth it."
She turned and climbed back into bed.
Tamara and Lyra exchanged looks.
Then they followed.
Erynd stood there for a moment longer, looking at the three of them tangled together in the sheets, warm and alive and *his*.
The System pulsed at the edge of his awareness.
[Mission Update: Target "Olivia" - Emotional Destabilization: SUCCESS]
[Next Phase: Integration Preparation]
[Timeline: 5 days]
[Warning: High risk of permanent psychological impact on target]
He dismissed it.
He knew.
He'd always known.
He turned off the lights—mundane candles this time, not mana lamps—and joined them in the dark.
Tomorrow, he'd start showing Olivia the truth.
Just enough to make her want more.
Just enough to make her forget why she'd ever wanted to leave.
Five days.
It would be enough.
It had to be.
Outside, the half-moon watched with cold, indifferent light.
And in the guest room down the hall, Princess Olivia lay awake, counting beams, and wondering why her chest hurt so much.