Chapter 101 – Are You Happy, Princess? (8)
Day Five: Substance and Spice
(Zoe)
Zoe woke to warmth and the weight of limbs that weren't hers.
Tamara's arm thrown across her waist. Lyra's red braid tickling her nose. Noelle curled into a small ball near her feet, still dead to the world.
The bed smelled like *him.*
Like all of them, tangled together, but mostly *him.*
She inhaled deeply, face pressed into the pillow, and purred softly.
Her body ached in the best ways. Muscles pleasantly sore. Skin still tingling where his hands had been, his mouth, his—
She stretched, catlike, and felt the dried remnants of the night before.
Sweat. His release. Hers. Theirs.
All of it coating her skin in invisible layers that only she could smell properly.
Most people would find it disgusting.
Zoe found it *perfect.*
The scent was addictive—salt and musk and something uniquely *Erynd* that made her want to roll in it like a cat in sunlight. It marked her. Claimed her. Said *mine* in a language older than words.
She sat up carefully, trying not to wake the others.
The room was quiet. Early morning—or what passed for morning down here where mana-lights simulated dawn.
Erynd's side of the bed was empty. Cold.
He'd already left.
Of course he had.
Julia's spot was empty too.
*Work,* Zoe thought, tail flicking in mild annoyance. *Always work. Can't even enjoy the afterglow properly before duty calls.*
She slipped out of bed, padding naked across cool stone floor.
Her reflection in the small mirror by the door made her pause.
Hair a mess. Skin flushed. Bite marks on her shoulder, her throat, the inside of her thigh.
She looked thoroughly *used.*
She grinned.
But the smell—gods, the *smell*—she needed to keep it just a little longer.
Shower. Mandatory. Erynd had been very clear about hygiene standards in Yggdrasil, especially after… activities. Something about infections and setting a good example and "Zoe, I swear to all the gods, if you skip washing again I'm assigning someone to supervise you."
She'd skip anyway if she thought she could get away with it.
But he *would* know.
He always knew.
Fine. Shower. But she'd be strategic about it.
No soap.
Just water.
Enough to satisfy the letter of the law without losing the *good parts.*
She grabbed a towel, didn't bother with clothes, and headed for the underground bathing area.
***
The showers were communal—large stone room with multiple spouts, drains in the floor, privacy curtains for anyone who cared about modesty.
Zoe didn't.
She turned on the water—lukewarm, because hot would wash away too much—and let it run over her skin.
Rinsing. Not scrubbing.
Definitely not using that weird soap Ethan and Erynd had invented.
She'd tried it once.
It had *dissolved* the scent completely.
Stripped her skin so clean she couldn't smell *anything* for hours.
Unacceptable.
She finished quickly, dried off just enough not to drip everywhere, and wrapped the towel around her waist.
Her mask—
Oh.
She'd left it in the room.
She paused, ears flicking.
Did she need it?
Down here, most people knew what she was. Demonkin. Felinal. Jarl of Shadows.
The mask was for outside. For people who saw cat ears and thought *monster* instead of *person.*
But she'd gotten used to wearing it. Felt naked without it. More naked than being actually naked, somehow.
"Forget it," she muttered. "I'll grab it later."
She had other priorities.
Ethan had mentioned something yesterday about a new weapon. Something *interesting.* Something he'd been working on specifically for her combat style.
And if she knew Ethan—which she did—he'd already forgotten he'd promised to show her and was currently three projects deep into something completely unrelated.
Better to catch him now before he vanished into a cloud of caffeine and mathematical obsession.
She headed for the labs.
***
(Quine - Ethan's Staff)
Quine stared at the device in his hands and felt something close to *religiousecstasy.*
It worked.
By all the gods, old and new, it *worked.*
He'd done it.
Not Ethan. Not Odin. Not even Julia with her terrifying organizational brain.
*Him.*
Quine. Researcher. Engineer. The man everyone overlooked because Ethan was louder, brighter, more *Ethan.*
But this?
This was *his.*
The UV LED.
Ultraviolet Light Emitting Diode.
He didn't fully understand the theory—something about electron energy levels and bandgap wavelengths that made his head hurt when Ethan explained it at triple speed while waving his hands like a madman.
But he understood the *function.*
Invisible light. Shorter wavelength than what the human eye could see. Useful for… so many things.
Sterilization. Material analysis.
And, apparently, making certain substances *glow.*
The Saga of the One-Eyed God had mentioned it in passing—one line in a chapter about optics and electromagnetic spectrum that Ethan had read aloud with the kind of manic glee that meant someone was about to lose sleep for a week.
Quine had taken that one line and turned it into *this.*
A small handheld device. Battery-powered. Simple switch. Emitting light humans couldn't see but that made the world reveal its secrets.
He'd tested it on everything.
Papers. Fabrics. Liquids.
Some things fluoresced. Glowed bright under UV. Others stayed dark.
And bodily fluids—
Well.
Those glowed *very* brightly.
Which made sense, according to Ethan's notes. Something about organic compounds and phosphorescence and—
Quine didn't care about the *why* right now.
He cared about the *success.*
He found himself grinning like an idiot, alone in his corner of the lab, holding a device that could see the invisible.
He needed to tell Ethan.
Needed to show him.
Needed to hear "good work" in that distracted way Ethan had when he was already three thoughts ahead but still meant it.
Quine headed for Ethan's private workspace—the mini-lab that overlooked the main floor, where the green-haired genius orchestrated chaos and called it *science.*
***
Ethan was exactly where Quine expected: hunched over a workbench covered in half-disassembled mechanisms, muttering to himself in what might have been language or might have been math spoken aloud.
"Ethan," Quine called.
No response.
"*Ethan.*"
One green eye swiveled toward him without the head moving.
"Busy. Pressure ratios. If I miscalculate this, the EryMachine Mark IV will either revolutionize funneling pressure or completely bury someone. Possibly both. Not now."
"We did it," Quine said.
That got both eyes.
Ethan straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"Did what?"
"The UV LED."
Silence.
Then Ethan's face split into a grin that looked slightly unhinged.
"You—wait, *you?* The thing I mentioned *once* in passing as a 'maybe someday if we're not all dead' project? You actually—"
"I did," Quine said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. "Want to see?"
Ethan was already moving, tools abandoned, crossing the space between them with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserved for things that exploded.
"Show me."
Quine held up the device.
Small. Cylindrical. A simple button on the side.
"It works," he said. "I tested it. Ultraviolet emission confirmed. Wavelength approximately 365 nanometers. Strong enough to make fluorescent materials glow."
Ethan took it, turned it over in his hands, examined it with the kind of reverence most people reserved for holy relics.
"You beautiful *bastard,*" Ethan breathed. "You actually built it. Functional. Portable. This is—we can use this for *everything.* Medical diagnostics. Forgery detection. Quality control on the mana circuits. Sterilization verification."
He looked up, eyes bright.
"Test it. Here. Now."
"In the lab?" Quine asked.
"Yes! We need darkness. Can't see UV fluorescence with all this light drowning it out."
Ethan was already moving toward the light controls—a series of switches Erynd had installed when he'd decided "working in permanent daylight is bad for circadian rhythms and also stupid."
"Ready?" Ethan called.
"Ready," Quine confirmed.
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the lab.
For a moment, there was only breathing. The faint hum of machinery that never truly slept.
Then Quine pressed the button.
***
The UV LED activated with a soft click.
No visible light to the naked eye.
But suddenly, the world *glowed.*
Papers on nearby desks lit up—ink marks invisible under normal light suddenly bright and clear. A coffee stain on the floor fluoresced pale blue. Dust particles in the air caught the light and sparkled.
And—
"Oh," Ethan said. "Oh, that's *fascinating.*"
He was staring at his own hands.
At the faint traces of some chemical or another that glowed on his fingertips.
"Residue from the last experiment," he muttered. "I thought I'd washed that off. Clearly not thoroughly enough. This is going to revolutionize lab safety protocols. If we can *see* contamination—"
The door burst open.
Light from the corridor spilled in for a moment before someone stepped through and shut it behind them.
"What are you guys doing?" Zoe's voice. "And why are the lights off? If this is some weird experiment that ends with explosions, I want in—"
She stopped.
Ethan and Quine both turned to look at her.
And froze.
***
In the UV light, Zoe *glowed.*
Not everywhere.
Just… specific places.
Her face. Bright white streaks across her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose.
Her hair. Concentrated near the roots, as if someone had—
Oh.
*Oh.*
Her neck. Her collarbone. Down her chest, visible even through the towel.
And her hands, her arms—everywhere skin was exposed—dotted with luminescent traces that painted a very *specific* picture of what she'd been doing last night.
And hadn't properly washed off.
Zoe stood there, ears up, tail swishing, completely oblivious.
"Why are you staring?" she asked. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Yes," Ethan said weakly.
"What?"
Quine couldn't speak.
His brain had short-circuited somewhere between *oh gods* and *that's so much* and *how is she not DROWNING in it.*
Ethan cleared his throat.
"Zoe," he said carefully. "Did you… use soap? When you showered?"
Her ears flattened.
"I used water."
"*Just* water?"
"Yes. Why?"
Ethan pointed at her.
"Because right now, in ultraviolet light, you look like you lost a fight with a very *enthusiastic* squid."
Zoe blinked.
"What?"
Quine finally found his voice.
"The UV light," he managed. "It makes organic substances fluoresce. Including… certain bodily fluids. Which means right now we can see *exactly* where—"
He stopped.
Zoe's eyes went wide.
Her hand flew to her face.
"Oh," she said faintly. "Oh, *shit.*"
She looked down at herself.
At the glowing traces that mapped last night's activities in excruciating, *scientific* detail.
"Oh, SHIT."
A minute ago she'd been smug about carrying his scent, about being marked and claimed. That thought evaporated instantly, incinerated by the sheer, brutal clarity of seeing it all mapped on her skin like a lab diagram.
She spun around, nearly tripping over her own tail, and bolted for the door.
"SOAP!" she yelled as she fled. "I'M USING THE SOAP!"
The door slammed behind her.
Silence.
Ethan and Quine looked at each other.
Then, simultaneously, they burst out laughing.
"That," Ethan gasped between breaths, "is going into the lab safety manual. New rule: mandatory use of proper cleaning agents after… recreational activities."
Quine was wheezing.
"Did you *see* her face—"
"I saw *everything,*" Ethan said. "That's the problem. Gods. I'm going to have nightmares."
He flipped the lights back on, still grinning.
"Also," he added, "your UV LED works *perfectly.* Congratulations. You've invented the world's most effective embarrassment device."
Quine couldn't stop laughing.
Somewhere in the distance, they heard water running.
And Zoe's muffled voice: "I HATE SCIENCE."
***
(Olivia)
Olivia woke alone.
Not completely alone—she could hear breathing nearby, soft and even—but the space beside her where she'd fallen asleep was empty.
She opened her eyes.
The room was brighter now. Mana-lights adjusted to simulate mid-morning.
Tamara was sitting up, stretching, blue braid falling over one bare shoulder.
Lyra was already dressed—or mostly dressed—pulling on her boots with practiced efficiency.
Noelle stood by the small mirror, finger-combing her short hair, expression soft and content.
They moved around each other with the ease of long practice. No awkwardness. No fumbling. Just… routine.
Olivia sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself.
She'd slept in a bed with four other women.
Had watched them with *him.*
Had *wanted* to be part of it.
The memory made her face burn.
Tamara noticed her first.
"Morning," she said, tone casual. "Sleep well?"
Olivia's throat was too dry to answer.
Lyra glanced over, smirking slightly.
"You look like someone who just realized they have feelings they don't know what to do with," she observed. "Welcome to the club. We meet on Tuesdays."
"Lyra," Noelle chided gently. Then, to Olivia: "It's okay. This is… a lot. We understand."
Do you? Olivia wanted to ask. Do you understand what it feels like to want something you were taught to call sin? To look at five women sharing one man and think 'I want that' instead of 'this is wrong'?
But the words stuck.
Tamara stood, crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out a simple dress.
"Here," she said, tossing it to Olivia. "You can't wander around in a nightdress all day. Well, you *can*, but Julia will give you the scary looks."
Olivia caught the dress automatically.
"Where's—"
"Erynd?" Lyra finished. "Working. Where else? He and Julia left before dawn. Something about quarterly reports and supply chain optimization. Romance is dead."
She said it lightly, but there was warmth underneath.
Fondness.
Acceptance.
They *knew* he'd leave them sleeping to go work.
And they didn't resent it.
Olivia dressed quickly, turning away for modesty that felt absurd after last night.
When she turned back, Tamara was watching her.
"You're trying to figure out if you can do this," Tamara said. Not a question.
Olivia nodded mutely.
"Can't help you there," Tamara said. "That's your choice. But if you're wondering whether it's *possible*—whether you can share him and not hate us and not hate yourself—then yes. It is. Because we're doing it. And most days, it works."
"Most days?" Olivia echoed.
"Some days are hard," Noelle admitted softly. "Some days I want him all to myself and resent everyone else. Some days I feel like I'm not enough. Like I'll never be enough."
"But then I remember," she continued, "that alone, I was *nothing.* Here, I'm *something.* And that's worth the hard days."
Lyra finished lacing her boots and stood.
"Come on," she said. "If we don't get to breakfast soon, Zoe will eat everything and we'll be stuck with ration bars."
***
The underground dining hall was larger than Olivia expected.
Not the small, intimate space she'd eaten in before. This was the *underground* hall, carved straight into stone, opened up for what Julia had casually called "communal feasting day."
Once a month, everyone who wasn't on critical duty ate together belowground: Jarls, trainees, Awakened, staff. Yggdrasil dropped the masks, compared bruises, made announcements, and pretended—just for a morning—that they were something like a normal community instead of a treasonous shadow government.
Today was one of those days.
Long tables. Benches. Dozens of people—Yggdrasil operatives, Awakened, staff—eating together, talking quietly, moving with a kind of relaxed purpose that still felt alien to her.
It looked like a military mess hall.
Or a very efficient family.
Erynd sat at the head of one table, Julia beside him with papers spread between their plates.
He looked up when they entered.
Met Olivia's eyes.
Something passed between them—acknowledgment, question, challenge—and then his attention returned to Julia's notes.
Dismissed.
Not cruelly. Just… efficiently.
Olivia's chest tightened.
The girls led her to a different table, closer to the kitchens.
And that's when she smelled it.
***
The scent hit her like a physical thing.
Warm. Rich. *Complex.*
Spices she didn't recognize, layered over each other in ways that made her mouth water and her eyes sting simultaneously.
"What *is* that?" Tamara asked, nose wrinkling. "I've never smelled anything like—"
A server appeared, setting plates in front of them.
Olivia stared.
The food was… wrong.
Not bad. Not spoiled.
Just *foreign.*
Rice—she recognized that. But colored golden-orange, studded with vegetables she couldn't name.
Flatbread, torn into pieces, still steaming.
A thick curry—at least, she *thought* it was curry, though nothing like the mild, creamy versions served at palace banquets.
This was *red.* Aggressively red. With oil pooling at the edges and chunks of meat swimming in sauce that looked like it might fight back.
"What is this?" Lyra asked the server.
The young man shrugged, grinning.
"Lord Milton made it," the server said, clearly both proud and traumatized. "Said it's from 'his old world.' Called it… uh… New Delhi food? Something like that. Said it cost a fortune to get the spices shipped from Safon. He's been up since before dawn cooking. Said Feast Day needs 'substance and spice both.'"
Olivia's brain stuttered.
*Erynd cooked this?*
She looked across the hall.
He was still at his table, calmly eating his own portion while discussing logistics with Julia.
As if this were *normal.*
As if he regularly woke up before dawn to cook elaborate foreign meals for dozens of people.
"How is he so—" Olivia started, then stopped.
How was he *what?*
Smart? She'd known that.
Dangerous? Obvious.
But also a *cook?*
Who casually referenced "old worlds" and spent small fortunes on spices just to make breakfast?
Who was he?
*What* was he?
Noelle picked up her fork hesitantly.
"Should we… try it?"
"He made it," Tamara said. "It's not going to kill us."
She scooped up a bite of the curry-soaked rice.
Put it in her mouth.
Her eyes went *wide.*
"Oh," she said. "Oh, that's—"
Then her face turned red.
"Hot," she gasped. "It's *hot.* Why is it hot? What is—oh gods, my *mouth*—"
She grabbed for water, chugging desperately.
Lyra tried next, more cautiously.
Her reaction was slower but no less dramatic.
"That's—" She paused, tasting. "That's actually good? It's burning my tongue off, but it's *good?* How is it both?"
Noelle took a tiny bite.
Made a small, distressed sound.
"Too much," she wheezed. "I can't—"
She reached for bread, shoving it in her mouth to absorb the fire.
Olivia stared at her own plate.
Then, carefully, she tried a small forkful.
The spice hit immediately.
Not gradually. Not gently.
Like being *attacked* by flavor.
Heat. Complexity. Layers of taste she'd never experienced—cardamom, cumin, coriander, chili, things she couldn't name burning across her tongue and down her throat.
Her eyes watered.
Her nose ran.
She couldn't breathe properly.
And it was *delicious.*
"How—" she gasped. "How is this—why does it hurt and taste good at the same time?"
Across the hall, Erynd was eating calmly.
No water. No distress.
Just methodically working through his plate while discussing supply routes.
Olivia watched him.
This man who'd shown her suffering and corruption and treason.
Who'd built an empire in shadows.
Who commanded five women and called it love.
Who'd apparently learned to cook in some "old world" she didn't understand and could make spice taste like violence and revelation at once.
*Who are you?* she wanted to scream. *What are you? How can one person be all of these things?*
But she knew the answer.
She'd known since the moment she'd stepped into Yggdrasil's roots.
He wasn't one thing.
He was *everything.*
And she was either going to run from that or dive into it.
Tomorrow, he'd ask her to choose.
Tonight…
Tonight she'd finish this meal that burned like truth and tasted like a world she'd never known existed.
Tamara was still chugging water.
Lyra had given up on dignity and was eating bread with both hands.
Noelle looked like she was praying for divine intervention.
And Olivia—
Olivia took another bite.
Let the fire spread.
Let it hurt.
Let it remind her that being alive meant feeling things, even when they burned.
Especially when they burned.
Across the hall, Erynd's eyes found hers.
He raised his glass slightly.
A toast.
A challenge.
A promise.
She raised hers back.
Tomorrow, they'd finish this.
But today?
Today she learned that truth tasted like spice and uncertainty.
And somehow, that was exactly what she needed.