Elian balanced a silver tray containing the blackest, most bitter coffee known to mankind as he navigated the stone corridors.
His death timer was currently sitting at [72 Hours, 10 Minutes].
He had spent the walk from the kitchens trying to game the system. He touched a guard's arm. Nothing. He hugged a stone statue. Nothing. He even high-fived a passing maid. Zero recharge.
'Okay, so the system is monogamous,' Elian thought, adjusting his collar. 'I can only steal life force from the Prince. Great. I'm a battery vampire, and my only power source is a walking iceberg.'
He reached the heavy double doors of the Morning Room. Two guards opened them, and Elian stepped into a sunlit chamber that smelled of beeswax and expensive tea.
Prince Cassian sat at the head of a long mahogany table, reading a scroll. He was fully dressed now in a navy military tunic that hugged his shoulders in a way that made Elian's mouth go dry.
'Focus, Elian,' he scolded himself. 'Don't look at the shoulders. Look at the health bar.'
Above Cassian's head, a small grey icon floated: [Affection: -5 (Annoyed)].
'Negative five? I offered him a massage! Ungrateful bastard.'
Elian approached the table, moving with the practiced silence of the original body's muscle memory. He placed the coffee down. "Your poison, Your Highness. I mean, your coffee."
Cassian didn't look up. "You are talkative today, Valet."
"I am simply brimming with energy, Sire." 'Because if I stop moving, I might pass out from sheer panic.'
Before Elian could pour the coffee, the doors banged open.
A young man stumbled in. He was slender, with pale blond hair that seemed to catch the light perfectly, and eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. He was wearing white robes that looked simpler than everyone else's, but Elian—having dated a few fashion students back on Earth—knew that fabric cost more than Elian's entire existence.
A holographic tag appeared over his head: [Player 1: Ambrose].
Ambrose coughed into a handkerchief. It was a delicate, wet, tragic cough.
"Your Highness," Ambrose whispered, leaning against the doorframe for support. "I heard... cough... I heard you were awake. I made you soup."
He held up a bowl. His hands trembled.
'Oh, give me a break,' Elian thought, staring. 'He didn't make that. His hands are softer than mine. And is that... is he wearing a sparkle filter? Why is the air shimmering around him?'
[System Alert: Player 1 has activated skill 'Fragile Beauty'. Effect: Increases Pity by 10%.]
Cassian looked up. His expression softened imperceptibly. "Ambrose. You should be resting. The physician said your constitution is weak."
"I couldn't rest," Ambrose said, walking forward with a brave, wobbly smile. "Not when I knew you were working so hard."
He placed the soup on the table.
[System Notification: Ambrose +2 Hearts.]
Elian felt a flash of irritation. 'Two hearts for soup? I touched his spine and got yelled at!'
"Leave it," Cassian said, gesturing to a chair. "Sit before you collapse."
Ambrose sat, shooting a quick, smug glance at Elian. It wasn't the look of a saint; it was the look of a competitive gamer who just secured a kill streak.
Elian narrowed his eyes. 'Oh, I see you. You're not a White Lotus; you're a try-hard.'
Before Ambrose could capitalize on his victory, the doors opened again. This time, they didn't bang; they swung open with majestic precision.
A woman strode in. She was tall, wearing a crimson dress with a high collar and military-style epaulets. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant bun. She didn't walk; she glided, her heels clicking a rhythm of absolute authority on the stone floor.
[Player 2: Rowena].
"Cassian," she said, her voice cool and commanding. She didn't bow. "The trade delegation from the West has arrived. I took the liberty of reviewing their initial offer. It's garbage. I drafted a counter-proposal."
She slapped a stack of papers onto the table next to Ambrose's soup.
[System Alert: Player 2 has activated skill 'Political Savvy'. Effect: Increases Respect by 15%.]
Cassian picked up the papers, his eyes scanning them. He nodded. "Efficient as always, Princess."
[System Notification: Rowena +2 Hearts.]
Elian stood by the coffee pot, feeling like an NPC in a cutscene.
On one side, the Tragic Saint with his magical soup. On the other, the Girlboss Empress with her trade treaties.
And in the middle, Elian. The valet holding a pot of coffee.
'I'm out of my league,' Elian realized. 'They have strategies. They have skills. They have backstories. I have a boner and a death wish.'
Ambrose looked at the papers and sniffled. "Princess Rowena is so amazing. I wish I could help Cassian with politics. But I'm just... useless." He looked down, a single, perfect tear sliding down his cheek.
'Oh my god, he's doing the 'Self-Deprecation Combo',' Elian analyzed. 'He wants the Prince to validate him.'
"You have your own strengths, Ambrose," Cassian said dutifully.
Rowena rolled her eyes. It was a quick, sharp movement, but Elian caught it. "Tears don't sign treaties, Ambrose. Cassian needs an equal, not a patient."
"Stop it, both of you," Cassian said, rubbing his temples. A small grimace of pain crossed his face. He pressed his fingers against his eyes.
Elian's Gamer Eye zoomed in. [Target Status: Migraine (Severe). Cause: Stress/Pheromone Overload.]
'Opportunity detected,' Elian thought.
While Ambrose opened his mouth to apologize and Rowena reached for more papers, Elian moved.
He didn't ask for permission. He stepped up behind Cassian's chair.
"Valet?" Rowena snapped. "Step back. We are discussing matters of state."
"The Prince is in pain," Elian said simply. He set the coffee pot down with a clink.
He didn't use a skill. He didn't use a sparkle filter. He just reached out and placed his thumbs on Cassian's temples.
Cassian flinched, his hand shooting up to grab Elian's wrist. "What—"
"Shh," Elian hushed him. He actually shushed the Crown Prince.
The room went dead silent. Ambrose's jaw dropped. Rowena looked ready to call the executioner.
"Just breathe, Your Highness," Elian murmured, ignoring the death grip on his wrist. 'Keep holding my wrist, baby. That's free charging.'
He began to massage. He used the technique he'd learned from his ex-boyfriend, a physical therapist who swore that 90% of headaches came from neck tension. Elian dug his fingers into the base of Cassian's skull, finding the knots of muscle that were tight as bowstrings.
"You're clenching your jaw," Elian whispered near Cassian's ear. "Relax. Let go."
Cassian let out a shaky breath. His grip on Elian's wrist loosened, but he didn't let go. His head leaned back, pressing into Elian's stomach.
'Oh, wow,' Elian thought, feeling the heavy weight of the Alpha's head against his soft abs. 'He's heavy. I like it.'
[Contact: +5 Minutes.][Target Status: Relief.]
"Your technique is... unorthodox," Cassian muttered, his eyes closing.
"It's effective," Elian replied. "Unlike trade treaties or soup, you can't eat or read away a headache."
Rowena bristled. "Are you implying—"
"I'm implying that His Highness needs quiet," Elian cut her off, his voice smooth and professional, though his internal monologue was screaming, 'Suck it, Player Two!'
For a long moment, nobody moved. Elian stood there, massaging the Crown Prince of the Empire, with the Prince's head resting intimately against his midriff.
It was domestic. It was possessive. And it was completely off-script.
Ambrose looked furious. His "Pity" aura flickered. Rowena looked confused. Her "Authority" aura wavered.
A notification popped up in Elian's vision.
[System Notification: Elian +1 Heart.]
'One heart,' Elian thought, staring at the notification like it was a winning lottery ticket. 'I got one whole heart.'
He looked at the leaderboard.
1. Ambrose: 322. Rowena: 263. Elian: 1
He was still losing. Badly. But he had made a crack in the ice.
Cassian opened his eyes. They were clearer now, the pain receded. He didn't pull away from Elian's touch immediately. He tilted his head back, looking at Elian upside down.
"Your hands are warm," Cassian observed.
"I run hot, Your Highness," Elian said, shooting a wink at Ambrose over the Prince's head.
Cassian sat up, breaking the contact. Elian felt the loss of warmth immediately, his timer resuming its countdown.
"Enough," Cassian said, standing up. "Rowena, walk with me. I want to discuss the Western border. Ambrose, go back to bed before you faint."
He adjusted his tunic. He didn't look at Elian.
"Valet," Cassian said, walking toward the door. "Bring the coffee to my study. Do not spill it."
"Yes, Your Highness," Elian bowed.
As the Rivals followed the Prince out—Rowena strutting victoriously, Ambrose looking tragic and rejected—Elian stood alone in the sunlit room.
He checked his timer. [Time Until Death: 72 Hours, 25 Minutes.]
He had gained ground.
Elian picked up the coffee tray. He looked at the untouched soup and the stack of papers.
"You guys have the script," Elian whispered to the empty room, a feral grin spreading across his face. "But I have the hands."
He grabbed a spoon, took a sip of Ambrose's soup, and grimaced.
"Needs salt," he muttered. "Amateur."