A dull ache pressed against his skull.
A groan slipped past his lips as his senses returned, slow, sluggish. The scent of polished wood and clean linen drifted through the air. Birdsong chirped beyond the windows, delicate and beautiful.
He opened his eyes to a high ceiling carved in gold lining and white marble. Soft morning light spilled through sheer curtains. Nothing like the stone towers soaked in rot and ash that he once called home.
He raised a pale, unfamiliar hand to his face.
"So... it worked," he murmured, fingers curling. "The possession spell actually worked."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. Years of forbidden study. Sacrifices. Blood magic under moonless skies. Rituals that rotted his flesh and tore at his soul, each one pushing him closer to the edge. But all of it was worth it.
He turned toward a tall mirror standing in the corner. The reflection staring back was not his.
A young man, barely twenty. A good-looking face. Messy dark hair, pale skin, and dull violet eyes shadowed by too many sleepless nights.
He was lean. Slender shoulders, narrow waist. No scars, no muscle—just a noble boy's body. Fragile.
Then came the pain. A jagged spike through his skull.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as foreign memories spilled in—images, sounds, emotions.
Julien de Rothvale. Youngest son of House Rothvale, one of the duke families of the Reinhart Kingdom. They are considered northern giants within the Artherian Continent, famed for their unmatched swordsmanship and military power.
But Julien? He couldn't even grip a sword without trembling. The sight of blood made him faint. During his first spar, he even wet himself. Seeing how fragile he was, it no longer mattered that he came from a great family. Low-ranking nobles began harassing him. Servants laughed behind closed doors.
And the scandal…
He was caught red-handed in bed with the Princess. It was said he had drugged her, driven by obsession with her beauty.
Now, he stood on the verge of being excommunicated by his own father.
"Pathetic waste."
He chuckled bitterly.
His head throbbed. The memories were shallow—no depth, no clarity. Like reading a book with pages torn out. He needed rest to settle deeper into the soul.
Eyes heavy, he lay back on the soft mattress.
Knock. Knock.
"Young Master, wake up!"
A girl's voice called through the door.
"Young Master, you'll be late for the academy!"
He felt the corners of his lips twitch. Academy? Of course. The noble brat was still a student.
The door creaked open.
Mira moved inside, Julien's personal maid.
She wore a modest black-and-white uniform, pressed but slightly wrinkled around the apron. Her chestnut-brown hair was tied into a loose bun, a few strands brushing her cheek. Narrow brows. Pale lips. Sharp eyes that looked far too tired for someone her age.
He kept his eyes shut.
Light footsteps entered the room. A sigh.
"Haaah… Still pretending to sleep? Tch."
Her tone shifted, sharp and cold now.
"Just how long do I have to wipe your ass, you useless brat?"
Her words stabbed into the quiet.
His eyes remained closed.
"Hey, if you don't get up now, I'm throwing a bucket of water on your sorry face."
There was a time not long ago when such insolence would've earned her a slow, screaming death. He let it slide, just once, as his soul hadn't fully settled yet.
She moved closer. The scent of lavender reached his nose as her breath brushed his cheek.
And then, the whisper.
"Wake up, you limp-dicked freak. Or I swear, I'll carve your balls off and feed them to the stray dogs in the slums. Maybe then the other maids will stop snickering every time they see me dragging your sorry ass around."
Snap.
His body moved before thought.
His hand shot up, wrapping tight around her throat.
She gasped, eyes wide with horror. Her feet kicked against the polished floor.
He didn't blink.
Inside, his thoughts were ice.
'Julien might have tolerated this. But I won't.'
Her fingernails clawed weakly at his wrist. She couldn't speak. Just choked and whimpered.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Tight breaths forced her breasts to press against the thin fabric of her maid's uniform.
D-cup, if I had to guess. A nice size. Wasted on a filthy mouth.
He stared into her tear-filled eyes and spoke, voice calm. Cold.
"I wanted to live a quiet life. I really did."
His grip tightened.
"But I guess... that doesn't suit me."
She struggled harder now. Weak, twitching limbs slapped against him with no strength behind them.
Her legs gave out beneath her. Her body collapsed into his.
Her tits crushed softly against his chest, warm and trembling with every desperate breath.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
He just held her there. Calm. Steady. Watching, not with anger, but quiet curiosity. Like watching a candle flicker before the flame went out.
Their bodies lined up. Chest to chest. Hips pressed close. The soft curve of her belly met the growing hardness in his lower body.
Delicate. Defenseless.
Then, her movements slowed.
Her eyes began to roll back.
And just before she slipped into unconsciousness—
He smiled.
Not a cold smile. Not cruel.
Joyful.
There was pleasure in his eyes. A flicker of something deeper, almost intimate. Like he had tasted something sweet and wanted more.
Her vision blurred. Darkness claimed her.
When she woke, her throat burned.
She jolted upright with a cough, hands flying to her neck.
The room was quiet now. Morning sunlight had shifted across the marble floor.
The boy who had nearly choked her to death was calmly fixing his collar in front of the tall mirror.
He looked composed. Dressed neatly in the academy's noble uniform, black and silver, pressed and regal. His hair was tied back. Everything seemed peaceful now.
But her heart pounded like a drum.
The memory returned in flashes.
The sudden grip.
His cold, empty eyes watching her struggle.
And then, just as her vision darkened—
That smile.
'Did he really smile while choking me...?'
Her breath caught. She swallowed hard.
Then came his voice, "You're awake. Good."
Calm. Even. Gentle.
She flinched.
He turned toward her, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve.
"Y-Yes, Young Master!" she said, bowing too fast, too low.
Her hands trembled, chest rising and falling quicker with each breath. Julien's eyes flicked over her. She still looked shaken. Her throat bore faint red marks where his fingers had been.
Her skirt had shifted when she fell. The apron was pulled askew, revealing a glimpse of smooth, pale, tender inner thigh. She was too dazed to notice. But he saw it. And lingered.
"We're leaving soon. Prepare my things."
She nodded frantically and rushed to obey, nearly tripping in her panic.
At that moment, she convinced herself it had all been a dream.
Maybe he'd just snapped. After all, he'd been called to the Duke's study the night before. It was said the patriarch had given him a brutal tongue-lashing. Maybe the pressure, the humiliation… it pushed him over the edge.
Yes. That had to be it. Nothing more.
But deep down she sensed this wasn't the Julien she knew.
Moments later, Julien stepped into the east wing's sunlit corridor, his stride light but unhurried.
Mira trailed behind him in silence. Head lowered, face pale, keeping just enough distance to avoid his shadow.
But the corridor wasn't empty. The sound of heels echoed ahead, measured and metallic, accompanied by the faint clink of armor.
A woman appeared, blocking his path.
She wore a knight's formal blue coat over steel-forged armor—tailored to her tall, athletic frame. Her stance was disciplined. Her face carved from duty. Short blonde hair, sharp jawline, eyes like burnished gold. A sword hung from her hip.
Her curves were tightly strapped beneath the uniform. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, firm thighs beneath plated greaves. Her breasts were average—pressed subtly beneath the reinforced chestplate.
A Dame.
Standing beside her was her opposite in every way.
A woman draped in luxurious green silk, every inch of her made to tempt. Her hips were wide, plush, swaying with each step. Her hair was green, styled into a loose, regal braid that curled like vines.
Julien's gaze flicked from the Dame to the green-haired noblewoman, then dropped to her chest.
Her breasts were massive—so large they jostled with each lazy sway of her step. The tight silk clung across her chest, the fabric struggling to contain her size. With every step, her breasts shifted heavily beneath the dress, deep cleavage jostling into view like it was made to be seen.
Compared to those tits, the knight beside her looked practically flat. Even Mira's D-cups seemed modest now.
She smiled, her lips curling slow and knowing, eyes sparkling like poison in a jeweled goblet.
"Oh my~ my~ Where is the little princeling off to in such a hurry?"
Julien raised an eyebrow. "Do I know you?"
She clicked her tongue, mock-pouting.
"Tsk. How cold."
His expression shifted—eyes narrowing, curious now.
She stepped closer, closing the space between them. The Dame moved slightly, giving her room as she leaned in.
Her silk sleeve grazed his arm, her breath warm at his ear.
"So tell me," she purred, "did the princess taste as sweet as you imagined?"
Her voice dipped, velvet-wrapped malice.
"Oh wait—" she tilted her head with a smirk, "you'd never touched a woman before, had you? That must've felt like paradise for a little virgin like you."
Julien stared at her, unfazed. His head still throbbed from the side effects of possession, and now some woman was picking a fight for no reason.
The words came out before he could stop them—flat, dry, unfiltered.
"Who the fuck is this bitch?"