The first thing Ash became aware of was a muffled sound, like a distant voice filtered through a thick wall. The noise echoed in his ears, muddled and accompanied by an incessant ringing that made it hard to think. His mind felt hazy, like he had just been rudely jolted from a deep sleep, but he couldn’t remember falling asleep. Where was he? And who was speaking?

The ringing began to subside, and the sounds sharpened into a voice—soft, yet firm and commanding. The voice of a young woman, speaking in a tone that demanded attention. Slowly, Ash's surroundings started to come into focus. He was standing, rigid and still, behind an opulent armchair. The red leather gleamed, rich and polished, and the fur draped over it was luxurious, clearly taken from some exotic beast.

The fireplace crackled, its warmth permeating the room, while a grand chandelier hung above, casting a soft glow over the polished mahogany table and the array of elegant couches that encircled it.

Before him, seated in the armchair, was the source of the voice. A young lady with long, silver hair that cascaded down her back, catching the light like strands of moonlight. She was facing away from him, but her presence was powerful, even without seeing her face. Ash was struck, dumbfounded, unable to process what was happening. The confusion gnawed at him—where was he? 

“Did you hear me?” The young lady’s voice cut through the fog in his mind, sharper now. “The communication orb. Bring it to me.”

The words were clear this time, carrying an air of elegance and authority. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t respond. His mind was racing, piecing together fragmented thoughts and memories that refused to align.

The lady’s impatience grew. She turned her head slightly upward, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I heard you had an accident 2 days ago,” she said, her voice dripping with irritation. “It seems you still need some time off.”

Ash’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that face. The flawless skin, the long lashes framing cold, calculating eyes—it was all too familiar. He leaned in closer, almost involuntarily, his eyes tracing every feature of her face as if seeing her for the first time. He twisted and turned, examining her from every angle. Even her reaction to his proximity was strikingly familiar.

The lady’s expression shifted, her frown deepening as she stared back at him with growing annoyance. Then, suddenly, she smiled—a devious, chilling smile that sent a shiver down Ash’s spine. It was the same smile, the very same he had seen countless times before. 

Ash’s mind reeled. This couldn’t be real. It was just a game... wasn’t it? He recalled coming home, exhausted, and collapsing into his chair, eager to speedrun Royal Affections. The day had slipped away, and somehow, he’d fallen asleep. But now, he was here, standing in a castle, serving a lady who should only exist within a screen.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, eerie voice. “... you’ve lost your mind.”

A sudden movement caught his eye. Above the lady’s head, a large, shimmering ball of ice began to form, growing rapidly. Ash’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what was happening, but before he could react, the ice dropped, hurtling toward him.

The impact was instant and brutal. A sharp, cold pain exploded in his head, and everything went dark.

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The youngest lady of the Ornfell house, Genevieve, sat back down in anticipation, her leg crossed elegantly without retracting her noble posture as the maid began to drag the unconscious butler to the infirmary. Her eyes lingered briefly on him.

He had been one of her original attendants, assigned by her father when she was just a child. Her father believed it wise to appoint commoner attendants her age, giving her the opportunity to mold them herself and secure their loyalty—a great exercise in leadership. 

As she recalled, he had always been obedient, like an eager little Borzoi that followed her every command— even before she began disciplining them. But, it seemed that he’d gone awry from such a small incident.

She sighed. Commoners were truly too fragile. She mentally noted to request new attendants—this time, planning to give them mental and physical conditioning. After all, she couldn’t allow herself to fail a second time.

Feeling the tension in her face, she relaxed her expression. Even if no one of importance was present, she still had to maintain her image. Her gaze drifted to the window, taking in the carved stone arches, vibrant stained glass, and rich velvet drapes that contrasted with the swirling snow outside. Her father had sent her to the northern estate to undergo her coming of age. Though he hadn’t said it, she knew it was also to prepare her for the Academy.

Genevieve’s thoughts faded as she stared relaxingly into the pit of the fireplace, not letting go of her noble posture. Yet, as time dragged on, the warmth of the fire and the quiet of the room began to lull her into a state of drowsiness.

Before she realized it, her eyes fluttered shut, and sleep overtook her, losing all sense of control. When she finally stirred, a start of panic jolted through her. She quickly became aware of the small trail of drool on the corner of her lips, and her unrefined and improper posture. Mortified, she swiftly straightened herself, wiping her mouth and smoothing her dress. 

She coughed awkwardly, trying to shake off the embarrassment as if anyone could have seen her. Just then, as luck had it, the orb flickered to life, and her father's imposing figure materialized within it.

"Father," she greeted, her voice steady despite the slight flush that had yet to leave her cheeks.

“Genevieve,” her father’s voice boomed, its usual weight cutting through the room's stillness. “How is it so far?”

Genevieve’s spine straightened instinctively, her chin lifting ever so slightly as she composed herself. “As expected, Father,” she replied, her tone measured, just on the edge of controlled arrogance. “The northern estate is.. adequate for its purpose.”

Her father raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“I handled the responsibilities as instructed. The training was... appropriate. I’ve made necessary adjustments where I saw fit,” she continued, her eyes briefly flickering to the brief lapse that had occurred. Her cheeks warmed as she felt the slight dry drool on the corner of her mouth, but she shoved the thought aside, forcing her expression to remain cold and composed.

Her father’s gaze narrowed, sensing the brief moment of distraction. “I see,” he muttered. “Though it seemed to be unnecessary.”

Genevieve blinked, unsure of what he was referring to until he clarified.

“The whole ordeal of sending you north,” he said, his tone softer now. “I know what you’re capable of… So just think of it as a nod to tradition.”

Her father’s gaze remained steady on her. A moment passed before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “You’ve done well. You’ve upheld the Ornfell name admirably.”

Genevieve’s chest tightened with relief, though she kept her expression unchanged.

“You’re allowed to return to the capital,” he continued, his voice now carrying a rare warmth. “To celebrate your fifteenth birthday.”

A small smile appeared on his face—rare, but unmistakable. Genevieve felt a surge of pride swell in her chest, though she only gave a graceful bow of her head in response.

“Thank you, Father,” she said softly. Inside, however, her thoughts raced back to the fire, to the embarrassment she still felt gnawing at the edges of her composure. She would never allow such a lapse in her etiquette again. Never.