The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Steam rose in soft curls from the heated water of the bathhouse, filling the marble chamber with a warm, misty embrace. Lucien sat submerged to his chest in the large pool, his eyes closed in contentment. His long wet blonde hair clung to his neck and shoulders, the water tracing rivulets down his pale skin.

Maisy knelt behind him on the tiled edge, her hands moving methodically as she washed his back with a soft cloth. The silence between them was comfortable, broken only by the gentle lapping of water and the occasional drip from the ceiling.

Slowly, Lucien opened his eyes. His gaze caught Maisy's reflection in the water's surface—her face was close to his, close enough that he could feel her warm breath on his skin. Their eyes met, and a delicate blush spread across Maisy's cheeks.

"So," Lucien said, his voice soft and teasing, "how was everything here? Did you miss me?"

Maisy's blush intensified, but she composed herself enough to answer, though her voice carried a hint of petulance. "Yes, Master, I missed you. You know it better than anyone." She pouted slightly, a gesture that looked more endearing than angry.

"Ohh," Lucien drawled, a mischievous smile curling his lips, "seems like my cute maid is angry with me."

Maisy's lips formed a pout, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You say it like you care, but you brought so many things for everyone—even for Evelyn—but you didn't bring anything for me."

Lucien's smile softened into something more genuine. "I'm sorry, Maisy. Don't worry—when I go back next time, I'll bring something for you. But for now, please forgive me."

Maisy's pout immediately dissolved into embarrassment. She shook her head quickly, her voice warm with affection. "No, Master, it's fine. I was just teasing you... I'm sorry. I'm just glad that you came back safely. That is the biggest gift for me."

Lucien chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Well, now I'm angry. Hmmm... maybe I should punish you."

Before Maisy could react, Lucien's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her into the water with a splash. The pool was massive, easily deep enough for both of them. Maisy surfaced, sputtering, her clothes now completely soaked and clinging to her form.

"Master!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of shock and indignation. "Now I'm wet!"

Lucien moved with fluid grace, closing the distance between them in an instant. He pressed her gently against the tiled wall of the pool, caging her with his arms. His face came close to hers, lips hovering near her ear as if he were about to kiss her neck.

But instead, his hand moved to his shadow world, and from the darkness, he produced a hairpin.

It was a work of art—crafted from pure gold, encrusted with diamonds in an intricate butterfly pattern. At its center sat a dark ruby that seemed to pulse with captured light. The pin itself was shaped like a miniature sword, elegant and deadly.

Lucien's breath was warm against Maisy's ear as he whispered, "How dare you think that I would forget about you... Maisy."

He pulled back slightly, holding the hairpin up so she could see it in all its glory.

Maisy's eyes widened, her lips parting in disbelief. "M... Master, this is too expensive. I don't think you should give it to me."

Lucien's expression softened, his voice dropping to a sincere murmur. "Maisy, you are invaluable to me. A cheap hairpin like this is nothing compared to you."

"C... cheap?" Maisy stammered, her blush returning with a vengeance. "I don't think it's cheap, Master. It's so beautiful—not even the royal family wears hairpins like this." She hesitated, curiosity getting the better of her. "If you don't mind me asking... how much did it cost?"

Lucien shrugged casually. "I don't know. Maybe eight thousand gold coins? Not like I care. Here, let me help you wear it."

He didn't wait for her protest, gently gathering her wet hair and securing the pin in place with practiced ease. The ruby caught the steam-muted light, casting crimson sparkles across the water.

"Turn around," Lucien commanded softly. "Show me."

Maisy turned hesitantly, her cheeks burning. The hairpin gleamed against her dark hair, the butterfly seeming to flutter with every slight movement.

"Beautiful," Lucien said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "It suits you perfectly."

"But still, Master—" Maisy began, but Lucien silenced her with a finger pressed gently to her lips.

"I will not hear anything," he said firmly. "And get used to receiving gifts like this. You deserve them."

Maisy's eyes glistened with unshed tears of gratitude. "I wish I could give you something too, but I don't have anything."

Lucien's grin turned wicked. "Well, you can give me something."

Maisy's face turned crimson, her eyes darting away in embarrassment. Lucien leaned in close again, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "I want you to call me... Lucien."

The request was so simple, yet it carried an intimacy that made Maisy's heart race. She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "L... lu... Lucien."

"I didn't hear it," Lucien teased, leaning even closer. "How about you say it in my ear?"

Maisy leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear as she breathed, "Lucien."

The sound of his name from her lips sent a shiver down his spine. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. "I wish you would just call me Lucien from now on. I would love it."

"N... no, Master, I can't do it!" Maisy squeaked, and before Lucien could react, she scrambled out of the pool and fled from the bathhouse, her wet clothes leaving a trail of water across the marble floor.

Lucien watched her go, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He sank back into the warm water, closing his eyes with a contented sigh. "Well," he murmured to himself, "now I have to bathe alone."

The giant arena loomed against the clear blue sky, its massive stone structure packed with spectators from every corner of the kingdom. The upper tiers were reserved for nobles and high-ranking officials, their fine silks and gleaming jewelry a stark contrast to the simple wool and linen worn by the commoners in the lowest section. Viscounts and lesser nobility occupied the middle tiers, their eyes fixed eagerly on the sand-covered floor below.

Princess Sylvie stood in the waiting area, her hands clasped tightly together. Her maids flanked her, their expressions a mix of anxiety and impatience. Around her, her siblings waited with their champions—strong, confident fighters who radiated power and certainty.

Every champion was present.

Except hers.

"Princess Sylvie," the black-haired maid said, her voice tight with barely contained worry, "Lucien Vale still hasn't shown up. Every other champion is already here."

Sylvie's jaw tightened, but she forced herself to remain calm. "Don't worry. He gave me his word. Just trust him. I don't think he's one of those who breaks promises."

"Yeah," Sylvie continued, more to herself than to her maid, "let's wait for him. And today, I don't have to fight first."

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Finally, the emperor arrived, his procession grand and imposing. He ascended to the highest seat in the arena, flanked by his queens and royal advisors. He raised his hand, and the crowd fell silent, the weight of his presence pressing down on the entire assembly.

The Royal Minister, an elderly man with a flowing white beard, stepped forward and unfurled a scroll. His voice boomed across the arena, amplified by astral energy.

"Today is the third day of the Trial of Imperial Succession!"

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"According to previous results, Prince Andrin is currently in the lead with zero losses. Princess Sylvie has suffered one loss. Prince Falber has two losses. Princess Verna has one loss." He looked up, scanning the crowd with ancient eyes. "Let us see what will happen today. Will Prince Andrin maintain his lead, or will fortune favor another?"

The minister consulted his scroll once more. "Today's first fight will be between Princess Verna and Prince Andrin. The champion representing Prince Andrin is Miss Anne. The champion representing Princess Verna is Norrik."

Prince Andrin stepped into the arena with Anne at his side. He was handsome, confident, every inch the favored prince. Across from them, Princess Verna entered with Norrik—a slender, handsome young man whose eyes held a quiet devotion that was easy to miss but impossible to ignore.

"Well," Anne called out, her voice dripping with arrogance, "it seems like you got saved last time by me. But don't worry—today, I'll make sure you aren't able to fight in the next match."

Norrik's expression remained steady. "We'll see about that."

"Match begin!" the Royal Minister declared.

The two champions surged forward. To the mortal audience, they were blurs of motion, their speed impossible to track. Anne wielded an ice sword that shimmered with frost, each strike leaving trails of frozen air in its wake. Norrik, a half-beast, unleashed his transformation—his body swelled to nearly two and a half meters, fur sprouting across his skin as his head transfigured into that of a lion. His humanoid form remained, but his muscles bulged with primal power.

In his normal form, Norrik was quite petite and handsome, his gentle nature making him well-loved among the royal household. He was also secretly in love with Princess Verna—though she had no idea of the depths of his feelings. She teased him often, cared for him in her own way, but the gap in their status made any future together seem impossible.

Norrik unleashed Tyrant's Claw, a wave of astral energy shaped into massive claws that raked toward Anne. She twisted gracefully, the attack passing harmlessly by her. To her, it was like a child throwing rocks.

In a flash, Anne closed the distance and kicked Norrik in the head. The impact sent him crashing into the arena wall, stone cracking from the force. But Norrik staggered to his feet, determination blazing in his lion eyes.

He charged again, using Infernal Bite—a fiery maw of astral energy aimed at Anne's throat. She slid beneath it with impossible grace, appearing behind him in the same motion.

"Thousand Ice Blades!" Anne cried.

Thousands of shimmering ice shards materialized around her, each one sharp enough to pierce steel. They flew toward Norrik's back, embedding themselves in his flesh. He cried out, blood streaming from a dozen wounds, but he refused to fall.

He stood his ground, bleeding, exhausted, but still fighting—for his love, for Princess Verna.

He gathered the last of his astral energy, preparing Genesis Predator, a devastating attack that would consume everything he had left. His palm glowed with power...

And then he collapsed.

His knee hit the sand, his body trembling. He tried to rise, but his limbs refused to obey.

Suddenly, a pair of gloves landed on the arena floor.

Princess Verna had thrown them.

The gesture was final—she had accepted defeat. The fight stopped immediately.

"The winner is Anne, representing Prince Andrin!" the Royal Minister announced. "Princess Verna now has two losses!"

Princess Verna rushed onto the arena floor, her attendants hurrying behind her. She knelt beside Norrik, her hand touching his shoulder gently. Tears welled in her eyes.

"It's fine, Norrik," she said softly. "You did your best. I don't want something bad to happen to you. I hope you'll forgive me."

Norrik's transformation faded, his body shrinking back to his human form—a slender young man of average height, with kind eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. Blood still seeped from his back wounds, but he managed a weak smile.

"N... no need to ask for forgiveness, my lady," he said, his voice trembling. "I was just doing my job." His eyes became wet, his voice cracking. "I just wanted you to win. I'm sorry I was so weak."

Princess Verna pulled him into a fierce embrace, holding him close despite the blood staining her fine dress. Medical realm masters rushed over, their hands glowing with healing energy as they began to mend Norrik's wounds.

"Now," the Royal Minister called, "let us move on to the next match. This match is crucial for both competitors—it may very well decide someone's fate."

The crowd leaned forward in anticipation.

"In the Trial of Imperial Succession, if a prince or princess arrives without a champion, they will lose the race immediately. Last time, Princess Sylvie had Anne as her champion, but she betrayed her in the arena, refusing to fight against Prince Andrin and joining his side instead." The minister's voice carried a hint of pity. "That counted as a loss, but at least she brought a fighter, so she was not immediately disqualified. However, if she does not have a champion today..."

The implication hung in the air.

"And Prince Falber already has two losses. If he loses again today, he will be disqualified as well. So truly, this is a crucial match for both of them."

The minister consulted his scroll. "The next match is between Princess Sylvie and Prince Falber! Please bring your champions into the arena!"

Princess Sylvie stepped forward, alone.

The silence was deafening.

Prince Falber entered with his champion, Koldin—a massive brute of a man who radiated overwhelming power. He looked at Sylvie and laughed openly.

For the first time in a thousand years, a prince or princess had arrived without a champion.

The crowd erupted in laughter, mockery, and disbelief. High-born nobles whispered behind their hands. Commoners pointed and jeered. Even the emperor, watching from his golden throne, shook his head in disappointment.

"Seems like fate is on my side today," Prince Falber sneered. "You really are a loser. Seems like you weren't able to get over Anne's betrayal."

Sylvie stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides. She could feel her dreams crumbling, her ambitions turning to ash.

The Royal Minister sighed, disappointment clear in his ancient eyes. "Since there is no champion on Princess Sylvie's side, the winner is—"

He stopped.

A crack split the air.

Space itself tore open, the fabric of reality shattering like glass. Dark energy bled from the rift, and from within the void stepped a figure.

The man was tall, with long blonde hair that seemed to glow in the arena's light. His eyes were sharp, his presence undeniable—the kind of presence that made the air itself feel heavy.

"What's the hurry?" he asked, his voice carrying easily across the now-silent arena. He turned to look at the Royal Minister, one eyebrow raised. "I hope I'm not too late."

Author Note:

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