Magnus, once again… Oh my god.
Magnus once again, lounging on his throne, staring into empty space.
He thought for a moment. Even though life had been pretty "busy" lately—fights, kings, demons, collapsing dimensions—it still didn't feel real.
This world, with its magic, titles, and talking swords, felt like a stage someone shoved him onto mid-performance.
His father asking for help with work.
His mother nagging him to finish his food.
His sister begging him to give up the game console, dangling her allowance like bait.
They weren't here.
They hadn't been here since he woke up in this place.
And honestly… he was starting to forget their faces.
Were they even real anymore? Or were they just part of a dream he couldn't wake from?
Magnus exhaled, a soft breath escaping his lips.
Until—
A literal dish of food smacked his face.
It didn't just fall. It flew, like it had a personal grudge. The plate wobbled off his cheek, spinning in the air before crashing somewhere off to the side.
"…Ow," he muttered flatly, not moving. A carrot slice slid down his forehead.
"I am sorry, Your Majesty!" came the familiar voice of his overly dramatic chef.
Gustav, tall and slim like a nobleman who'd skipped every arm day, stood by the doorway with both hands trembling—one holding a ladle like a rapier, the other clutching a towel like a white flag. His sharp features made him look more like a butler from a tragedy play than a cook, and yet his watery eyes ruined any sense of dignity.
"I-It was an accident!" he cried, dropping to one knee. "My hand slipped from the divine pressure of flavor! Curse my culinary precision!"
Magnus wiped the carrot slice off his forehead and stared at it. "You know, most people just knock."
"I did knock! Twelve times!" Gustav sniffled. "But Your Majesty didn't answer, and the silence—it was like rejection from the heavens!"
Marianne groaned from the side. "Don't encourage him."
Magnus sighed again, deeper this time. "How did a guy who looks like he should be painting portraits end up cooking soup?"
"I have painted soup before!" Gustav declared, standing dramatically. "The texture! The emotion! The aroma!"
Marianne facepalmed. "Why do I even try?"
Suddenly, the door opened again.
"The door has been very busy nowadays," Magnus said, staring at the person who just entered.
It was Renaya, the elf who left without a word and now came without a word.
"Greetings, Magn—" She caught herself, then cleared her throat.
"…Greetings, Your Majesty."
"As if that would change the way you talk," Magnus replied.
Renaya stood by the doorway, her elegant posture stiff with hesitation. The usual sharpness in her emerald eyes had dulled, as if weighed down by something heavier than pride.
"I... apologize for the sudden visit," she said, tone measured, formal—too formal for someone who once threw a dagger at him mid-conversation.
Magnus raised a brow. "Didn't you say last time, and I quote, 'If I see your face again, I'll gouge my own eyes out'?"
She looked away. "That was before I realized your face was… tolerable."
"Progress," Magnus muttered, flicking another carrot from his hair.
Marianne crossed her arms. "Tolerable is better than repulsive, I guess."
Gustav gasped as if witnessing blasphemy. "How dare you insult His Majesty's divine symmetry!"
"Sure, sure," Marianne said, ignoring him as she approached Magnus, adding some powder to his tea.
"What's this?" he asked, staring at the cup.
"Poison. To kill you," Renaya replied.
Magnus blinked. Once.
Twice.
Then slowly turned his head to look at her.
"…Is that so?" he said, voice flat.
Renaya nodded, completely deadpan. "It's mint powder. For digestion. But calling it poison was more fun."
Magnus stared at the tea again, then back at her.
"Do all elves have this… stupid sense of humor, or just the ones that used to want me dead?"
"I still kind of want you dead," she said calmly. "But only if you keep dodging serious conversations."
Marianne rubbed her temples. "Why are all of you like this?"
Gustav had already dropped to one knee again. "Shall I taste the tea for poison, Your Majesty? My tongue is blessed with holy sensitivity!"
"No one's drinking the tea except me," Magnus muttered. "And if I am poisoned, at least I'll finally get some sleep."
Renaya raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather be poisoned than deal with your responsibilities?"
"Yes," Magnus said without hesitation, already sipping the tea.
He drank the entire cup.
They all waited.
A minute passed. Then two. Then thirty.
"So, the Poison Dragon's Breath doesn't work on you either," Renaya said, rubbing her chin like a scientist.
"That's… actually kind of cool," Marianne admitted.
"But why are you so hell-bent on killing me?" Magnus asked.
Renaya paused. Fragments of memory flickered—fire, corpses, a man bringing ruin. Chaos swallowing the world whole.
Then she said flatly, "No reason. I just wanna try them."
"…Sure," Magnus replied.