Therion had long since accepted that life wasn't fair. But the sheer cosmic injustice of Ardyn Veyther's existence tested even his patience.
It wasn't just that Ardyn was handsome. That would've been manageable. No, Ardyn was the kind of beautiful that made poets weep and parents clutch their daughters closer in the streets. The sort of face that made shopkeepers suddenly remember their "charity discounts" and tutors offer "extra study sessions" with suspicious enthusiasm. And the absolute worst part?
The bastard had no idea.
Exhibit A: The Spring Ball Incident
When Lady Moren's daughter had "accidentally" spilled wine on her own dress just so Ardyn would help blot it away.
Exhibit B: The Florist's Daughter
Who delivered fresh blooms to their townhouse weekly, insisting they were "leftovers" from arrangements—despite the carefully penned notes tucked between petals.
Exhibit C: That Time at the Opera
When three separate debutantes had dropped their fans in front of their box, forcing Ardyn to crawl around collecting them like some sort of tragic romantic hero.
Therion had spent that particular evening fantasizing about creative uses for teleportation and shrimp forks.
Lyria, at least, shared his suffering. "Stop breathing so prettily," she'd snapped during intermission, as yet another silk-clad vulture fluttered her lashes in their direction.
Ardyn had blinked those stupidly long lashes. "I'm just sitting here."
"Exactly," Therion growled. "You're sitting wrong."
But the real problem wasn't the admirers—it was the jealous bastards who took offense to Ardyn's mere existence. Like Lord Hargrove's son, who'd challenged him to a duel over "excessive handsomeness being a personal insult." Or the university seniors who'd "accidentally" locked him in the astronomy tower for eight hours.
The worst part? Ardyn kept apologizing for it.
"I'll try to be less…" he'd gestured helplessly at his own face after the Hargrove incident, as if he could simply will himself into ugliness.
Lyria had thrown a biscuit at his head. "Just wear a mask."
"I tried that last winter," Therion said. "He got snow in his hair and looked like some tragic ice prince. People started offering him hot chocolate."
Ardyn had the audacity to look wounded.
What made it truly unbearable was how oblivious he remained. While Therion had to strategically phase through walls to avoid marriage-minded matrons, and Lyria regularly scared off suitors by sharpening knives at tea parties, Ardyn just… existed. Beautifully. Incessantly. Like some sort of gorgeous natural disaster.
The final straw came during the Midwinter Gala, when no less than six debutantes had "fainted" in his general vicinity. Therion had watched, incredulous, as Ardyn—being Ardyn—had actually tried to catch them all, resulting in an absurd tangle of silk and swooning.
Lyria had appeared at his elbow with two stolen champagne flutes. "We could sell tickets."
Therion had drained his glass in one go. "We could push him down the stairs."
"Too late," she nodded toward the staircase where Ardyn was now being fawned over by the "injured" ladies. "He'd just land elegantly and look even more dashing."
Therion had briefly considered teleporting himself into the ocean.
But then he'd caught sight of Ardyn's expression—that particular wrinkle between his brows that meant he was moments away from apologizing for existing—and sighed. Stupid beautiful idiot. Stupid loyal heart.
Resigned, Therion had phased across the room to rescue his friend, already planning the extensive complaining he'd do afterward. Some burdens, it seemed, were simply meant to be borne.