"Hey, watch it!"
"Sorry!" a boy shouted as he darted past a group of knights in silver and brown capes, a basket of freshly washed sheets wobbling dangerously in his hands.
The knights turned sharply, frowning after him.
"Tch. Damn brat," one muttered, dusting off his gloved hand as though the boy had contaminated the air itself. "Flirty little rat."
"Don't say that," his companion said halfheartedly, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.
"What? It's true," the first replied, his tone dripping disdain. "What else would you call a servant with that kind of face, working among nobles? Poor thing's probably just waiting to charm someone rich enough to feed him."
Their laughter echoed down the marble corridor, fading into the usual palace bustle — footsteps, clattering trays, and the sharp tone of a maid scolding someone.
Meanwhile, the boy — Lucien — kept running, dodging servants left and right as he shouted hurried apologies.
"Sorry! Coming through—! Sorry again—oh, I'll fix that later!"
He nearly collided with a maid carrying a tray of teacups, narrowly missed a broom, and only slowed when a stern voice cut through the chaos.
"Lucien!" a woman barked. The palace's head butler, strict and sharp as a sword. "If you dirty those sheets before the Countess gets them, she'll have your hide!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Lucien yelled back, voice cracking slightly as he turned the corner at full speed.
Unfortunately, that was exactly when someone else came around the opposite bend.
Bam!
The impact was hard enough to make the basket fly. Sheets fluttered like distressed doves before plopping unceremoniously onto the polished floor.
Lucien groaned, rubbing his bruised elbow. His dark purple hair — already messy — now fell into his golden eyes as he sat up, dazed.
Of course, he thought tiredly, just another Tuesday.
"Watch where you're going, you idiot," came a sharp voice — one Lucien recognized instantly.
He froze, inwardly sighing.
Great. Of all people.
When he looked up, his suspicion was confirmed. Standing before him was Rian Hierken, the Count's youngest son — and the single most annoying creature alive. His brown hair was perfectly combed, his coat embroidered with gold, and a small emerald gleamed on his lapel — a symbol of nobility and, apparently, entitlement.
Flanking him were two boys, his ever-faithful minions, grinning like hyenas.
Lucien silently picked up his basket and began gathering the sheets. He didn't bother to respond.
That was, apparently, a mistake.
A boot came down hard on the last sheet he reached for.
Lucien looked up slowly.
Rian's smirk widened as he leaned forward. "What's wrong? Can't you see? Or are you blind and deaf, little servant?"
Lucien said nothing. His expression remained flat.
Rian sneered. "You peasants should be grateful we even let you live under our roof. Without the Hierken name, you'd be scrubbing gutters, not marble."
Behind him, his two lackeys chuckled, clearly enjoying the show.
The maids watching from afar sighed quietly, shaking their heads. "Poor Lucien… The young master's always picking on him."
But Lucien wasn't listening to pity. His lips twitched. Just slightly.
One of them whispered, "Oh no… he picked on him again."
"Should we—"
"Don't," another maid whispered quickly, tugging her sleeve. "You'll just make it worse."
Within seconds, they quietly slipped away, the sound of their slippers fading until only Lucien and the three young nobles remained.
Rian noticed. He liked that. He straightened, folding his arms arrogantly.
"Well?" Rian drawled. "Aren't you going to apologize for bumping into me?"
Lucien sighed softly, still crouched as he tucked another sheet into the basket. "My apologies, Young Master Rian," he said calmly.
That might have been enough — if he hadn't said it so bored.
Rian's nostrils flared. "Are you mocking me?"
Lucien blinked. "Was that not clear enough? I can say it slower, if you want."
A snicker escaped one of the minions, but he quickly stopped when Rian shot him a glare.
"You filthy little—!"
Rian's foot shifted, grinding harder into the cloth under him.
Lucien's eye twitched. The sheets were the house's best — clean, perfumed, and bleached under the sun. He'd spent hours washing them.
Rian noticed too late when Lucien said evenly, "Young Master, your boot is on my work."
Rian smirked. "Then pick another."
Lucien inhaled sharply through his nose, suppressing a very strong desire to shove that boot somewhere anatomically creative.
He forced a smile. "You know," he said sweetly, "it's funny. You always talk like you own the place. But last I checked, your father still owes the Duke's family five gold bars."
Rian froze. His expression twitched.
Lucien tilted his head. "Oh, don't look so surprised. Servants hear things. We carry more than trays, you know."
One of the lackeys coughed awkwardly. The other shuffled his feet.
Lucien reached for the last sheet again, only for Rian to dig his heel in deeper.
"Apologize properly," Rian ordered coldly.
Lucien stilled.
He looked up, eyes half-lidded, voice dangerously soft. "What?"
"Say it again," Rian ordered coldly. "Like you mean it." He smirked, clearly enjoying the sound of his own authority. "Or maybe you want to spend another night outside, hm? You little charity case."
Lucien's fingers twitched where they rested on the basket handle.
The air seemed to shift.
Even the two lackeys noticed the sudden change in his tone when Lucien finally spoke.
"Apologize?" he echoed, straightening slowly.
"For what? Breathing in the same air as His Glittering Highness?"
"Watch your mouth—"
"No, really," Lucien interrupted, wiping imaginary dust from his sleeve. "I'm dying to know. Should I apologize for existing? For touching the same floor you walk on? Or perhaps for the unholy crime of making you trip on your own arrogance?"
The lackeys stiffened.
Lucien took a step forward. His golden eyes glinted — sharp, amused, and distinctly unafraid. "Do you know what's funny, Rian?" he murmured, lowering his voice just enough to make the boy flinch. "Yesterday, when you tried to pour wine on me — how fast did you run when it 'accidentally' fell on you instead?"
Rian's face turned pale. "Y-you—"
Lucien crouched to eye level with him, tone too calm to be safe. "I'd hate for something like that to happen again, Young Master.
After all, accidents are so... unpredictable."
The silence stretched. Rian's minions exchanged terrified glances.
Lucien tilted his head with mock concern.
"You look pale. Are you sick? Should I fetch the royal physician? Oh wait—he's busy treating your father's debts."
Rian's jaw clenched. "You—!"
Lucien smiled faintly. "Me."
Then, before Rian could react, Lucien tugged sharply — pulling the sheet out from under his boot.
"Wha—AHH!"
The noble hit the ground with a satisfying thud. His two friends scrambled to help him up, their faces red with shock.
"Y-you'll regret that!" one of them stammered. "The Count won't forgive you! Apologize, now!"
Lucien paused, his hand hovering over the basket.
"Apologize?" he repeated, voice light, almost amused.
The air went cold.
"I think," he said quietly, "you three don't understand something."
He took one slow step toward them.
"When I said sorry earlier," Lucien continued conversationally, "that was me being polite. Not obedient."
Another step. The sound of his shoes echoed against the marble floor.
Rian's lip trembled. His two minions instinctively stepped back.
"And believe me," Lucien went on, voice dropping lower, a ghost of a smile on his lips, "I've survived worse than your spoiled tantrums. So unless you plan to kill me with your father's coin purse, I suggest you stop barking."
"Y-you—!"
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Or what? You'll hit me? Go ahead. But make sure you do it before I remind everyone about the missing wine cellar key."
The lackeys froze. One gasped audibly.
Lucien's grin widened. "Oh? You didn't think I noticed?"
Rian's eyes darted nervously. His voice came out small. "H-how did you—"
"I'm a servant," Lucien said simply. "It's my job to see what others ignore."
He turned slowly, golden eyes sharp as molten glass. "You know, I really didn't want to bother today," he said calmly, brushing dust off his sleeve. "But it seems you three never know when to stop."
The grin that followed was not friendly.
"Tell me," he continued, stepping closer, "how does it feel to be free-loading nobodies, hanging off the coat-tails of a pampered pig?"
All three froze.
Lucien's gaze flicked to Rian. "A pampered pig," he repeated, voice low and deliberate, "who's never worked a day in his life."
He crouched down slightly, his tone almost conversational now — too calm, too knowing.
"I'd hate," he whispered, "for what happened yesterday to happen again. You wouldn't want to continue our little game… would you, Young Master?"
Rian's face drained of color instantly. His breath caught, panic flashing in his eyes.
He scrambled to his feet, tripping over his own boots as he backed away.
"Y-you'll pay for this!" he shouted, before running down the hall, his followers stumbling after him.
Lucien blinked, then exhaled. "Well," he muttered, "that got rid of them."
He looked down at the sheet now smeared with a bootprint and groaned. "And now I have to wash it again."
Huh...
He stifled a cough, ignoring the faint taste of iron on his tongue. "Of course," he muttered, "my luck's terminal."
He wiped his mouth and gathered the rest of the laundry, Lucien adjusted the basket on his hip and trudged off toward the bathhouse.
It was only the first hour of the morning, and already, he'd fought nobility, ruined laundry, and gained another threat.
"Just a normal Tuesday," he sighed.