"Gergel," Angela said, her voice dropping instantly to ice. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh?" Gergel spread his hands wide, theatrical, offended—like a beloved celebrity being booed instead of an infection in shoes. "Is that how you greet me? Beautiful Angela, honestly—what do you mean? I heard our precious little Princess Aleria was injured, so of course I rushed over to see her. What's wrong with that?"
He didn't wait for permission.
He never waited for permission.
He waddled across the chamber, ignoring the tension thickening the air. Mira stepped in front of him on instinct, hands outstretched, small body rigid with defiance—but she might as well have been a sapling planted in an open field. Gergel simply sidestepped her without slowing, brushed past Angela's shoulder, and planted himself at the foot of the bed.
The mattress dipped violently as he dropped his entire sweaty existence onto it like it was a public bench.
Both maids froze.
Not because they wanted to—but because experience had taught them touching this man only made things worse.
Mira recovered first. Fury snapped her spine straight.
"Presumptuous!" she barked, hands on her hips. "How dare you sit on Her Highness's bed!"
Gergel didn't even dignify her with a look.
His eyes slid over her like she was a rabbit stamping its foot at a cart rolling downhill—irrelevant, noisy, already beneath notice.
Then his gaze sharpened.
Turned wet.
He looked at Aleria.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His tongue dragged across his lower lip as he smiled.
"Well hello there, Princess," he said softly. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."
Aleria shuddered.
Oh god, her brain supplied automatically. That's—
Then she remembered.
Right. I'm a girl.
The correction landed like a slap.
Annoyingly, that realization snapped her focus back into place. Pain forgotten, disgust doing its job, she pushed herself upright against the headboard, spine stiff despite the throb in her skull.
Gergel leaned closer.
Too close.
He inspected her like a butcher evaluating meat—eyes roaming without shame, lingering where they shouldn't, testing the curve of her mouth like it was something he planned to own eventually.
There was no concern in him.
No relief.
Just appetite.
Aleria's pulse hammered as confusion caught fire in her chest.
Who was this man?
And more importantly—
How was someone like this allowed to speak to a Princess like she was furniture?
Gergel reached out.
He didn't ask.
He didn't hesitate.
His thick, greasy hand came down on Aleria's leg through the fur blanket, heavy enough that the mattress dipped. Despite his size, there was strength there—ugly, practical strength. His grip locked her in place like a clamp, fingers tightening until her muscles screamed and her breath caught.
Aleria froze.
Not because she wanted to.
Because something old and animal inside her had decided that moving would make it worse.
She pressed herself back against the headboard, spine flat, breath shallow. His hand didn't follow—didn't need to. It stayed where it was, owning the space, owning the moment. His eyes burned as they dragged over her, slow and proprietary, like he was inventorying something he already believed belonged to him.
"Such a shame," Gergel murmured, voice low and intimate in the way only predators used. "You've come of age this year… and yet you still refuse me."
His grip tightened.
"But why?" he asked softly. "Why deny me, little Princess? Let me help you. Let me support you." His smile widened, oily and assured. "One indulgence. That's all I ask. And in return, I lend my magical strength to your men. I defend your precious little kingdom. I make all your problems… disappear."
Aleria's heart slammed against her ribs.
She looked around wildly.
Angela stood rigid, pale, hands clenched at her sides. Mira's mouth trembled, eyes locked on Gergel's hand like it was a weapon she couldn't disarm. There were no guards. No intervention. No miracle waiting in the doorway.
Just her.
And him.
Gergel leaned closer, invading her space until his shadow swallowed her. His gaze dipped deliberately, lingering, assessing—making it painfully clear what kind of "help" he was offering.
"How about you come with me this afternoon?" he said lightly. "Distinguished company. Comfort. Safety." His thumb pressed in just enough to remind her he could hurt her if he chose. "You wouldn't have to stay here. You wouldn't have to face the black banners. I could take you far away from all this."
Aleria's blood boiled.
This wasn't negotiation.
This was ownership being asserted.
She shoved at his arm—harder than she thought she could—but it barely moved. Her body was light. Too light. Built for running, not for fighting. The unfairness of it hit her all at once—hot, blinding, obscene.
She had been a man.
She wasn't supposed to lose like this.
Her hand moved before her mind finished screaming.
SLAP.
The sound cracked through the chamber like a whip.
Gergel froze.
Slowly, almost curiously, he lifted his hand to his cheek. His eyes went wide—not with pain, but with disbelief. A bright red handprint bloomed against his flushed skin.
Angela went utterly still.
Mira sucked in a sharp breath.
They stared at Aleria the way you stared at something that had just broken the laws of nature—like a dog standing up and politely asking to use the toilet.
Gergel touched his cheek slowly, reverently, as if checking whether reality itself had cracked.
"You…" he whispered, voice thin with disbelief. "You bitch. You hit me?"
Aleria scrambled upright, boots sinking into the mattress as she stood on the bed like a furious gargoyle. She shook her fist at him, words tumbling out too fast, too sharp, her voice pitched high and wild—pure chipmunk rage.
"You disgusting pig!" she shrieked. "You dare touch me? I'll fuck you up so badly you won't walk straight for the rest of your miserable life!"
She didn't even know where the words were coming from—half panic, half instinct, the kind of threats a half-drunk streamer spat when someone crossed a line on camera.
But it landed.
Gergel slid off the bed and straightened, face trembling. Not fear—not yet—but rage trying to force its way through a body too soft to contain it. His jowls quivered. Veins stood out on his neck. He pointed at her with a shaking finger, like the gesture itself might restore order.
"How dare you!" he roared, louder and louder, like volume could rewind time. "You worthless little—how dare you slap me?!"
Aleria didn't answer.
She just stared back, chest heaving, skin crawling, the violation still buzzing under her ribs. She felt small. Alone. Trapped in a room where power had clearly never been on her side.
Something sharpened inside her.
Either this man was protected…
Or this kingdom was so rotten that its Princess could be handled like property in her own bed.
Angela stepped forward, spine straight, voice cutting like ice dropped into glass.
"Enough, Gergel. You are the son of a mere secretary. How dare you be so disrespectful to the Princess?"
The words hit harder than her tone.
Even Aleria felt it—mere secretary. Not noble. Not blooded. Just a parasite riding borrowed influence.
Gergel heard it too.
His face twisted.
The smile died.
He rolled up his sleeves slowly, deliberately, eyes locking onto Angela with something dark and murderous.
Angela and Mira moved without thinking—two women stepping forward, bodies tense, trying to place themselves between him and the bed.
It didn't matter.
Gergel backhanded them both in quick succession.
The blows landed wet and loud.
The maids flew sideways, hitting the floor hard. Hair came loose. Cheeks swelled almost instantly. Mira cried out and crumpled, sobbing openly. Angela sucked in a sharp breath, teeth clenched, pain flashing across her face as she struggled to stay upright.
"Mira!" Angela gasped.
Gergel turned back to Aleria, breathing heavy, eyes bright with enjoyment.
"Beautiful Aleria," he purred. "Why waste yourself here, waiting to be taken by enemies? Look at me. Look at what I can do." He gestured casually to the maids on the floor. "I could take whatever I want in this room… but I've chosen you."
He stepped closer again.
"You haven't even sat properly on the throne yet," he went on, voice oily. "And now the fortress is under siege. You need someone who can rule. Someone with power."
He reached for her again.
Aleria's breath hitched.
Then her eyes caught something beside the bed.
Metal.
Her breastplate.
She didn't think.
She moved.
Her hands closed around the plate, and she swung it like a brick.
BANG.
The impact was ugly and satisfying. Metal met flesh with a dull, meaty thunk. Blood burst instantly from Gergel's forehead, dark red against pale skin. He yelped, staggered, and went down hard between the two maids, legs folding like they'd forgotten their purpose.
Angela and Mira scrambled away on hands and knees, wide-eyed, shaking, fleeing from him like startled animals.
Aleria stood on the bed, breastplate raised like a shield, breath tearing in and out of her lungs. She looked down at him with pure, feral satisfaction.
"How dare you hit my maids," she snapped. "How dare you talk to me like I'm something you can take."
She stomped on the mattress—part rage, part desperate attempt to feel bigger.
"You're nothing," she shouted. "Some low-class mage with a fat mouth and borrowed power! I should throw you in chains—or better yet, beat you until you can't even wipe your own—"
She stopped.
A thought cut through the noise.
Wait.
How powerful are mages?
And how is a Princess actually supposed to talk?
Gergel pushed himself upright, half-sprawled on the floor, blood dripping into his eyes. He stared at Aleria like he was seeing a stranger.
The rage crystallized.
He raised his hand.
And began to chant.
The words were thick and harsh, ancient syllables scraping the air like flint on stone. Heat coiled above his palm. A red glow bloomed—swelling, pulsing—condensing into a fist-sized orb of fire.
The temperature in the chamber spiked. The scent of hot metal and drying wood filled Aleria's nose.
Gergel smiled, teeth bared.
"Princess?" he sneered. "Camelot may be yours… but you're still just a girl."
The fire flared brighter.
"You dared to defy me," he said softly. "Now you will witness the wrath of a noble mage."
Aleria's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Wait.
Is he actually—
Her modern brain—wired for cops, cameras, lawsuits, and the comforting lie that physics always won—completely short-circuited.
Holy shit.
The fat bastard is actually a wizard. Like, honest-to-god, fantasy-novel, World of Warcraft, fire-in-the-hand wizard.
She looked around wildly, heart slamming so hard it hurt, scanning for anything—a blade, a chair, a candlestick, a conveniently placed destiny artifact.
Nothing.
Just blood. Shattered dignity. Two injured maids. And—
The breastplate.
The breastplate suddenly felt… optimistic. Like holding a trash-can lid during a shooting and telling yourself it was basically the same thing.
"Even if it's a duel," Aleria muttered, voice thin and cracking, "at least give me a sword—"
Nothing answered.
No system message.
No heroic music.
No glowing weapon descending from the heavens.
Just her.
And a fireball.
Panic slammed fully into place.
Fine.
If she was going to die, she was going to die loud.
Aleria threw her head back and screamed—raw, desperate, unfiltered—loud enough to rattle banners and shake dust from the stonework.
"GUARDS! GUARDS! ASSASSIN! SOMEONE'S TRYING TO KILL—ME!"
The word Princess never made it out.
Gergel laughed.
Not a villain laugh.
A tired, indulgent one—like a man amused by a child throwing a tantrum in a room where the locks had already been set.
"It's no use," he said almost gently. "No one will come."
His hand flicked.
Casual. Lazy. Effortless.
The fireball launched.
It tore through the air like a cannon shot—bright red, roaring, alive—heat washing over Aleria's face an instant before impact. The chamber lit up in hellish orange, shadows leaping across the walls like they were trying to escape first.
Time fractured.
This isn't real—
I'm going to die—
This is a stupid way to die—
The fire closed the distance.
Fast.
Hungry.
Straight for her face.
And Aleria lifted the breastplate on pure instinct, teeth clenched, scream caught in her throat—
As the world braced to decide whether she was about to become ash…
—or something far worse was about to happen instead.