“Decided where to go?” Dawn hadn’t even grayed the windows; Vivian was already at the door, a ribbon of night silk blocking his way.
“Golden Bay City, or Maple City. North first, either way.” Lance, who’d crashed at the duke’s keep, opened the door and let the words drift like smoke.
“Eh? Really?” Vivian sounded faintly disappointed, like dew sliding off a petal.
The elf maiden breezed in, a nightdress like moonlight clinging to her. She treated the velvet double bed as a couch and settled like a swan.
Bare shoulders and a swan’s neck drank the cool air; two pale legs swung like willow branches, spilling a clean, green scent that seeped into the heart.
To Fulin’s eyes, that carefree pose was a steaming dish hopping onto the platter—reckless and fragrant—and it made her itch like ants under bark.
But under the itch came silence; Fulin felt speechless, like wind hitting a blank wall of stone.
Lance frowned, a thin frost on his brow. “Miss Vivian, it’s still before dawn. Coming like this isn’t proper.”
Vivian eyed his still-formal attire and spoke lazily, her voice a cat’s paw. “Why not? If I didn’t come and Alice showed up, you might do something heinous.”
“So I’m here to stop a crime.” She smiled like a crescent moon. “Lance Morrison, having a noble Celestial Spirit supervise you in bed is an honor. Hurry and thank me.”
Fulin’s mind flashed giant question marks, like a glitching signboard, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Truth was, Fulin had no idea what the elf planned, yet she had work to do. She let Vivian in and returned to the desk like a crane to a reed bed.
“Then I’ll trouble you to supervise, Miss Vivian.” Lance set a fresh candle to the brass, a small sun blooming in wax, and kept writing.
Minutes slid by like thin rain. Vivian rolled on the bed, either under the sheet like a playful cat or wrapped in the blanket like a cocoon.
Whether tired of rolling or bored of silence, she drifted to the desk. Her face leaned close, breath sweet as honeyed tea. “Aren’t you leaving today?”
“Not seeing Alice one last time?” Her eyes shone like lake water. “What are you writing? Let me see.”
The candle was too dim, a weak ember. Vivian simply snatched the parchment, quick as a sparrow taking a crumb.
“Hey!” The grab came without warning. His quill nearly snapped, a bird-bone bending to break. Anger rose like fire, then sank like a stone.
He swallowed it for her noble Celestial Spirit status. “Read it, then give it back.”
“No.” Vivian’s grin was impish, a fox-tail flick. “Your handwriting’s ugly.”
“You—” Lance sighed, letting the heat leak like steam. It wasn’t good temper; Fulin felt a small, dark urge thump like a drum: brew elf juice if she kept it up.
“Alright, don’t be mad.” Vivian’s tone turned soft, a warm breeze. “Your letters are too ugly. I rewrote it for you.”
“Rewrote?” Lance’s anger cooled like quenched iron, replaced by puzzled mist.
Vivian handed the parchment back. The crooked Nordland common script had turned fluid and neat, like a girl’s hand flowing as a stream.
Fulin noticed Vivian held no pen, like a magician with empty hands. Lance asked, curious as a cat, “Is that a kind of spell?”
“It can be, or not.” Vivian shook her head, a lily swaying. “Lance, didn’t you learn in church classes?”
“No.” Lance answered cleanly, shameless as bare rock under sun.
Vivian began to lecture, her tone high as a ridge. “Elves among Celestial Spirits are noble, born under nature’s grace, and we excel at mana control.”
“What I showed you is the Hand of Nature. I guided mana like wind through reeds and straightened your letters.”
“They were twisted like your human nature.” Her smile bit like frost. “Now they’re graceful, like mine—clear as brook water.”
“Count this and last night when I helped you with that writing scroll at the banquet.” Her fingers tapped like rain. “You owe me favors.”
“So worship me properly and thank me properly. Got it?”
Fulin’s temper prickled, a thorny vine climbing. Did this elf have to ride so high?
But she breathed, cool as shade. Elves stood high by right, and she had helped last night—Hand of Nature, a proof written like light.
“What do you want?” Lance kept patience like a tethered horse. He feared a heavy price and added a hedge.
“Not anything too expensive. The duke only gave me sixty gold mana coins.”
He spread the coins on the table, cold suns in a line, wearing the look of a drama scumbag who can’t pay his breakup fee.
Vivian, inspector and Celestial Spirit, didn’t lack money. She didn’t spare the coins a glance, like a queen passing pebbles. “Fool.”
“You think money can satisfy me?”
Lance raised a hand, helpless as driftwood. “Then what do you want me to do?”
“The duke gave me travel funds, but I’m basically exiled. I can’t give you much.”
Vivian lifted one slender finger, a white reed pointed at him, and her smile curved like a hook. “I want you.”
“What?!” Lance jolted, a deer in sudden torchlight.
“You’ve got nowhere to go.” Vivian’s voice flowed like water. “Your ‘Short-term and Long-term Plan’ is dumb and fussy.”
“Just follow me.” Her words rang like bells. “Sign a contract as my personal, exclusive attendant.”
“Come back to the Silver Moon Forest with me. I guarantee your days will taste sweet.”
Fulin’s heart creased, worry rustling like dry leaves. A personal, exclusive attendant sounded like a glorified lapdog on a silk leash.
And a contract meant more than a pet collar; it meant burdens and binding, a workdog with law on its back.
Forget the trope of a rich lady falling for me; dreams are sugar that melt in rain. A bonded laborer is still a slave under a ribbon.
If she wound up in a grind worse than her past life’s nine-to-nine, six days a week, how could she keep peace like still water?
Worse, exhaustion frays temper like rope; if she snapped and her hunting instincts surged, her true form might break through like storm.
Then the elf juice would come by the liter, and trouble would spill like a flood. That road led to chaos.
The answer was clear as frost. Lance, played by Fulin, spoke cleanly. “Miss Vivian, your terms sound great, but allow me to refuse.”
