Roy had wanted to say—"No, you came at just the right moment."

But his pure-hearted maid would only take those words as mockery.

The opposite effect.

Besides, Roy already carried a quiet guilt toward his Elven Maid.

So now, he chose not to argue.

The boy simply lowered his gaze—eyes clear and deer-like, yet clouded with emotion.

Isabella’s lips pressed into a thin line.

She knew her master well. This was his signal to play pitiful.

The boy wielded his charms effortlessly, especially with older sisters.

As for "apologizing"?

Hmph. Impossible.

What Demon King ever apologized to a maid…

Wait.

…Actually, there *was* one.

Isabella’s expression flickered, distant for a heartbeat.

………………

Before Isabella became Roy’s maid,

she was merely spoils of war—a "thing" won by the Dread Demon King, Her Majesty Serasia.

A birthday gift for her child.

All because her son had casually murmured, *"I’d love to see an Elven girl…"*

After all, when imagining another world, golden-haired, fair-skinned elf maidens came to mind first.

Roy was no exception.

But who could have known?

The speaker meant nothing by it.

The listener took it to heart.

Serasia immediately resolved to gift her son the most beautiful maiden of the Elvenfolk!

For her child deserved only the best.

That night, on Roy’s birthday,

the young elf girl was bound head to toe in crimson silk ribbons—tightened over every delicate curve.

Presented as a "gift," she was placed upon the Demon Prince’s bed.

Isabella couldn’t move. Couldn’t struggle.

Beyond tears streaming from her pale-gold, lifeless eyes,

the child couldn’t utter a single coherent sentence.

Only faint, dying-bird whimpers escaped her throat:

*"Whimper… whimper…"*

Curled on the boy’s soft bed,

even her proud, pointed ears drooped limply.

She waited in despair for an unknown fate.

Finally—*click*.

The door opened.

Light footsteps approached.

Isabella trembled violently.

Eyes squeezed shut, she sought safety in blindness.

If she didn’t see…

the horrors, the torment, the violation…

perhaps they wouldn’t exist.

*Mother…*

*Why… why did you abandon me?*

*Was it my fault?*

That moment was Isabella’s deepest despair—a life buried under endless storm clouds, light forever lost.

Yet she never imagined—

though she couldn’t see the light,

a beam would pierce the darkness… for her.

A flustered, blushing boy stood frozen, staring.

Stammering, he finally choked out:

—"*A-apologies!*"

—"*I-I think I entered the wrong room!*"

Yes. His very first words to her were:

"*Sorry.*"

Later, Roy realized he hadn’t entered the wrong room.

Palace maids explained Isabella was his mother’s gift.

His expression? Troubled, more than delighted.

He knew of that war.

Knew the price the Demonfolk paid for victory.

Knew even his mother—the Demon King herself—had donned armor on a battlefield where even kings could fall.

So he’d never naively say, *"You’re free to go."*

Isabella was his mother’s spoils.

Her fate was hers to decide.

He could only accept… and thank her.

Even if her "affection" sometimes shocked him…

And truthfully, being gifted to him—the prince—rather than to battle-hardened generals?

For her, it truly was the gentlest fate.

Roy wasn’t boasting.

Amidst the Demonfolk, he was the sole white lotus rising unstained from the mud.

Modern ideals of equality had shaped him, after all.

His moral baseline?

Enough to make the Church canonize him as a saint in this world.

Thus began Roy and Isabella’s first meeting:

One night.

One room.

One bed.

His first words to her?

A respectful apology.

That night,

Roy obeyed his mother’s arrangement and shared the bed with Isabella.

But he harmed neither her trembling body nor her fragile spirit.

Instead, he untied the ribbons binding her small frame.

Soothed her with gentle words.

Though trust came slowly—Isabella refused to yield an inch—

after Roy fell asleep,

he never knew

the young elf girl watched his sleeping face,

wide-eyed through the night.

No one knew her thoughts then.

Only later, when Roy presented a tiny maid dress,

she didn’t resist.

Like a delicate doll awaiting adornment,

she accepted it.

………………

Now, another night.

Another room.

But not the same bed.

A slight regret.

Infuriatingly, that bed held another woman—sound asleep, alluring.

Yet like a mirror of that past scene,

Roy spoke to Isabella:

"Sorry, Isabella."

"I didn’t consider your feelings when I left without word."

"I worried you."

His tone held no kingly arrogance—only sincerity.

He knew right from wrong; no one was infallible.

In his eyes, Isabella was never a dignity-less servant to command.

More than a maid—or his mother’s joking "childhood fiancée"—

Roy saw her as his childhood friend.

A tsundere, gentle childhood friend.

Beneath her cool surface burned a fiercely loyal heart.

"……"

Isabella’s thoughts snapped back to the present.

Hearing her master’s words,

a stubborn blush spread across her cheeks.

To hide it, she turned her face away—silver hair cascading like a waterfall toward Roy, who had silently slipped from Elsa’s bed.

He even tucked the blanket tighter around Elsa, shielding her exposed skin.

*If Isabella weren’t here,* he thought, *I’d add a gentleman’s farewell kiss…*

*But with her watching?*

*Better not tempt death.*

"I-I’m not blaming you, Master!"

"Don’t say such things… I don’t deserve it."

"Just seeing you safe is enough for me."

"Yes. That’s all I need!"

*—A lie to convince her own heart.*

Roy smiled faintly.

His childhood Elven Maid was so easy to read.

Even the hem of her maid dress—shortened just enough to reveal a glimpse of thigh—gave her away.

He stepped lightly toward the nearly-forgiving maid.

His hand settled naturally on Isabella’s slender, sensitive waist.

"…!"

The sudden warmth against her waist

made her shiver violently.

In that trembling touch,

Isabella understood again—shamefully, undeniably—

her body…

had long since become

utterly dependent on Master Roy.