Mavis, that bastard! How dare he treat *me* like a plaything for his amusement!

Maur seethed, feeling actual flames about to shoot from his head.

He vowed—tonight, he’d teach Mavis a harsh lesson.

Make that guy shrink back and shout “Lord Maur!” in fear every time their paths crossed.

Since Mavis was allergic to rose pollen, Maur’s plan was simple: have Daina prepare roses early, then decorate the entire ballroom for the evening gala. Winter roses were rare. Offered freely? Count Decora of House Decora wouldn’t refuse such lavish decor. And as the youngest son of Duke Fred’s line, Mavis *had* to appear at the ball’s start—skipping it would insult House Decora’s prestige. His reputation would plummet. Knowing Mavis’s two-faced nature, he’d endure the allergy rather than miss the spotlight. *Exactly* what Maur wanted.

Ah~ Just look! The true face behind that deceitful, pretty mask!

How would the nobles—blinded by his looks—react when they saw him flushed with rashes? Without that flawless charm, how would Mavis keep playing the pitiful victim?

Thrilled by the imminent humiliation of his rival, Maur barely endured House Decora’s morning tea and afternoon art exhibition.

Finally—night fell. The gilded ballroom glittered; nobles filled the hall.

Maur scanned the crowd… and spotted Mavis.

True to his morning boast, Mavis had avoided him all day. *Playing scared.*

But Maur knew—he was lurking somewhere, smirking at *him*, plotting fresh tricks.

Little did Mavis know what awaited *him* tonight.

Per tradition, Count Decora gave a brief speech before the first dance.

Smiling gracefully, he added, “Actually… I have a surprise for you all.”

Two soft claps. Servants in black filed in, baskets of roses in hand.

“Oh! Such stunning roses!”

“In winter?! Where did Lord Decora find them?”

“Surely only a fairy’s garden blooms so vividly in snow. What thoughtfulness!”

Maur sneered inwardly. *House Decora?* Couldn’t afford this. Winter roses in bulk equaled a minor county’s quarterly taxes. *He* paid. His private savings halved. No new formalwear for a month.

Worth it. All worth it.

And sure enough—while nobles marveled, Mavis stood rigid, lips pressed tight, face pale with displeasure.

“What’s wrong, Mavis?” Maur couldn’t hide his glee. He strode over, looming. “The Fred family crest is a rose. Shouldn’t the duke’s son *rejoice* at roses?”

Nobles’ eyes flicked toward them. For the first time, Mavis felt needles pricking his spine.

“N-no… I adore roses.”

“But I feel stifled. I’ll step out for air.”

Maur studied him. Pale. Sweating slightly. *Why no reaction? Not enough pollen?*

No matter. He’d stocked the dressing room too.

“The ball hasn’t begun. Leaving now? Unbecoming for a duke’s son.” Maur feigned offense, raising his glass. “At least share a drink first.”

Mavis forced a smile, lifting his glass.

*Now!*

Maur “slipped.” His glass brushed Mavis’s—wine splashed across that pristine formalwear.

“Oops. Hand slipped.”

Apology in words, provocation blazing in his eyes.

Normally, Mavis would’ve teared up, playing victim.

Not today. Face ashen, sweat beading his brow, he whispered, “It’s fine. I’ll change.”

He brushed off a servant and strode toward the dressing room.

*Perfect.*

Maur’s triumphant smirk broke free. He snapped his fingers.

His fox-girl follower materialized like a shadow.

“Lord Maur? Your command?” she murmured, ears twitching.

“Confirm—the dressing room has enough rose pollen?”

Her chestnut-red ears flicked; a fiery tail peeked from her gown, swishing nervously.

“Y-yes! I used Swamp Rose pollen—the most fragrant kind, just as you ordered…”

“Excellent.” *Any rose that humiliates him is a good rose.*

“New order: Block *everyone* from the dressing room. No one enters but me.”

Her eyes glowed with devotion. “Yes, Lord Maur! I’ll guard it with my life.”

No interruptions. Time to witness the spectacle.

Maur swaggered toward the dressing room, Memory Stone ready. *Record every rash. Every tear.* Future blackmail, perfected.

Rose scent thickened near the door.

He cracked it open, aiming the Stone inside.

“Huh? Where’s Mavis?”

Pitch black. Empty?

He pushed in.

*Something soft. Slimy.*

He snapped his fingers—five fireballs bloomed, casting flickering light.

(Elite mage, remember? Fireball? Child’s play.)

Beneath his feet: thick purple tentacles, each as thick as a baby’s arm. Plump, mouth-like suckers dotted their surfaces.

“!!!”

“M-monster! The dressing room’s full of monsters!”

Tentacles carpeted floor, walls, ceiling—writhing, thickening like hungry roots.

Maur shrieked, dropping the Stone, scrambling back—

Too late. They coiled his limbs, gagged his mouth, hoisted him high.

He cast fire spells. *Nothing.* Not a scorch mark.

“Mmm! Damn you! Get—*get off*!”

Fabric tore. *They’re stripping me?!*

A ragged, breathless voice rose from the writhing mass:

“What a… fool… Maur.”

The tentacles parted.

Golden curls. Ruby-red eyes.

A face Maur knew too well.

M… Mavis?