As far as Lilith knew, Mavis was the youngest son of Duke Fred’s household, with an exceptionally talented elder brother above him.
Ten years ago, the young Mavis had accompanied his father, Duke Fred, to the Royal Capital.
Since then, he had never returned to the Endless Mire beneath the Transverse Great Mountains.
“Mavis prefers the Royal Capital to living in my territory,” Duke Fred had said before departing for his domain, leaving the boy behind alone.
Mavis remained in the Royal Capital, solitary, for a full decade.
Though unconventional, his reason was impeccable—nobles fully understood.
After all, the Royal Capital was undeniably safer and more vibrant than the Endless Mire, where monster tides frequently surged.
“Lord Mavis, as the youngest son of House Fred, cannot inherit the dukedom or lands. Staying in the Royal Capital to enjoy life is far wiser than lingering on the perilous border of the Transverse Great Mountains.”
“Perhaps he might even win a noble lady’s favor and secure title and land through marriage.”
“His choice is wise. With that strikingly handsome face, no unmarried noble lady could resist his advances.”
Lilith had heard such remarks countless times.
Indeed, judging from overheard chatter among noble ladies, at least two-thirds of unmarried noblewomen in the Royal Capital adored Mavis’s face—most willing to marry him for it.
Had he wished, he could have chosen the perfect fiancée.
Yet Mavis never showed the slightest enthusiasm.
He scarcely engaged in non-ceremonial contact with any eligible noblewoman.
Upon reflection, he seemed to spend his days clinging to Maur.
Wherever Maur went, Mavis would swiftly—and “coincidentally”—appear.
Whatever Maur liked, Mavis would suddenly adore it too, then snatch it first.
When ignored, he’d even provoke outright…
Lilith, though uninterested, recalled several such incidents.
Once, after Maur announced a ball a full month ahead, Mavis hosted his own—same day, same hour—and poached every guest.
A blatant provocation. And Maur fell for it every time.
Countless incidents like this led nobles to joke that Maur, eldest son of the Violet Count’s household, and Mavis, youngest son of Duke Fred’s line, were “sworn enemies.”
—Childish, make-believe sworn enemies.
Ironically, these “enemies” exchanged perfectly thoughtful birthday gifts each year.
Lilith didn’t know Maur’s preferences—but Mavis did.
And Maur’s gift? A withered seed. Yet Mavis cherished it deeply; rumor said he’d nurtured it carefully for years.
‘Wait… didn’t Mor give him a dead seed? Just what has Mavis been feeling all this time…?’
Mor had only given that one gift.
Because Mavis seemed so delighted, an annoyed Mor never sent another.
For years, Lilith assumed it was mere childish rivalry.
Until the dressing room incident at House Decora.
…Mavis actually liked men.
And his affection was undeniably fixed on the unfortunate Maur.
‘No matter what, Mor is Athena’s fiancé.’
‘Both are male.’
‘…There is absolutely no possibility.’
‘And no further abnormal contact must ever occur.’
Having uncovered yet another secret, Lilith began monitoring them closely.
She would not interfere unless boundaries were crossed—and she must act unseen.
Especially from Athena. Not a whisper could reach her.
If Athena learned Mor was involved with someone else… disaster would follow.
The best solution now: send the strangely acting Maur back to Violet County Manor.
The Violet Count would handle it.
But midway, they collided with Mavis—clearly here for Maur.
‘Truly the worst possible person to meet.’
No—*exactly* why he was here.
Contact was now unthinkable.
In Maur’s current state, any interaction would expose him.
Today was the peak of the Initiate Festival; the academy swarmed with celebrating students.
Discovery would spark chaos.
Avoid everyone. Especially Mavis.
Lilith steeled herself, checked direction, and pulled Maur into a narrow alley.
Though her thoughts felt lengthy, mere seconds had passed.
Left unguided even briefly, Maur instinctively reached toward his discomfort.
He felt like exploding.
Before his hand touched anything, that dummy yanked him into a run—then carried him.
If lucid, he’d have struggled, shouting, “You bastard, put me down!”
But now, that dummy’s scent felt strangely comforting. He nuzzled her neck—only to find it stiff, unyielding… and faintly pumpkin-scented!
“…D-dummy!” he grumbled, irritation flickering through the haze.
Even foggy-minded, that stubborn instinct remained.
Lilith, dragging her dead weight while evading Mavis and his lackeys, had no time for his fidgeting.
Restricted by the pumpkin head and unopposed, Maur could only fumble clumsily across her body.
“D-don’t move, you idiot!” Lilith hissed, face flushed, shooting him a flustered glare.
No time.
“Seen anything here?”
“No.”
“Nothing here either.”
Girls’ voices. Lilith knew them—all members of Mavis’s hastily formed “Mor, Eldest Son of the Violet Count, Glory Fan Club.”
A teasing club… yet so many joined!
They were closing in.
But the girls only glanced from afar, not searching thoroughly…
Lilith spotted the only hiding spot—a half-open door.
No idea what lay beyond.
No choice. Delay meant discovery.
*Go.*
Clutching Maur, she charged resolutely through the unknown door.
