What are you doing? What are you doing?

What on earth are you two up to?

At this very moment, Christine on stage was outlining the Papal Dominion’s ten-year development plan—Cardinal Bishop Ron’s political ambitions, upcoming vacancies in Saint Louis, next year’s Holy Maiden election, and the Papal election after that.

Every detail mattered deeply to the hundreds seated below.

Only those who grasped this information could shape the future.

Everyone scribbled notes, weighing post-graduation paths.

But Siman’s focus stayed locked on Hale—and Letitia.

She’d noticed Letitia’s flushed cheeks earlier. Now they burned crimson, like boiled shrimp.

Thankfully, due to Letitia’s status, the vice principal had placed extra chairs at the very front.

From behind, Hale blocked the view.

From the stage, only Christine addressed the hall.

Meaning… if Hale *was* doing something questionable, no one would see.

Which was exactly why Siman sat here: to watch him. To stop him.

But now…

He actually *dared*?

What was he *doing*?

Siman’s eyes darted to Hale’s hands—*not* on Letitia. Ruled out.

So what *was* making Letitia’s face glow like that?

Could it be…

“?”

Argh!

The thought alone made Siman’s blood boil. She nearly drew her sword to sever *that thing* of his.

*No. Breathe.*

Cut it off, and House Faxius loses its heir.

But doing *this*—to House Childe’s little princess—in full view of the assembly?

What if Letitia settled the score after Theology Day…?

Wait.

*Letitia* had asked Hale first. Suggestively.

Did that mean… she was *willing*?

Could her cousin’s charm really be *that* potent? Even a legendary male incubus wouldn’t sway girls so easily.

They’d barely met. This intimacy should be their first.

Yet Letitia accepted it.

A pang of melancholy hit Siman. Memories surfaced:

A banquet years ago. Same table. Hale beside her—quiet, solemn, a little adult.

While other kids scrambled for strawberry cake, he silently sliced it into equal portions… minus one.

*His.*

The boy in black ate nothing.

Siman: “If you won’t eat it, give your piece to your big sister!”

Hale just glanced at her, passed a pre-cut watermelon slice.

“Give you extra, others complain. Here. Eat this.”

“Hmph! Give *me* yours! I’m mad! Call me ‘big sister,’ Hale! *Now!*”

“I won’t.”

He never had. Nor asked her to call *him* “big brother.”

She tugged his bowtie. “Will you?”

“Eat fast. Parents see us, we’re scolded.”

She refused to let go.

Alone in the private room after others left, she dropped her trump card:

“Don’t call me, I’ll say you molested me.”

Hale deadpanned: “Why molest a kid like you? You’re not even grown.”

“You’re the kid!”

At twelve or thirteen, no one admitted childhood. Siman had just started menstruating; noble girls compared bust sizes, flaunted “adult knowledge” for status.

Hearing Hale coldly call her “kid”… she panicked.

Mimicking courtesans from gossip, she tilted his chin, leaned her maid-perfected face close, kicked off her shoe, pressed her bare foot to his lap.

“To be honest,” Hale said, “I’m not into brats. But don’t push it, Siman.”

*Brat?* She didn’t get it. Hale always tossed odd words.

She pressed closer anyway.

Now? Mortifying.

Then he’d said: “Hike up your skirt too, and… maybe I’ll call you ‘big sister.’”

She did.

He kept his word.

*The root of all this.* Was he playing hard to get back then?

Or had he always been that quiet little adult… and *she* couldn’t accept how he changed after the scandal?

Siman snapped back.

*No.* Consensual or not—*not here*.

In her black-and-red plaid uniform, she stared at Letitia’s apple-red face, the faint squirm on Hale’s lap.

*Time to stop this.*

Before she could move—

Christine’s crisp voice cut through the hall:

“Now, let’s summarize my points and discuss the Black Knights Order’s rise over twenty years.”

“Student Hale—you’re captain of its Third Squad. Perfect choice, no?”

“If you falter… perhaps Miss Letitia, the Order’s patron, will answer.”

*Deliberate.*

Hale, fighting to keep his cool, felt Christine morph into a pressure monster.

He’d heard *nothing*. Knew Letitia hadn’t either.

Siman’s glare added sisterly weight.

Letitia’s lap-squirm added… other pressure.

Fail this answer? Trouble.

No one believed this spoiled rich kid could reply.

But Hale—the former player who once oversaw this entire world—had a secret weapon.