“Wh-What?!” Roland froze.

“I said,” Silva offered a shy smile, “let’s check into a room.”

“You’re joking, right?!” Roland swallowed hard.

“Of course not. Since we’re already out, I want to try staying at an inn—I’ve never done it before.” Silva locked eyes with him, squinting playfully, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. “You didn’t… misunderstand me, did you?”

“How could I possibly!” Roland declared firmly, thumping his chest. “As a model youth of the new era—a gentleman of integrity, a straight-A student—my mind is filled with nothing but pure thoughts!”

“But if I recall,” Silva beamed sweetly, “you *do* enjoy telling risqué jokes in taverns~ According to my research, wherever you go, you spin lewd tales in local taverns. You gained massive popularity, becoming one of the Human Empire’s most famous bards… though many peers seem to disdain you.”

“Uh…” Roland scratched his head awkwardly, words failing him.

“Come on, go change first,” Silva urged.

…

“Should I… take that step?” Roland lay spread-eagled on the plush bed of the upscale couple’s inn, the shower’s murmur sending his thoughts spiraling.

Silva was bathing—and he was vividly imagining it.

An impossibly cute girl, her flawless body bare, graceful silhouette faintly visible through steam. Droplets tracing soft skin. Utterly vulnerable…

Any man would rush in and do something indecent. Roland weighed it again and again.

“If I act, I’ll *definitely* have to marry Silva. But I don’t want marriage—I still want to roam free…”

“But if I don’t… is that even manly?!”

Reason versus instinct! A brutal inner war!

“Marrying Silva isn’t bad. She’s perfect in every way—a stellar match. Post-wedding? Lavish spending, a decadent life of luxury, no two nights alike…”

“But then… no more roaming.

Compared to that endless cycle of passion and spending, adventure is far more thrilling…”

After a grueling mental battle, reason won. Roland resolved: *Be a paragon of chastity. A true gentleman unmoved by temptation.*

Creak.

The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out. Silva stepped forth wrapped in a towel. Roland’s vision blurred—*a beauty fresh from the bath always stirs the soul*, especially one as elegant and radiant as Silva.

The towel clung to fair skin, tracing soft, alluring curves. The swell of her chest, the delicate collarbone—making him ache to pull her close.

“D-Don’t… stare like that…” Flustered by his heated gaze, Silva covered herself, face flushed.

Exposed snow-white legs, tender pink shoulders, her subtle fragrance, that shy blush—she’d never looked more tempting.

Roland swallowed. Primordial urges surged, threatening to break loose.

*Hold on! Hold on!!*

“P-Please… don’t look…” Silva whispered, voice mosquito-soft, cheeks burning, utterly captivating.

Seeing her like this, something primal surged within him. Rationality crumbled, inch by inch.

*Too much allure! I can’t hold back!*

*I’m done being a gentleman!!!*

Roland stepped close. One hand circled her slender waist; the other gently lifted her chin.

“Eep…” A tiny, startled squeak escaped Silva—she never expected this.

That sound shattered his last restraint. He leaned down, lips nearing hers—

—Until a violent force slammed him backward onto the bed.

Pain jolted him awake. Chest throbbing, he couldn’t move.

“Silva, you—” His words died.

Gone was the blushing girl. Before him stood icy composure, a confident smirk curling her lips. An aura of regal frost radiated—utterly unlike her gentle self.

“Damn… time to pay the magical dues?” Roland instantly understood.

Earlier, Silva had been cursed by an evil mage, near death. Roland happened to pass by and lifted it using a lost forbidden spell—accidentally forging a magical contract.

One troublesome clause: Silva must periodically replenish *his* magic (“pay the dues”). Fail, and her personality flips—from the gentle, graceful princess into a cold, ruthless queen. Same memories. Different soul. Roland had glimpsed this side before:

Cold. Dominant. Fierce. Calm. Unyielding. Decisive.

Post-shift, her power skyrocketed: Archmage to Grand Sage—skipping a full rank.

Worse, she developed an addictive craving for his magic. When replenishment neared, she’d hunt him relentlessly.

And now—just as he leaned in—her cycle triggered. Queen Silva emerged. And struck.

She approached the bed. Taller. Matured. Radiating queenly authority.

The tiny towel barely contained her: snow-white curves, shapely hips spilling free.

Silva crawled onto the bed, straddling him. Damp hair brushed his cheek as she stared down, eyes glacial.

“That slap was punishment for your insolence.” A faint, commanding smile touched her lips. Her voice, sharp and authoritative, left no room for debate:

“Now. Hand over your magic.”