Holding the forged documents, Evelia slipped seamlessly into the new batch of servants at the Knights Order captain’s residence. Every detail of her disguise had been personally arranged by the Second Prince—flawless and airtight. He’d even secured her the role of Captain Arman’s personal maid, perfect for her mission.
All servants had gathered in the manor at dawn, awaiting their new master. The lavish decor silently proclaimed Captain Arman’s rising influence.
Evelia stood at the very front, her position granting her pride of place. She’d spent one full day mastering noble maid etiquette, two more memorizing every “colleague’s” details. The schedule left no time to adjust to her body’s changes. Though the manners were ingrained, her posture remained slightly stiff.
“Welcome, master of the manor, Arman Sistalia,” the elderly butler announced. The moment the grand doors swung open, every servant bowed deeply.
A man with short black hair stepped in, backlit by morning sun. His tall frame cast a fleeting shadow—ominous, heavy with presence.
“Haha, no need to be so stiff! What’s with the grand welcome? It’s just moving in,” he chuckled. In an instant, the battlefield commander’s pressure melted away, replaced by a relaxed tone that eased the air around him.
Believing everyone deserved honest conversation, Arman held no rule against servants meeting his eyes. Hearing his voice, the new hires curiously lifted their heads, eager to glimpse the legendary Knights Order captain.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Arman Sistalia. I skipped the political games, so no royal title for me. No need for stiff protocols—I’m just a rough guy. Call me Arman, or Captain. Whichever feels right.”
He waved cheerfully, his grin revealing sharp canines. He looked nothing like the feared battlefield legend—more like the warm, approachable older brother you’d meet in youth.
Evelia observed him alongside the others. Portraits she’d seen were stiff official shots; meeting him face-to-face was entirely different. That formal image, weighed down by lists of honors, had made this infiltration feel daunting. Yet seeing the real man, she secretly let out a breath of relief.
He was under thirty—tall, but not brutishly so. A lively youthfulness radiated from him, like a bright-eyed “young man.” His black hair lacked royal gold’s flash; his clear blue eyes felt refreshingly pure. His brows and smile stayed gently curved, even his lashes notably long.
No wonder noble maidens swooned. To appearance-focused admirers, Arman’s face was unmatched in aristocratic circles. And that genuine warmth? Impossible for scheming politicians to fake.
His outfit confirmed he disliked fuss: white shirt beneath a gray trench coat, his trusted sword at his waist. Not a single ornament—on him or the blade. Utterly plain. Yet even in simplicity, his charm shone unmistakably.
Evelia watched with quiet purpose. The other maids? Already captivated by his sunny, open-hearted smile.
The butler introduced each servant. Arman, clearly terrible with names, nodded awkwardly, likely sorting roles only by uniform.
“This is Evelia Crozier, your personal maid here. Any daily matters may be entrusted to her.”
“Pink hair? How unusual,” Arman chuckled, eyes fixed on her striking locks. Unlike the flustered maids before her, Evelia simply bowed her head.
“Greetings, Lord Sistalia. I am your personal maid, Evelia Crozier.”
“No need for such formality. I said—call me by name. I hate rigid hierarchies at home.”
He flashed her that blindingly warm smile. Evelia almost felt sparkles shimmering over her head.
“Then… Arman—sir?”
“Just ‘Mister’ is fine. ‘Lord’ makes me sound ancient.”
“Yes, Mr. Arman.”
Protocol dictated the tour should begin after her introduction. Yet Arman lingered, smiling cheerfully right before her. That radiant grin felt like staring into a personal sun. *When will this “human sun” set?* If she were still male, matching his height, the heat on her scalp wouldn’t feel so intense.
“Is there anything else you need…?”
Flustered by his overwhelming cheer, she lifted her gaze—amber-gold eyes meeting the man she might one day have to assassinate.
“Nothing. Just… never seen pink hair before. Couldn’t help looking.”
He laughed carefree, as if utterly without guile.
“Pink isn’t that rare…”
“It’s beautiful.”
“…” Taken aback, she murmured, “Thank you for the compliment.”
“You look younger than the rest. How old?”
“I am of age, sir.”
“Clever answer. Your surname again? Which family?”
“Evelia Crozier. Merely a commoner’s daughter.”
“Reaching this post as a commoner’s daughter? That took grit. You’ve worked hard.”
“No hardship. Higher post, higher pay—that’s all.”
“Haha! Honest. I like your straightforwardness, Evelia. Choosing you was the right call.”
“…Thank you for your kindness.”
Arman laughed warmly, patting her petite shoulder like a soldier under his command. Evelia stayed silent, listening, feeling the deliberately gentle pressure. Then—a soft sigh, as if acknowledging her unseen journey.
After he turned away, Evelia lifted her head slightly, watching his retreating figure. Amid the servants’ excited whispers, she fell into quiet thought.
