"Phew…"

Finally done touring this massive manor. Arman waved the servants away, let out a sigh of relief, tugged his shirt collar loose, and hung his coat on the rack inside.

"How do you feel? This is *your* manor—royally approved. Look at the furniture, the decor, even a huge training ground. Hang the Crown Prince’s banner here, and it’s pure majesty."

The old butler gazed at Arman seated on the bed’s edge, eyes warm with pride—as if watching a child finally come into his own. He fondly recalled how this wandering youth had clawed his way up to lead the Knights Order in barely over a decade.

"Yeah, yeah… That glaring royal banner? If explosives existed, you’d know *exactly* where to plant them."

Arman leaned on his arm, gaze drifting absently out the window. Servants bustled across the courtyard prepping dinner. Knights who’d followed him to guard the estate toured their commander’s lavish new home with excitement. A few single knights even eyed the maids, ready to strike up chats.

"Can’t you think positively? It’s not *that* dangerous."

The butler stood beside him, voice gentle yet weighted, and sighed softly.

"Bigger places hide more secrets… This manor’s less cozy than my old Knights Order dorm. Forget it. How many of the Second Prince’s plants have we confirmed?"

Arman didn’t lift his head. His aqua-blue eyes tracked hurried servants in the garden, reflecting every shadowed corner of the estate.

People called him careless—and sure, he was. But without sharp instincts, how could he guard the royal gates? Without Arman’s shrewdness, the Crown Prince would’ve long fallen to the Second Prince’s meticulous schemes. Anyone aiming for the Crown Prince had to pass *him* first.

"Three confirmed. Already dealt with." The butler’s gaze dropped to the window. Optimistic words aside, assassins from the Second Prince would come.

"Definitely more."

Arman tapped his fingers—*click, click*—nails against the wooden frame.

"I’ll keep digging."

"Later, check if spies dug secret tunnels or basements. If asked, say I need a cellar for fine wine."

"Understood."

Arman’s role made him a target. Second Prince loyalists mocked him as the royal court’s "snarling fool-dog." Yet privately, he and the Crown Prince were brothers-in-arms—bound by blood and trust. How could the Second Prince *not* strike? Even returning victorious from war, Arman stayed alert for hidden blades.

The Second Prince commanded a full assassin guild. Sending only three? Likely bait. The real threat loomed.

"Did the Second Prince send a housewarming gift too?"

"Jewels and animal furs."

"Sell the jewels underground for cash. Inspect the furs—if clean, split them among my soldiers."

"At once."

"Ugh…"

Hearing the door click shut, irritation coiled in Arman’s chest. He blew at his bangs to cool his flushed forehead, but his brow stayed furrowed. He’d tried so hard to live carefree… yet they refused to let him breathe.

"I just wanted to eat, drink, and be merry… Why do I keep worrying?"

*Knock, knock.*

Arman turned as a voice came from the hall.

"Mr. Arman, sorry to disturb. The kitchen asks: what drinks do you prefer?"

Evelia’s voice.

"Beer."

"The commoners’ district kind?"

"Yeah. That one."

"Right away."

"Ah—wait."

Arman stepped forward and opened the door. Evelia hadn’t left. Their eyes met—his looking down, hers lifting straight to his clear blue gaze. Rare, for a battle-hardened commander to hold such clarity.

Hers held no bloodstained haze—only placid calm.

"Um—" Arman faltered. *What was her name again?* "Um… heading to the commoners’ district?"

Names were his lifelong struggle. Slightly face-blind, he relied on standout traits—like Evelia’s vivid pink hair, impossible to miss. Obvious features spared him street-corner mix-ups or ballroom name-blunders (noblewomen *never* forgot a slight).

"Evelia." She caught his hesitation, voice even. "Evelia Crozier."

*Make the Knights Order commander remember you.* The Second Prince’s order echoed. She watched closely—did he truly recall?

"Can I call you Pinky?"

"I’d prefer not, Mr. Arman."

"…So cruel. How about ‘Eiya’? Easy."

"Please don’t twist my name into a sword-swinging grunt."

"Ugh…" Arman tapped his temple, genuinely flustered.

"Anyway, Pinky—you’re going to the commoners’ district?"

"It’s *Evelia*."

"But your hair *is* pink—"

"*Evelia Crozier*."

"Evelia…?"

"*Evelia*, sir."

"Ephilia—"

"*Evelia*."

"Pinky’s really not okay?"

"*Evelia*."

"Ugh—so annoying—"