Evelia and Arman soon doubled back from the neighborhood. Arman wanted to reassure the old butler about Evelia—making future outings smoother. So, for the first time ever, he hadn’t brought back any odd trinkets. True to their agreement, he returned only with commoner district liquor and some decent drinking snacks.

Evelia had planned to take the food to the kitchen for prep. But catching Arman’s meaningful glance, she assumed the old butler disapproved—and that the items needed to be “hidden.”

After hearing Arman say, “Quick, hide in the kitchen. If the old butler catches you, he’ll interrogate you endlessly—that man never stops talking,” she obediently headed toward the kitchen. For her, it was a scouting opportunity. She was more than happy to use any excuse to memorize every detail of the manor.

Once she left, Arman slipped into his office with the snacks tucked under his coat.

It was less an office, more a personal study. Bookshelves lined the spacious room. Directly opposite the door stood a wooden desk by the window; nearby, a pair of black leather sofas for guests. On the desk sat a stubbornly green plant—looking alive even when dead. He wasn’t the refined type who enjoyed tending flowers.

He rarely handled paperwork, but documents occasionally demanded attention. The office saw little use, yet remained necessary.

Had the snacks truly been bought behind the butler’s back, Arman would’ve been caught red-handed. But Lug, his old butler, already stood by the desk—having anticipated his return. The tea in his cup was perfectly lukewarm, just how he liked it.

“Care for a bite?”

Arman pulled out a popular cold dish from the commoner district, wrapped in oil-paper. It looked utterly out of place beside the gold-rimmed teacup.

“You enjoy it. Tea with peanuts? Only you’d think of that.”

As if expecting this, Lug handed him a silver spoon. Arman unfolded the paper and ate the cheap snacks with a matching gold-rimmed spoon.

“They don’t clash. Even if they did, my stomach can take it.”

This was a gut that had swallowed poison before. A few clashing foods meant nothing.

(Though overeating still hurt. He wasn’t eager to torment himself.)

Years ago, Crown Prince rivals tried poisoning the rising young Arman to eliminate future threats. A slow-acting herbal toxin built up until activation day—nearly killing him. Only the Royal Family’s vast resources produced an antidote in time. He’d have died on that deceptively sunny morning otherwise.

The Royals promptly archived both poison and antidote formulas. Arman, rather “gloriously,” became their test subject. The concoction was so rare it felt like an “invention.” Royal physicians still summoned him under “health check” pretenses, monitoring lingering effects.

They concluded: his body was now nearly poison-proof. But the side effect? A constant low-grade toxicity. The antidote masked pain, yet each exam revealed fresh organ damage. He wouldn’t die from poisoning—but possibly from eventual organ failure.

Compared to his driven youth, Arman now lived by: *Since I’ll die untimely anyway, I might as well enjoy life.* Colloquially: *Days are numbered—savor the good stuff.*

Touch what you can. Eat what you crave. Play freely. Ignore others’ judgment. Their disdainful stares and gossip wouldn’t follow him into the grave.

Only Lug—and a few Royals—knew his condition. The old man once said, “Don’t wear a gloomy face. Smiling beats crying.” From then on, Arman chose carefree living. At least he’d face death calmly.

But as an undefeated general, the Crown Prince’s faction—including the Prince himself—would never let him retire. Reinforcing his “seize the day” mindset. Staying in the Knights Order meant risking not just “death by illness,” but “death in battle.”

“How was she?” Lug cut to the point, watching Arman’s silent contemplation.

Taking Evelia out had been a test of this unusually assigned personal maid.

Skilled assassin or not, inhabiting an unfamiliar body left traces. From the first glance, Arman sensed it—that hound-like intensity in her gaze, familiar from his own youth.

Yet he wondered: assassin or spy? Her handshake held no calluses from combat training, nor the hardened skin of a seasoned senior maid.

“What do you think?” Arman tossed back, munching a peanut.

“An issue.” Lug’s expression didn’t shift.

“A major one.”

In perfect sync, three words pinpointed the threat.

“At least not here to kill me outright. Or I’d have returned injured.”

“Aimed at you?”

“Seems so. Guess this old, sickly man still has value.”

He drained the teacup like beer—no noble etiquette. Bitterness lingered on his tongue.

“What for? My unmarried status at twenty-six? Her file says eighteen. I’ve zero interest in girls nearly a decade younger. A honey trap? Honestly, a few good bottles of wine would bribe me better.”

“Anyone placed this close has a fabricated background. My file on her is useless.”

“Hmm…” Arman held out his cup for a refill. His other hand tapped a quiet rhythm on the desk.

“To become my personal maid directly? Likely the Second Prince’s trusted agent. A tough nut—elite level. Not easily dismissed.”

His gaze dropped. Clear blue eyes clouded. He watched tea ripple in the cup, his reflection blurring in the waves.

“—Keep her.”

He lifted his head toward the window behind the desk—but the reserved rosewood chair blocked the view completely.

“She’s interesting. Keeping her close means I know what’s happening. Better than guessing the Second Prince’s next move.”

“No disposal?”

“Unnecessary. She knows too much. Whether his schemes succeed or fail, she won’t survive. You know the Second Prince—disposable assets are his specialty.”

“True…”

“Better to keep the enemy in sight than lurking in shadows. And I’m merciful. If things go wrong, I’d grant her a quick end—spare her the Second Prince’s tortures.”

“A quick end?” Lug pursed his lips. “The Knights Order’s interrogation methods aren’t much kinder…”

“Ahem. My public image is set. Nothing I do raises suspicion. Just act normal. You’re a better actor—and liar—than I am.”

“Understood. Proceed as usual. Stay cautious—she’s posing as your personal attendant. Frequent access.”

“Don’t worry. You manage the estate. I’ll handle the rest. She’s *my* maid. I’ll play along. Just don’t tip off the enemy.”

Arman stretched, walked around the desk toward the window. He always preferred standing where light poured in, watching flowers and trees outside.

Alas, the sky felt near—but his fingers met only the cold gold window frame.

“Evelia Crozier…”

His eyes found the pink-clad figure below, moving between knights with a pastry tray. The corners of his mouth, tired from smiling, curved upward again as he murmured her name. He recalled her gaze earlier—so intense it felt like she could bore through the back of his skull.

That scorching sensation still clung. He’d only matched her pace because he couldn’t bear it longer. He was curious: if he kept exposing his completely undefended back… what would she do?

This time, *his* gaze burned just as hot. Evelia instinctively looked up at the office window—but Arman was already gone. After a silent pause, she continued distributing the “kitchen treats” to Arman’s loyal soldiers.

She’d volunteered for this trivial task. To understand a person, start with those around them. She dared not approach Lug yet—so the knights were her only intel source.

Her unease deepened. Why did the Knights Order’s commander—a seemingly careless man who fumbled her name repeatedly—stir such dread in her?

…*Right. I need to understand him properly…*

Evelia muttered inwardly, tray in hand, stepping toward the next group of knights.