"What…"
Florian just blinked. His mind struggled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.
He blinked once more—Cashew was already ushering a line of maids into the room, his hands moving in quick, excited gestures like a conductor leading an orchestra.
"The…"
He blinked again—suddenly the room was full of strange objects: silver bowls of herbs, towels steaming with heat, jars of creams and oils, brushes, combs, and fabrics spilling over every surface.
"Fuck…?"
The next thing Florian knew, he was no longer sitting on his bed but lying down on something entirely different.
A wide cushioned recliner, padded and soft, more suited for a noble spa than a prince's chamber.
His arms rested limply at his sides, and before he could even process what was happening, a maid had spread a cool, thick paste over his face.
Another pressed her hands into his shoulders, kneading firmly, while two more were massaging his feet and hands with fragrant oils.
