Katsu's eyes narrowed.
The air still crackled faintly, charged with something he didn't yet have a name for.
His pulse hadn't recovered.
Neither had the faint, infuriating warmth still rising to his cheeks.
He stared at Maedra.
Expression unreadable, breath tight.
"W—… Why did you kiss me?"
She didn't smile. Didn't flinch.
"To confirm a story," she said calmly. "And to watch how the heir of Velthra reacts when caught off-guard. A Sha'dr tradition, if you will."
Katsu blinked. Not mad, but not pleased. "There are easier ways to confirm stories."
Maedra tilted her head slightly. "Perhaps. But none as efficient."
He stepped back a fraction, arms folding over his chest.
Behind his eyes, the Leviathan coiled—her silence brittle.
"I didn't declare heir to come here to playgames," Katsu said.
"Neither did we," Maedra replied. "But you are your mother's son. If we're going to follow you… we had to be sure you weren't just a name."
Riven, the bard at her side, finally spoke up—his voice light, but edged with nervous reverence.
"You weren't what we expected. But… that's not a bad thing."
Katsu didn't answer immediately. He studied them—Maedra's composure, Riven's half-concealed awe. The air between them and him was thick with old alliances, unspoken debt, and a thousand questions he wasn't ready to ask.
He sighed.
"You want my House's help. Fine. But if you pull something like that again—" he paused, letting the weight settle, "—I won't be this polite."
Maedra nodded. "Understood."
A soft shuffle behind him—Mari had returned, expression perfectly blank.
"Rooms prepared," she said. "Third floor, west hall. They'll be watched, but not intrusively."
"Good," Katsu murmured. "See them there."
Mari bowed slightly, turning to gesture for the Tieflings to follow.
But before Maedra moved, she looked at Katsu one last time.
"You'll have questions," she said. "About what followed after your House disappeared from our records. About who still remembers your bloodline in the north. We can answer them."
Katsu didn't look away. "Then start writing them down."
Maedra gave a single, sharp nod. Then turned to follow Mari.
Riven hesitated, offering a small, awkward bow.
And then they were gone—disappearing down the corridor, their footsteps swallowed by polished stone and cold walls.
Katsu stood in silence.
Only once they were out of earshot did he speak again.
"Levii."
She appeared without needing to be called—already there, just out of sight.
Her voice brushed his spine like cold silk.
You didn't stop her.
Katsu let out a breath. "I didn't know what she was going to do."
Liar.
He didn't argue.
Instead, he turned away, heading back toward his suite.
"She wants to serve. Let her prove it."
And if she wants more than that?
Katsu didn't slow his step.
"I don't belong to her."
He could feel Leviathan watching—waiting. Her jealousy hadn't faded. Just gone quiet.
Then show me, she whispered.
And her voice faded like a tide pulling back, slow and inevitable.
…
Midnight hour.
Everyone rested.
No doors creaked, no voices stirred. Not even Juju had left.
She'd claimed a guest bed without a second thought.
Go figure.
Katsu couldn't sleep.
Something about being back in his own bed—too soft, too quiet, too clean—made him restless. Like his body hadn't caught up to the fact that he was safe again.
So he stepped into the hall…
And promptly collided with someone.
A sharp bump of shoulders. He steadied himself.
"My lady?"
"Ow…" came the reply, soft and tired. "I was walking there, Katsu…"
Mari. Of course.
But not the Mari he was used to.
Her posture was still upright—but barely. Her shoulders hung heavier than usual. Her eyes, normally sharp as glass, were ringed with the kind of exhaustion that made circuits overheat and protocols slip.
"Mari?" he asked, voice gentler now.
"Yes, my lord?" she answered automatically. But her voice cracked on the edge of formality.
He squinted at her. "When's the last time you slept?"
Mari blinked slowly. It was the first time he'd seen her hesitate.
"… Why does that matter, my lord?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Because your sleep matters too. Go ahead. Get some rest. I can handle myself for the night."
She straightened—but it looked more like muscle memory than resolve.
"… I can't," she said. "The handbook says—"
"Forget the handbook," Katsu cut in. "You're human."
Her head jerked slightly, as if he'd insulted her.
"Katsu, I'm not—" she began, almost defensive.
But he didn't let her finish.
He stepped in, crouched slightly to meet her eye-to-eye. Her breath caught.
"Lady Mari Hilda-Vasquez," he said, calm but firm, "you are going to sleep. That is a direct order from me. Further refusal will result in suspension or termination."
Her lips parted. She actually looked stunned.
"Katsu, this… this is my job. It's my only job. I don't do anything else but serve you. I've sworn my life to Velthra."
He studied her.
Saw how her hands trembled just faintly at her sides. Saw the strain she'd carried silently since the moment she arrived in his service. Not weakness. Not failure. Just wear.
"And what?" he asked quietly. "You're planning to die of sleep deprivation for Velthra too?"
Mari didn't respond.
Her mouth opened, closed again. The words weren't there this time.
"…You're cruel," she said instead, voice small. Almost childlike in how it landed.
"No," Katsu said softly. "You're tired."
Silence settled between them like a blanket too heavy for the night.
Then, almost inaudibly—
"…I love you," Mari whispered.
He blinked. But didn't back away.
"I love you too," he said. No hesitation. Just truth.
"Now go to bed… before I go and get Zuri to reprimand you myself."
Mari flinched.
And just like that—she turned.
Wordless, swift, like she couldn't bear to stand there another second.
She vanished around the corner, her boots quiet against the stone. No resistance this time.
Just the sound of someone who didn't want to break—but knew if she stayed any longer, she might.
Katsu straightened.
The hall was empty again.
And for once… he felt like maybe the silence wasn't just weight. Maybe it was peace.
Even if only for tonight.