It was well past midnight when Alistair, dragging his weary body, finally returned to the castle.
Two oil lamps hung on the walls of his private study, casting a warm, muted glow that barely pushed back the shadows. He sat alone at the heavy wooden desk, taking stock of the night's haul.
Anselm's equipment had been reduced to ash in the divine flames. Cole's armor was so twisted and warped it was only fit for scrap, leaving his greatsword as the sole salvageable piece. In the end, aside from the sword and the letter from the basement, Alistair had found nothing of real value.
Worse still, the two of them together hadn't even carried ten gold coins.
Alistair couldn't wrap his head around it. A cardinal-red Bishop of the Church of Dracoth, walking around with only two or three gold pieces—wasn't that a disgrace to their name?
And Cole, the Templar, was somehow even more absurd. His meager handful of coins had been wrapped in layers of filthy cloth, then sewn into the reeking inner lining of his boot.
If one of Alistair's own knights hadn't had the same eccentric habit of hiding money that way, they would never have found it before melting the armor down.
In short, the whole venture had been a disaster. He'd gained almost nothing, and had been forced to spend a vial of the priceless Water of Life just to treat Thorne's injuries.
When have I ever taken such a loss? he thought bitterly. One way or another, he'd make the players and the other lords pay it back.
Knock, knock, knock.
A gentle rapping at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Abby's velvety voice followed, faintly trembling.
"Master… it's me. Abby."
Ah, Abby. A flicker of anticipation lit Alistair's eyes.
"Come in."
Hearing his voice, Abby drew a deep breath, pushed the door open, and slipped inside on tiptoe.
She wore a loose black long-sleeved dress cinched at the waist by a crisp white apron. Her large, fluffy tail trailed obediently behind her. White stockings hugged her legs, ending in simple round-toed leather shoes, and a frilled headband sat just behind her twitching brown ears.
"Good evening, Master." She stopped before him and, with a nervous wobble, dipped into a curtsy.
Her movements were clumsy, likely from nerves, but Alistair's mind supplied only one thought: Gods, she's adorable. He was fairly sure his eyes were sparkling.
Flustered by his gaze, Abby blushed and lowered her head. "M-Master," she stammered, "do you… have any orders for me?"
Alistair cleared his throat and straightened his collar, forcing his voice into something serious. "Ahem—yes. Give me a shoulder rub."
Abby stepped behind him, her slender fingers pressing into his shoulders. Her touch lacked the strength and precision of a trained maid, but there was an earnestness to it that was hard to ignore.
"Abby."
"Master?" she asked, leaning slightly forward. From her angle, she could only see the back of his head.
"Do you have any family left? You're my personal maid now—you can bring them here. They'd live better." The memory of the basement flashed in his mind. He didn't know the details of her past, but the scars on her body told enough of a story.
Alistair was no saint. The Pyrian Empire was full of suffering beastkin, and he couldn't save them all. But this girl in front of him—he wanted to give her something better.
Her hands stilled. A small, choked sob escaped her. "Master… Abby has no family left."
"I'm sorry." The tears in her voice hit him like a weight in the chest. He turned in his chair and pulled her small, trembling body into his arms.
The sudden embrace left her wide-eyed and frozen. Alistair patted her back gently. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No… it's not your fault, Master." Her gaze was faraway. She wiped at her eyes, then buried her face in his chest, taking a long breath. "You're a good person, Master. You've already done so much for Abby. I'm happy now."
Her hair smelled faintly of roses. Her soft ears drooped, brushing against his chin and making it itch.
"How was Mrs. Agnes today?" he asked softly, trying to guide her away from her grief.
"She was very kind. She taught me some basic etiquette, told me to take good care of you, and… she also taught me…" Abby's face turned scarlet. She bit her lip and pressed her face deeper into his chest.
"Taught you what?" he asked, oblivious to her embarrassment.
"She… she taught Abby how to… how to please you in bed…"
"…Huh?"
Alistair froze, his scalp prickling. In his past life, his greatest passion had been gaming; women had never been his focus. Since coming here, he'd been obsessed with training, not romance. And now a girl—an unbelievably cute beastkin girl—was suddenly supposed to share his bed?
This is just a system quest, he told himself. He knew that in this world it was common for personal maids to serve their masters that way, but it didn't make him any less nervous.
And then Abby delivered the killing blow.
"Master, it's late. Please… let Abby serve you tonight."
She walked to the large, velvet-canopied bed. Facing away from him, her hands trembled as she undid the buttons on her dress. The garment slid to the floor. In the lamplight, the curve of her back and hips stood out in sharp relief.
Naked, she lifted a corner of the duvet and slipped under it.
"M-Master… please come in."
"Mm," he replied, walking over—and lying down at the opposite end.
They ended up head-to-foot, entirely by his choice. She's cute. She's tempting. But she can't be more than fifteen. I can't do this. Not until she's at least eighteen.
Abby, tucked in and confused, blinked. This wasn't how Mrs. Agnes had described things. The Master hadn't pounced, hadn't touched her. Was she unwanted?
"M… Master?"
"Hm?"
"Well… Mrs. Agnes said… you'd hold me… and touch my breasts…"
"Abby," he asked through clenched teeth, "how old are you?"
"By human years, sixteen. By beastkin standards, eighteen. Why, Master?"
An adult? No way. Even if beastkin matured differently, there was no way she was fully grown. But if nothing happened… would people think the Lord of Frostfell was impotent?
[Ding! Host's male hormones and heart rate detected to be spiking. Procreation event likely. Presumed target: Personal Maid Abby.]
[Warning! Abby's body has not fully recovered from her injuries. Forced procreation now will cause irreversible harm. See host self-inspection for details.]
Ah. That explained it. His own body was… well-developed, and hers was small and fragile. It could hurt her.
Decision made, Alistair shut his eyes and let out a loud, deliberate snore.
"…Zzzzz…"
"M-Master??" Abby's mouth hung open in disbelief.
"Hooo… zzz…"
He's asleep? But… what is this big, hard thing? Her foot brushed it by accident, realization struck, and she yanked her leg back, curling into a tiny ball under the covers.