The day had been a special kind of hell. It had involved a spilled inkwell on a rare treaty, a baby dragon getting tangled in the curtains of the throne room, and Rina trying to "help" by polishing the floor until it was slippery enough to ice-skate on. By the time evening fell, Aiden felt like every nerve in his body had been plucked with a tiny, sharp fork.
All he wanted was a hot bath. An hour. Maybe two.
The royal bathroom was a sanctuary of white marble and gold fixtures, steam curling in the air from a massive, sunken tub. Scented oils of lavender and sandalwood mingled with the heat. Aiden sank into the hot water with a groan of pure, unadulterated bliss, resting his head against the smooth edge and closing his eyes. Silence. Finally.
He was so lost in the blissful warmth that he didn't hear the door open. He didn't hear the soft, almost silent footsteps on the marble floor.
What he did hear was a calm, clinical voice that cut through the steam like a scalpel.
"Fascinating. The human male form possesses approximately 640 skeletal muscles, though in your case, a significant portion appears to be sarcasm."
Aiden's eyes snapped open. He jolted upright, sending a wave of water sloshing over the side of the tub. Standing by the door, holding a small, glowing notepad and looking at him with the detached curiosity of a biologist observing a new species, was Eira.
"WHAT—GET OUT!" he yelled, grabbing a nearby towel and splashing it awkwardly in front of himself. His face, which had been relaxed for the first time all day, was now a burning mask of shock and outrage.
Eira didn't flinch. She didn't even look embarrassed. She simply tilted her head, her silver braid glinting in the dim light. "There is no need for such alarm, Prince Aiden. I am not observing you for prurient reasons. I am conducting a preliminary examination to verify a hypothesis."
"A HYPOTHESIS?!" Aiden sputtered, his voice an octave too high. "GET OUT OF MY BATHROOM!"
"The prophecy I am researching mentions that the 'Dragon's Heart' will be marked by a sign—a physical manifestation of the ancient pact," Eira explained, her tone as if she were discussing the weather. "I theorized this mark might be a birthmark, a unique pattern of scales, or perhaps a faint scar. I am simply compiling data. You are the primary subject."
Aiden stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. The sheer, unblinking, academic audacity of it was so staggering it momentarily short-circuited his anger. He was about to start yelling again when she simply gave a small, dismissive nod.
"My apologies for the intrusion. My initial assessment is complete. The data is… inconclusive. I will take my leave."
She turned, her back now to him, and began to walk towards the door with her usual unhurried grace.
And that's when he saw it.
As she turned, the collar of her simple maid's robe shifted, pulling down just an inch on her back. And there, peeking out from just above her shoulder blades, was a tattoo. It wasn't just a tattoo; it was a masterpiece of intricate, swirling lines that seemed to hum with a faint, internal light. It was the image of a dragon, but not like any he had ever seen. It was ancient, its form more serpentine, its wings more like blades of obsidian, and its eyes were two glowing, spiraling galaxies.
Aiden's anger, his outrage, his embarrassment—all of it vanished. He was left staring, his mouth slightly agape, at a symbol of impossible power and mystery etched onto the skin of the quiet, logical elf mage.
Eira, who had reached the door, paused. She must have felt his gaze. Her hand, which was reaching for the doorknob, froze mid-air. For the first time since he had met her, her perfect composure cracked. A faint blush touched her pale cheeks.
She slowly, deliberately, pulled the collar of her robe up, covering the glowing image. She didn't turn around.
"What…" Aiden's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the dripping water. "…is that?"
The door clicked shut. For a moment, Aiden allowed himself to believe it was over. He sank back into the hot water with a sigh of relief. An elf mage had just analyzed his skeleton in his bathtub. It couldn't possibly get any stranger.
The door clicked open again.
Aiden's eyes snapped open. Eira was back. She had not, in fact, taken her leave. She was now untying the sash of her maid's robe.
"What are you doing now?!" he yelped, trying to sink deeper into the water, which was, of course, impossible.
The robe fell open, revealing that underneath, she was wearing a simple, practical, and utterly unadulterated one-piece bathing garment. It was the most logical, most Eira-like thing in the world, and to Aiden, it was somehow more shocking than if she'd been naked.
"My hypothesis was inconclusive," she stated, her voice as calm and clinical as before. "Therefore, I require more data. You stated you were here to 'cleanse.' I will assist. It is a more efficient use of time."
She walked over to a small shelf where various bathing implements were kept. She picked up a long-handled back brush, its stiff bristles designed for… vigorous scrubbing.
Aiden's eyes widened in pure terror. "No. No, that's not—I can clean my own back, thank you very much. It's a skill I've been practicing since birth."
Eira looked at the brush, then at him, her head tilted. "Your reach is suboptimal for thorough cleansing of your dorsal region. This is a simple matter of biomechanics. Please turn around."
"I will not! This is my bath! My private, personal bath!"
"And I am your maid. Assisting you is my duty." She stated it as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. She stepped closer. "It will only take a moment. I have calculated the optimal pressure and angle for maximum epidermal removal.**
"Epidermal removal?! That's my SKIN!" he shrieked, his voice cracking.
Before he could protest further, she was behind him. He felt a cool presence, then the brush. It touched his back.
And then it began to scrub.
It wasn't gentle. It was a methodical, efficient, and deeply unsettling scrubbing. It felt like being polished by a machine.
"As I suspected," Eira's voice came from directly over his shoulder, her tone one of academic discovery. "There is a significant concentration of dead skin cells on your left scapula, approximately 12.7% more than on your right. A minor asymmetry, but noted."
Aiden's brain had short-circuited. He was being scrubbed. In his own bath. By an elf. Who was giving him a scientific analysis of his dead skin cells.
This was it. This was the final straw. The absolute, most absurd, final straw.
With a yelp that was half-panic, half-rage, he launched himself out of the tub, sending a tidal wave of soapy water cascading onto the marble floor. He slipped, slid, and scrambled for a towel, wrapping it around his waist with the desperate speed of a man fleeing a burning building.
He didn't even look back. He just fled, dripping and humiliated, out of his own bathroom and into the hallway, leaving Eira standing alone in the steamy room.
Eira watched him go, her head tilted in confusion. She looked down at the brush in her hand, then at the puddle of water on the floor.
"Fascinating," she murmured to herself. "A sudden, extreme sympathetic nervous response to physical contact. An illogical overreaction. The human male remains a deeply flawed and inefficient design.