Mystia's tearful nod was all the answer Shin needed. He stood up from the edge of the bed and gently took her hand. It was trembling violently.
"Hey," he said softly, giving it a light squeeze. "It's going to be okay. I promise."
He led her towards the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying to project an aura of calm she could lean on. Her small room felt even more intimate now, the air thick with a mixture of her fear and his gentle resolve. He stopped in front of her and, with a tenderness that surprised even himself, reached out and gently wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
She flinched at his touch, but didn't pull away.
"I've never..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm scared I'll mess this up, too."
"You can't mess this up," Shin said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "There's no wrong way to do this. Just... feel."
He slowly, carefully, began to unbutton the front of her simple maid's dress. His fingers brushed against her collarbone, and he felt a jolt of her nervous, chaotic energy—it was like a thousand tiny, tingling sparks. She stood frozen, her eyes squeezed shut, surrendering herself to the process.
When her dress pooled at her feet, she stood in her simple undergarments, her body trembling. She then fumbled with the torn shoulder of his tunic, her clumsy fingers finally managing to push it down his arms. He let it fall to the floor, the ruined fabric a forgotten relic of the accident that had brought them here.
He guided her to sit on the bed, then lay down beside her, pulling the simple wool blanket over them both. He didn't rush. He just held her, letting her get used to his presence, to the warmth of his body. Her chaotic energy buzzed around them, a nervous, frantic hum.
"It's alright," he whispered again. "Just breathe with me."
He took a slow, deep breath, and after a moment, she tried to mimic him. As she relaxed, he began the Rite. He didn't pour his power into her; he invited hers in. He opened his Aura of Kingship, creating a warm, safe harbor for her scattered energy to flow into.
At first, it was a chaotic trickle. A million tiny, nervous sparks, like frightened fireflies, flitted against his consciousness. He didn't try to control them. He simply embraced them, wrapping them in his warm, steady calm. He soothed the frantic energy, not with force, but with acceptance.
A soft, golden light began to glow from under the blanket, warm and gentle, like honey in the sun. Mystia gasped, her back arching slightly. It wasn't a painful shock, but a wave of pure, overwhelming pleasure and relief. The frantic buzzing in her soul began to slow, to harmonize with his steady rhythm. The sparks stopped flying and started to dance, forming beautiful, intricate patterns in the shared space of their minds.
She felt it—the anchoring. The feeling of being perfectly still, perfectly centered, for the first time in her life. The curse was lifting.
The golden light intensified, not in an explosion, but in a slow, breathtaking wave of warmth and light that filled the small room, chasing away every shadow. It was the most gentle, most intimate, most profound Rite he had ever performed.
When the light finally faded, they lay tangled together in the afterglow. The air was warm, and the scent of lavender and clean linen filled the room.
Shin propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. She was different. The frantic, nervous energy was gone. In its place was a deep, serene calm. Her breathing was slow and even. A soft, contented smile was on her face.
Slowly, hesitantly, she raised a hand and brought it to his cheek. Her fingers, which usually fumbled and dropped everything, were steady and sure. She gently caressed his jawline, her touch full of a newfound confidence and a love that was pure, unmagical, and completely her own.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice clear and strong, no longer a timid squeak. "Thank you, my King."
For the first time, when she said the title, it didn't sound like a magical compulsion. It sounded like a choice. And for Shin, that made all the difference in the world.
Shin smiled, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "You're welcome, Mystia."
For a moment, they just lay there, the silence comfortable and warm. But then, Mystia's body tensed slightly. Her eyes, which had been soft and content, began to glow with a faint, residual golden light. She sat up, the blanket falling away to reveal her shoulders. Her posture became formal, her expression one of serene, unwavering devotion.
Ah, there it is, Shin thought with a mental sigh. The post-Rite pledge.
"My King," she said, her voice a perfect, melodic recitation. "My body, my soul, my clumsy, fumbling heart... they are yours to command. I wish to be your concubine, to serve you in all ways for the rest of my days."
Shin gave her the gentle, practiced smile he was developing for this exact situation. "Mystia, you don't have to do that. Your friendship is more than enough."
He reached out to take her hand, but as his fingers touched hers, her body jolted. The golden light in her eyes flickered and died. The magical devotion, like a faulty lightbulb, blinked out of existence.
Mystia blinked, her eyes refocusing. She looked at Shin, at their joined hands, at the fact that they were both in bed. A deep, creeping blush started at her neck and rapidly spread upwards.
"I... I..." she stammered, her mind racing to catch up with the last few minutes. "Did I... did I just offer to... to..."
Her eyes widened in horror as the memory of her magically-induced words came flooding back. She remembered the formal, over-the-top pledge.
"Oh, nova!" she gasped, her voice cracking. "I just offered to polish your royal boots with my hair! And I said I'd wash your clothes with my tears! What is wrong with me?!"
The sheer, mortifying absurdity of her own words, combined with the intense emotional and magical whiplash of the Rite, was too much for her system to handle.
Her eyes rolled back into her head.
"Wha—" was all Shin could get out before she went completely limp, slumping against him like a ragdoll.
Shin sat there, holding the unconscious, newly-un-clumsy maid in his arms. He was dripping wet from a bucket incident, his favorite tunic was ruined, and he now had a fainting girl in his bed. He looked at the ceiling, a long, weary sigh escaping his lips.
"Oh, Mystia," he muttered to the empty room. "What am I going to do with you?"