The gates of the Somner Estate loomed like a gilded threat.
Polished obsidian columns stretched skyward, adorned with carvings of swirling soundwaves—an homage to the Sirentone power passed down for generations. The family crest, a singing lark encircled by a gold ring, was proudly etched into the arch above. But what caught Hermes’ eye was the parade of statues that lined the estate’s perimeter.
All of them were of Somners. Past heirs. From Somner I to Somner XCIX.
Each one sculpted in a dramatic pose: arms spread like messiahs, faces chiseled with noble arrogance. Their cheekbones were dagger-sharp, brows eternally furrowed in faux solemnity. They were all the same man in different centuries. Like the world’s most self-indulgent cloning experiment.
Hermes stared at them, then muttered. "Okay... yeah, he definitely came from a long line of theater kids."
There was one thing, though. All these statues felt like wax figures compared to the boy he knew.
Somner C—Somner the 100th.
He had that same vanity, sure. That performative flair. But it was... different. Hermes had seen the cracks. He knew Somner carried something the others didn’t.
He remembered the time Somner spoke about his sister, Eris. She was older than him, but didn’t inherit the name or the Sirentone power simply because she was born a girl. She’d grown bitter, even violent. Tried to steal Sirentone for herself.
Somner didn’t hate her.
He hated himself for being born with the things she was denied.
That awareness... that guilt... it made him different. More real.
And that’s why Hermes was here.
He pulled the hood of his oversized jacket higher, slipped on a pair of sunglasses too big for his face, and smeared a little powder on his cheeks. He added a slight limp for dramatic flair.
When the gate intercom crackled, Hermes cleared his throat and put on the thickest, most obnoxious accent he could muster.
"’Ello! Name’s Basil. Basil Nightly. I’m a freelance fragrance artist from the North District, come to discuss a very lucrative business proposal with young Master Somner."
"...Fragrance artist?" the butler asked through the speaker.
"Indeed! I sell artisan pheromone oils that enhance vocal projection and stage presence. I thought the young Master, being such a prestigious user of Sirentone, might be interested."
To Hermes’ surprise, the gate opened with a soft chime. He walked in, trying not to trip over his own nerves.
The mansion looked like it belonged on a royal parade float. Gold trim. Marble steps. Pink-stained glass windows casting pastel hues on the cobblestone path. Even the hedges were trimmed into music note shapes.
At the front door stood the butler—an elderly man with stark white gloves and a neutral expression so taut it could cut glass.
"You are Mr. Nightly?"
Hermes nodded solemnly. "Indeed, sir."
The butler stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "Then please... allow me to regale you with the history of the noble Somner lineage as we proceed."
Hermes barely held back a groan.
The inside of the house was somehow worse. Everything was either gold, pink, or velvet. Cherub statues everywhere. A harp in every corner, most likely untouched for centuries. The walls were lined with oil paintings of past Somners in increasingly ridiculous poses—one was literally shirtless, holding a microphone like a sword.
"The Sirentone power has been passed from father to son for a hundred generations." the butler droned. "It is said that the very first Siren Knight was able to tame beasts with a whisper and quell wars with a chorus."
"Fascinating." Hermes lied.
"But Master Somner has taken a brief hiatus from hero duties since Saturday. He has remained confined to his quarters."
That made Hermes stop. "Since Saturday?"
The butler nodded. "Yes. He has refused visitors. Even his parents. But if you have urgent business, I shall inform them."
Hermes nodded quickly. "Please do. It’s imperative I speak with him."
Convincing Mr. Somner XCIX and his wife was easier than expected.
Perhaps they were concerned.
Or maybe just tired of hearing their son sobbing through a triple-paned door.
Either way, Hermes now stood in front of Somner’s door with the master key in hand.
He took a breath and unlocked it.
The moment the door opened, a sharp voice rang out.
Hermes stumbled back. The command didn’t just sound like an order—it felt like one. It crawled into his spine and yanked. He staggered, legs turning to jelly, nearly stepping back out of reflex.
That was Sirentone. Raw, unfiltered, and defensive.
But Hermes didn’t move.
"It’s me." Hermes said quietly. "It’s Hermes."
Then... shifting blankets. A hiccup. A whimper.
Hermes stepped inside.
Somner’s room was an explosion of pink. Velvet walls, gold trim, heart-shaped cushions tossed around like battlefield debris. The lights were dim, except for the fairy lights tangled in the canopy bed frame.
And in the middle of it all was Somner.
Wrapped in three blankets. Surrounded by crumpled tissues. Face blotchy. Mascara smeared under one eye like a warpaint of heartbreak.
When he saw Hermes, he froze.
Then burst into tears.
He practically leapt out of the blanket cocoon and tackled Hermes in a full-bodied hug. Hermes staggered back from the weight, the scent of lavender-scented lotion and sadness overwhelming his senses.
"Why—Why do you hate me?! What did I do?! Why did you say those things to me?!" Somner bawled, fists curled around Hermes’ shirt.
"I didn’t—!" Hermes began, but Somner was sobbing too loudly.
"I thought I was annoying, but I didn’t think you despised me! I thought you wanted me around! I was trying so hard to be helpful and cool and charming and... and... you were my Master! You SAID I was your good boy!"
Hermes awkwardly patted his back. "I didn’t mean it. I swear. I don’t remember saying any of that."
Somner hiccuped. "You don’t?"
"No. There’s a gap in my memory. I think something happened to me."
Somner’s grip loosened slightly. "You’re not lying to make me feel better?"
Hermes shook his head. "I came here. In disguise. I convinced your butler with pheromone cologne lies. Do you really think I’d do all that just to gaslight you?"
Somner paused. Then whispered, "That does sound like something only a desperate man would do."
They sat on the plush heart-shaped rug together.
Somner sniffled again, wiping his face with his sleeve. "So... you don’t hate me?"
"I don’t." Hermes said gently. "And I’m sorry for whatever I said. Even if I can’t remember it... I’m still responsible."
Somner trembled. Then leaned his head on Hermes’ shoulder. "...I missed you."
And for the first time since waking up nine days too late, Hermes felt something warm stir in his chest. A moment of levity.