Things had started to shift—whether for better or worse, I couldn’t say—ever since the snow lion cub entered the Draken Duchy.
"You want milk, huh?" I murmured, crouching beside the cub. "I can get that for you. Meat’s a no-go, though. You’re too small for that just yet."
The little creature whimpered softly, nuzzling the folds of the blanket wrapped around it.
Still, not everything about this arrangement was terrible. One unexpected upside was the subtle but noticeable change in Lady Alice.
Her face had softened, if only a little. She didn’t smile often, but there was a quiet calm to her lately. It made serving her... easier. Almost enjoyable.
"Julies," she called, glancing over her shoulder. "Are you going to keep standing there? He’s hungry. Go fetch the milk."
"Yes, my lady!" I jumped up, nearly slipping in my haste.
Feeding, grooming, cleaning, even dealing with the pup’s accidents—it all fell to me, naturally. Her loyal, ever-suffering servant.
But I didn’t really mind. Watching the cub curl into her lap, purring with contentment, or seeing her expression relax as she stroked its silvery fur—it made the workload bearable.
"What’s the status on the name?" I asked while returning with a warmed bottle. "You said you didn’t like the one I gave him."
Alice took the bottle without looking up. "I’ve already named him."
"Oh?" I waited, intrigued.
"His name is Verren," she said flatly. "It means ’traitor’ in the Northern tongue."
I blinked. "That’s... a choice."
"It fits," she said, her voice calm but cold. "He’s a monster turning against his own kind. A traitor."
I looked down at the tiny snow lion, now greedily nursing from the bottle. It hardly seemed threatening at all—more like a sleepy kitten than a future weapon. But Alice saw something else in him.
"If it works for you," I said with a shrug.
Silence settled between us, broken only by the sound of the pup drinking.
Eventually, I cleared my throat and opened the notebook tucked under my arm. "You’ve got a social gathering scheduled in an hour. Tea with the other noble heirs at the Winter Garden."
She groaned audibly, her shoulders slumping. "Of course I do."
"Not excited?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"You’re catching on," she said dryly, pushing a hand through her hair. "It’s always the same—clawing, preening little brats who wouldn’t last a minute with a blade but think their family name gives them the right to look down on me."
She looked tired. Not physically—Alice Draken didn’t tire easily—but politically, emotionally. The weight of legacy and expectation never left her shoulders.
"This is the noble life," I said with a half-hearted smile. "Lavish gardens, fake smiles, and daggers hidden in teacups."
"...So why not skip it?" I suggested.
Alice raised an eyebrow. "You want me to cause a scandal?"
"No, I want you to rest," I said honestly. "You’ve earned it."
She seemed to consider it.
"I could claim we were in the middle of sparring," she mused aloud. "No one would question that."
I gave her a sheepish smile. "We technically were supposed to train today."
"Good." She stood, brushing snow off her cloak. "Then let’s make that lie real."
"Yes, we’re sparring. Now. You opened your mouth, now you get the bruises."
"Remind me next time not to suggest anything helpful."
She smirked faintly. "Duly noted."
I know, she’s finding an excuse to beat me up.
No matter what, she always asked me to spar with her.
Maybe it’s because she’s only defeated by me?
She’s petty. Noble shouldn’t be petty.
...If I don’t end up in bruises all over my body then I have to stop her.
"On the second thought, Don’t you think you should attend my lady? It would be very rude if you don’t attend it after they come all the way here."
"You think I don’t know that? I couldn’t even cancel it if I want to, it’s arranged by my father."
"I was simply trying to gauge your expression earlier."
Wait?! Don’t tell me I got caught?
I put an awkward smile on my face, pretending I hadn’t just tried to wiggle my way out of a bruised ribcage.
Alice stared at me for a long moment. Her sharp eyes, always too perceptive for my own good, narrowed ever so slightly.
"You’re deflecting," she said plainly.
"I wouldn’t call it deflecting," I replied with what I hoped passed for dignity. "I’d call it... tactical reconsideration."
"Tactical, huh?" She folded her arms, one brow arched. "Like the time you ’tactically reconsidered’ sparring and ended up locked in the storeroom with the chickens for two hours?"
"That was entrapment," I muttered.
She looked away, biting back a smile. "Coward."
"I prefer the term ’strategically cautious.’"
"Just shut up for now."
"Of course, My Lady."
She narrowed her eyes further but didn’t say anything.
She took a step closer. I flinched, expecting a flick to the forehead or worse, but instead, she leaned slightly forward, eyes level with mine.
"I’m going," she said, straightening up. "But only because it’ll reflect poorly on my House if I don’t. I can’t afford that—not with the other nobles houses watching."
That... sounded like something her father would drill into her. All duty. All image. Always the mask.
"Understood, my lady," I said, bowing my head just enough to show respect without groveling.
She turned toward the mirror by her writing desk and pulled her hair back with practiced fingers, quickly weaving it into a neat braid. Every motion was precise. Efficient. Controlled.
She was preparing her battlefield look—just not the kind with swords.