Stomp! Thwack!
Another perfectly placed heel to Argider's poor, aching foot. Surely, this had to be the hundredth time.
Faeralys seemed intent on performing a sadistic ballet, a rhythmic stomping extravaganza, as though conducting an entire orchestra of pain with her foot as the only instrument.
This bitch! Argider gritted her teeth, summoning all the dignity she had left to keep her face serene. Is she trying to break my foot?
Sir Cole, ever-observant and increasingly horrified, cast a worried glance between the emperor and her noble tormentor.
The poor man was visibly torn between loyalty and self-preservation, eyes darting to Argider's slightly teary expression.
"Y-Your Imperial Majesty," he ventured, tone trembling with concern, "are you... quite alright?"
Argider managed a weak but regal smile, which barely masked the toll of Faeralys's footwork of fury. "Oh yes, Sir Cole. Quite alright. This is all... just splendid. In fact, it's probably good for me." She forced a dry laugh, but a slight wince betrayed her as she spoke. "At the very least, my wife is—ah—learning."
Sir Cole cleared his throat and turned to Faeralys, who was the picture of innocence and serenity, except for the unmistakable sparkle of gleeful malice glinting in her eyes.
"Erm, pardon me, Your Imperial Majesty," Cole murmured, nervously clasping his hands as he tried to avoid her gaze. "But I do believe you may have, uh, stepped on Her Imperial Majesty's foot a... significant number of times."
"Oh, truly?" Faeralys's eyes went wide in mock astonishment. "My apologies! It's just that my wife is so tall—positively statuesque, don't you think? I'm simply struggling to stay balanced around her! Surely you understand, Sir Cole. Quite the challenge."
Sir Cole could only nod, mouth slightly agape, and attempt to shuffle out of her line of fire.
Across the room, Argider's aunt, Phirya, observed the entire scene with an exasperated but knowing look.
She'd seen this brand of defiance before—the faux-naivety, the infuriating innocence.
But Phirya, always one to let a scene play out, held back from intervening. For now.
"Actually," Argider cut in, grasping at an opportunity to escape with her dignity—and her toes—intact, "we've been at this for hours, and my wife must be absolutely worn out. It might be best if we continued these lessons on our own later. Wouldn't want to trouble you further, Sir Cole, with our mistakes."
"What?!" Faeralys cried, her eyes narrowing at the sudden proposal.
Before she could argue, Phirya's arm snaked around her shoulders, placing a single, elegant finger against Faeralys's lips, a silent command to cease her theatrics, and gently but firmly guided her out of the room.
Faeralys's protests were silenced, her exit as smooth and unresistant as a cat slipping through a crack in the door.
Once the doors clicked shut, Argider finally allowed herself to collapse onto the floor, massaging her tortured foot with the desperation of someone who had made several consecutive poor decisions.
"What have I done?" She cursed under her breath, mentally cataloging every bruise she'd accumulated from her wife's not-so-subtle reminders of affection.
Faeralys's sheer cuteness, her devilish smile—that lethal combination had lured Argider right into this snare.
"Oh, gods," she muttered into her hands. "I'm such a simp." And, somehow, that was her greatest flaw—and her greatest strength.
****
Night had descended, draping the throne room in a velvety hush.
Only the soft glow of moonlight seeped through the windows, casting an ethereal silver shimmer across the polished floors.
Argider stood alone, sighing dramatically to no one in particular.
She had been waiting for Faeralys for awhile—what a tragically tedious task for an emperor!
Alvator, her spectral guide, drifted lazily beside her, as unhelpful as ever.
Skeptic, Argider mulled over the "new" efforts she was making for her wives, wondering if this venture into "thoughtful husbandry" was worth all the emotional contortions.
Yes, she had cut down on the parade of mistresses, but really, was she destined for sainthood?
Just then, the heavy doors creaked open, and Faeralys finally arrived, her demeanor transformed from that of a mischief-maker to a picture of deep contrition.
Gone was the glint of defiance in her eyes as she curtsied with uncharacteristic respect.
"Greetings, Your Imperial Majesty," Faeralys murmured, her tone startlingly sincere. "Forgive my earlier... lapses in decorum. I may have, ah, overreacted."
Argider's lips curved into an irrepressible grin. "So… Aunt Phirya had a chat with you, did she?" she teased, motioning Faeralys to come closer. "Just… maybe skip the foot-stomping routine this time?"
Faeralys approached, cheeks flushed, and for once, Argider found herself marveling at her own resolve to forgive. 'Ugh, I'm such a simp,' she thought, torn between self-disgust and a silly warmth blossoming within.
The two assumed their places, with Argider's hand resting lightly on Faeralys' waist as their bodies eased into the rhythm of a slow, practiced dance.
They moved in graceful unison, and as their eyes met, something unspoken shifted in the air between them.
Alvator, who had been loitering in spectral silence, suddenly chimed in, "You should ask her something. You know, get her to open up."
"Ask her… what exactly?" Argider replied inwardly.
"Ask why she was upset earlier. Encourage her—it's all about vulnerability," Alvator said, as if reading from a spectral marriage manual.
Vulnerability? Argider grimaced. Emotionally sharing had never been her forte—unless we're talking about physical intimacy, in which she was well-versed. But feelings? The horrors.
With a valiant attempt at sincerity, she finally stammered, "S-So, tell me, my wife... W-Why were you so mad earlier? I'm here, you know. To… listen."
Faeralys arched a brow, clearly taken aback but oddly touched. But she wasn't about to make it easy. "Well, if you must know," she muttered, "it was the way you were…touching me pervertedly..."
Argider flushed beet red. "Touching you like a pervert? I mean, I may have had… some thoughts," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Faeralys just scoffed. "Oh, I knew it! Honestly, it's a miracle I let you lead this dance at all."
"Well," Argider sighed, "you don't have to worry about that anymore. I mean, it's not like I can do anything. I'm a woman now."
"Oh, sure," Faeralys quipped, her tone oozing with irony. "Since you can't just spend your time with pretty mistresses anymore?"
Argider looked away, the pang of honesty stabbing deeper than expected. "You never loved me, though, right, Faeralys?"
Faeralys didn't hesitate. "No, I didn't. I never wanted any of this. I wanted my freedom back north. Imagine being tossed into a marriage with someone who's renowned for, let's say, 'diverse tastes.' It was terrifying."
Argider nodded, her voice softer now. "I get it. I was forced into this too. The throne, the wives... none of it was really my choice."
A beat passed, and Faeralys looked up at her. "So, why are you acting like you care all of a sudden? Think I'll just forgive you?"
Argider gave a half-smile. "No, I don't expect forgiveness. It's something unattainable for me. I gave up on that and just acknowledged that I'm pretty much an asshole."
Faeralys laughed, catching her off-guard. "But maybe—just maybe—you could try to be a slightly less terrible."
Argider chuckled, and for the first time, it didn't feel hollow. "Alright. Friends, then?"
"Sure," Faeralys replied, her smile finally breaking through the stoicism.
— [Affection Points +5]
— [Loyalty Points +5]
[Loading...]
[Processing...]
Ding!
— [New Relationship Status: Faeralys Merovia]
— [Affection ▪︎ 15]
— [Loyalty▪︎ 10]
— [Emotion▪︎ 100]
As they swayed to the silence, Alvator observed from his ghostly post, nodding approvingly at Argider's little moment of sincerity.
Perhaps his emperor wasn't entirely a lost cause.
But as midnight's chime echoed, a few servants sneaked a glance into the throne room—only to freeze in shock.
There, under the moon's watchful glow, stood the notorious Argider, laughing and dancing with her wife, softer and warmer than any could ever recall seeing her.