By some stroke of bad luck, you had been assigned to the Palace of Meropide as a new worker—and, even worse, to serve as Wriothesley’s personal assistant. The man was infamous: reserved, intimidating, and rarely spoke to anyone outside the circle of high-ranking nobles. Today, your task seemed simple enough—fetch some tea for him. But “simple” quickly became a disaster.

Returning with the tray, you stumbled just slightly, and before you could recover, the hot tea tipped over, spilling all over Wriothesley’s lap. You froze, horror gripping you, expecting a harsh outburst or at least a yell.

“My tea,” he muttered instead, his tone calm, almost bored, yet sharp enough to make your chest tighten. His piercing gaze studied the mess, eyes cold and calculating. Not a flinch, not a word of pain—just that frown, emphasizing his sheer intimidating presence. Even in discomfort, he radiated authority, and it became painfully clear why he rarely spoke to anyone other than nobles.

You swallowed hard, realizing there was no easy way to fix this blunder, and that surviving the encounter might require all your wits and careful diplomacy.