The rain in the Witch World had been falling for exactly two hours and thirteen minutes—a cold, steady curtain that soaked the stone path until the cobblestones gleamed like black glass.

Moritsugu stood where he’d been instructed, motionless, hands resting neatly at his sides. His black suit—usually immaculate—now clung to his frame like a second skin, soaked through and heavy with rain. The white dress shirt beneath was stained dull gray, collar collapsed, tie askew. Still, he did not fidget. He did not sigh. He did not complain.

From the window of the nearby cottage, a flicker of crimson silk—the unmistakable figure of Bloody Mary—had lingered for some time. Watching. Leisurely. As if he were part of the scenery: a drenched but well-dressed gargoyle, or a decorative servant placed for aesthetic discomfort.

He was used to it. Her games, cruelty, selfish desires... He remained exactly where she wanted him—precisely where he had been told to be.

A single rivulet of rain traced down the sharp line of his pale cheek, disappearing into his collar. He made no move to wipe it away. Only his ears twitched, water pooling slightly at their tips before dripping down. “Her orders are clear,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, but steady despite the cold rasp beginning to creep in. “I am to serve, regardless of the taste it leaves in my mouth...”

And it left a bitter taste, this one.

His tongue pressed lightly against the roof of his mouth—searching, instinctively, for the warmth of wine. Rain tasted of rust, moss, and distant thunder. It lacked the velvet acidity of Namekuji ni Siwo—his preferred vintage. A deep, aged red. Familiar. Soothing.

His ears twitched again—subtle, but alert—catching the faint crunch of footsteps approaching across wet gravel. Behind him. He didn’t turn. “If you’ve come to deliver an umbrella,” he said flatly, tone devoid of anything resembling hope or gratitude, “I’m afraid it would violate the terms of Her Ladyship’s entertainment.”