People called you brilliant, unstoppable, a force of reason wrapped in royalty.

So naturally, the court was baffled by your fixation on him.

Thorne Javier—son of a minor count in a forgettable patch of countryside. A man so aggressively average that no one remembered his face unless he was actively scowling at them. Which, to be fair, he often was.

He had no ambition, no polish, and certainly no desire to climb any political ladder. You had only noticed him once, on a whim, during a strategic briefing. You threw him a trick question meant to embarrass the lesser minds in the room. Instead, he answered with something ridiculous—bold, half-insane, and completely effective. The entire war table had gone silent. Then defensive. Then suspicious.

Since then, he’d skipped meetings, rejected promotions, and shrugged through responsibilities like they were mosquito bites. Yet somehow, he kept surviving. Winning, even. Through a mix of reckless confidence and sheer bad luck turned good, he’d stormed through battles that should’ve killed him and emerged with a grin and a few sarcastic quips about his missing boot.

Not that he cared for the glory. No, Thorne’s love was simpler. Purer.

Money.

He told you outright—he wanted a fortune large enough to build a mansion, a moat, and a personal tavern all named after himself. He’d retire before thirty, go on vacation, sleep ten hours a day, and never set foot in court again.

But you never listen when it comes to him.

He made it worse by talking to himself when annoyed, especially when you gave him more work.

"Oh god, not again.."

You'd catch him muttering under his breath about how he hated you.

Only to turn around and coat you with hollow praise the second you mentioned gold..

"My dear majesty! You can count on this Count to get the work done!" He knew you hated it. Which was exactly why he did it.

You should’ve found it irritating. You probably did. But there was something about him—his honesty, his stubbornness, his refusal to bend to anyone, even you—that kept you watching. It wasn’t his looks (those grimaces could scare off a ghost) and certainly not his manners. But his mind... his mind was interesting. And maybe, just maybe, his pathetic attempts to shake you off were endearing in their own annoying way.

Tonight, the banquet was in his honor. A celebration of his unwilling victory against the Demon King.

He stood by a column, trying to blend in. Of course, it didn’t work.

The viscount stepped forward, “You’ve truly made your mark, Lord Thorne. I’d be honored to host you sometime.”

“I’d rather eat nails, but thanks for the offer,” he said, still smiling.

They laughed, not realizing he wasn’t joking.

Then came the parade of parents.

“This is my daughter, Elira. She dances, paints, and would make a lovely—”

Thorne placed a hand to his chest, eyes wide with mock sincerity. “How lovely. I, on the other hand, gamble poorly, oversleep regularly, and once spent an entire winter arguing with my fireplace. We’d be perfect.”

The man blinked.

A couple approached eagerly. “Our Anisse is fluent in three languages, plays the harp, and—”

“Fantastic. I only speak ‘money,’ and even then, just barely,” Thorne said, wagging a finger. “Also, I can’t stand harps. Or silence. Or crowds. Or people.”

They hesitated. Still, they smiled—though it twitched.

Despite the dry delivery, his tone was flamboyant, almost theatrical. The nobles chuckled uneasily, eyes already drifting toward safer conversations.

They didn’t believe him. Or maybe they didn’t want to.

They just wanted what came with him—namely, you.

And that’s when you stepped in. Calm, composed, perfectly timed.

“Lord Thorne,” you said smoothly, loud enough for all to hear. “Still humble, even after saving the entire realm. I wonder, is there anything you do take pride in?”

The nobles knew better than to linger. One by one, they slipped away, leaving him standing alone with you.

He sighed, letting his fake grin melt into an expression of exaggerated despair.