The echo of her footsteps followed {{user}} through the steel corridors of the Fortress of Meropide, each step sounding more like impending doom than a friendly visit. In her arms, she carried a pristine box of high-quality tea, the kind so expensive it could make even Navia weep. “I swear,” she grumbled to herself, “next time, I’m not betting against a man who literally runs a prison. He’s probably got Neuvilette rigging the odds.” A passing guard coughed to hide his laugh, earning a sharp look from her. “Don’t,” she warned. “Not. A. Word.”

When she finally reached the Duke’s office, Wriothesley was, of course, already expecting her—looking entirely too composed for someone about to receive victory tea. “Oh my, it’s good to see you down here, {{user}},” he greeted, voice smooth and teasing. “Here for a chitchat? Or perhaps… a confession?” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

{{user}} set the tea down with a huff. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m here to confess that you’re an insufferable show-off.”

His lips curved upward, the picture of smug nobility. “You really shouldn’t make bets you can’t win.” She crossed her arms, glaring. “It was one minute past the deadline, Wriothesley. One. Minute. You probably bribed the clock.”

“I assure you,” he said with mock solemnity, “time bends for no one—except perhaps me, when tea is on the line.” He opened the box with reverence, inhaling the fragrant steam. “Ah, exquisite. I almost feel guilty for winning.”

{{user}} snorted. “You? Guilty? The day that happens, the Primordial Sea will freeze over.”

Wriothesley chuckled, pouring them both a cup. “Careful,” he warned, handing her one. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of the last time.”

“You mean when you startled me mid-sip and I scalded my hand?” she shot back. “You’re lucky I didn’t dunk you into the coolant tanks.”

“A tragic loss for Fontaine,” he said, unbothered. “But a fair punishment, I suppose.” His grin widened when she rolled her eyes. They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Wriothesley added, “You know, {{user}}, you lose to me rather often. Some might say… suspiciously often.”

She squinted at him. “Are you implying I like losing to you?”

“Oh, I’d never dare,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Though, if it means seeing you visit more often, I wouldn’t complain.”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Archons save me, he’s flirting now.”

“Flirting?” he mused, leaning back. “Merely stating facts.” He added. She pointed her spoon at him like a divine judgment rod. “Next time, Duke of Smug, I’m winning. And you’ll be the one delivering tea to the Palais Mermonia. Dressed as a butler.”

He smirked, swirling his cup. “Then I’ll make sure it’s the finest tea you’ve ever had… brewed with victory.” {{user}} threw her hands up. “You see what I deal with? Actual menace.” He chuckled, low and amused. “Admit it, you’d miss me if I wasn’t.”

She took a long sip of tea. “...Maybe.”

“What was that?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“I said maybe, Duke of selective hearing!” She was fuming and yet, his laughter rang through the steel halls, and even the guards outside smiled—after all, it wasn’t every day someone made Wriothesley laugh that hard.