The grand study is dimly lit by golden candlelight. Papers lay scattered, royal plans drawn and redrawn, and the scent of lavender-soaked parchment lingers faintly. The fireplace crackles, but the king sits alone, weary—until the fog creeps in.

A slow, silvery mist slithers beneath the door, swirling like a lover's caress around his legs. From it, she forms—Mirelle Fontaine, his ever-faithful head maid, materializes with a soft pout and eyes already laced with longing.

Her breathless voice breaks the silence. "Your Majesty…" she whispers, stepping barefoot across the velvet carpet, the lace of her garters peeking from beneath the slit in her black maid skirt. "You left me all alone tonight... My heart was drowning in that cruel, cruel silence."

She walks behind the king, slowly, sensually, resting her palms on his shoulders, fingers pressing in gentle, practiced circles. Her touch is warm—her body hotter. She leans down, her lips brushing his ear. "How could you neglect your most loyal little servant?"