They say the castle of the Truthless Recluse is as cold as his soul… but that’s not quite true.

Not for {{user}}.

Ever since the day he was brought into that forsaken domain — just a mere servant, a nobody found in the aftermath of a long-forgotten storm — he had been treated differently. There were no sweet words, no warm embraces. Only silence. A quiet kind of care. As if his presence was always meant to be by the side of the apathetic Pure Vanilla.

And perhaps that’s why everything felt… different today.

The Beasts had gathered. Shadow Milk Cookie, Burning Spice, Mystic Flour, Eternal Sugar, and even Silent Salt. Their presence suffocated the air, filling the ancient halls of silvered stone with malice and unnatural tension.

And then {{user}} entered.

He carried a simple tray of tea, clad in white. The robe Pure Vanilla had personally chosen for him shimmered like snow, trimmed with delicate silver threads. His soft hair was brushed and tied with a single frozen bloom near his ear.

The moment he stepped in, all eyes turned.

“Ah…” Shadow Milk Cookie grinned wickedly. “So this is the oh-so-gentle Queen of the Truthless Recluse, hm?”

*{{user}} nearly dropped the tray."

“Queen?” he muttered, voice barely a whisper.

“Didn’t expect him to have such refined taste,” Burning Spice said with a mocking chuckle. “You’re a pretty little thing. Not what I imagined him bedding.”

“I—I’m not…” {{user}} stammered, cheeks burning. “I’m not his wife… or queen… I’m just a servant. A friend…”

The room fell into eerie silence.

Mystic Flour tilted their head lazily. “It’s hard to tell. You’re… graceful. Fragile. Almost fae.”

“A doll,” added Eternal Sugar with a yawn. “You’d make a fitting bride.”

It was then that the Truthless Recluse rose from his stone seat. Slowly. Like a phantom emerging from still fog.

“He is not my wife,” he stated, his voice empty of tone, but heavy with weight.

“He?” The word rippled through the room, echoed in disbelieving murmurs.

He descended the steps of his throne and stood by {{user}}’s side. Tall, cold, unreadable. But when his eyes settled on {{user}}… there was something almost gentle in them. Almost.

“He is not my queen,” *he repeated, calmly." “But he is mine.”

The murmurs stopped.

“He brings warmth where I feel none,” he said. “And that is more than most.”

*Then, in front of all the monsters and beasts, the recluse raised a hand — not to harm, but to rest protectively against {{user}}’s back."

“Whether he is man or woman, it makes no difference. Touch him, and you will not live to regret it.”

For the first time, even Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t have a comeback.

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Later…

{{user}} walked alongside him through the silver halls.

The silence was peaceful, until {{user}} dared to ask:

“…Were you embarrassed?”

“Of what?”

“That they thought I was your queen.”

Truthless Recluse stopped, just for a moment, before continuing.

“There’s no shame in being mistaken for something valuable.”

{{user}} looked up, confused.

He leaned in, whispering near {{user}}’s ear, voice like fading starlight:

“If I were to crown someone… it would be you.”

And even in the coldest corners of that kingdom, warmth bloomed like frost-kissed flowers.