A warm evening breeze swept through the spacious corridors of the Twilight Manor, flickering the flames of the magic lamps.
Carol walked slightly ahead of her group, habitually ignoring the noise behind her. Tomorrow they were scheduled for another descent to the middle floors, and her team, as usual, was discussing preparations. Or rather, two were discussing, while the third was trying to get her attention.
"...and right then Captain Finn just swung his spear, and a whole mob of monsters went flying!" Leo proclaimed, his eyes shining as he waved his arms around as if he had just broken through enemy lines himself. "I can do that too! You'll see, Carol, tomorrow I'll show you a real masterclass in polearm combat!"
The spearman practically radiated youthful maximalism. He was trying his hardest to seem cooler than he actually was, casting timid, hopeful glances at the swordswoman.
Carol didn't even turn her head. Her face remained an impenetrable mask.
"Yeah, sure you will. Unless you trip over your own cloak again, hero," snickered Alice, walking next to him. The archer and Leo's childhood friend was openly amused, watching his pathetic attempts to hit on their icy teammate.
"Hey! That only happened once!" the spearman protested, blushing furiously.
"Guys, let's not fight," Kyle intervened softly. The tall, broad-shouldered guy with a heavy shield on his back patted Leo on the shoulder in a placating manner. He had always been the glue for this trio of childhood friends. When the commander assigned Carol to them to balance the group, it was Kyle who made sure there was no discord within the squad. "Leo, save your energy for the Dungeon. And Alice is right, you should watch your step more."
Carol exhaled quietly. They were loud, sometimes naive, but they did their jobs well. Kyle reliably took hits, Leo attacked decently from mid-range, and Alice provided accurate cover from the rear. A decent lineup, in which Carol herself was assigned the role of the main striking blade. She didn't need anything more from them.
She was just about to cut their chatter short and remind them about the equipment check, when she suddenly stopped. Kyle immediately froze right behind her, blocking his friends' path.
Moving down the corridor, with a heavy, measured step, was the main expeditionary group of the Loki Familia.
They were clearly in a hurry. The air around the elite was thick with the smell of blood. Carol silently stepped back against the wall, pulling her team with her, and respectfully bowed her head, giving way.
Captain Finn and Riveria walked in front, their faces darker than thunderclouds. Slightly behind them, Gareth and a couple of healers carried an improvised stretcher. On it lay a black-haired youth whose body was one continuous bloody mess of bandages.
And right behind them came Raul. In his arms, he carried another person.
When Raul drew level with Carol, time suddenly slowed to a crawl for her.
It was a boy, looking slightly younger than the one on the stretcher. His snow-white hair was matted with sweat and dirt, a grimace of lived-through terror was frozen on his face, and his right arm hung limply. He was weak. So fragile that it seemed he would break from a gust of wind.
But something in his pale face, in the curve of his lips pressed tightly together in his sleep, made Carol's heart skip a beat. The sound of the elite's footsteps, the whispers of her team—everything faded into the background. The image of this defenseless, broken boy with white hair permanently burned itself onto her retinas, searing a brand somewhere deep in her consciousness.
She followed the procession with a long, unblinking stare.
Loki's office smelled of expensive elven wine and incense. The Goddess sat on a wide sofa, her booted feet thrown up on the coffee table, boredly swirling the ruby liquid in her glass.
Carol stood before her, perfectly straight, hands clasped behind her back.
"I want to care for the white-haired boy in the infirmary," she repeated her request, her intonation unchanging.
Loki choked on her wine. She stared at her dependent as if she had sprouted a second head.
"What? You? The ice queen who can't stand people suddenly wants to play nurse?" The Goddess squinted craftily, baring a fanged smirk. "What, did your conscience wake up? Or do you just want to slack off on the next descent?"
"It is a personal request, Loki-sama."
The Goddess scoffed and set her glass down. A familiar, lustful spark ignited in her eyes. Usually, any of Loki's attempts to get handsy ended with Carol silently and brutally twisting her fingers or threatening to cut off something unnecessary. But today, the situation was different. The Goddess smelled vulnerability.
"Well, I don't know... Why should I indulge you?" Loki stretched lazily. "Unless you're willing to pay for such a favor, hm?"
She expected the usual cold rejection. But Carol took a step forward.
"If you permit it, I agree," the girl said in a flat, emotionless voice. She squared her shoulders, clearly signaling that she wouldn't resist.
Loki's jaw dropped. The Goddess's eyes widened comically, and her pupils trembled with unimaginable anticipation. Had this day really come?!
"Heh-heh-heh... You asked for it!" swallowing thick saliva, Loki slowly stood up.
She reached both hands forward. Her fingers twitched with greed. Millimeter by millimeter they approached the coveted prize—Carol's curves hidden beneath her evening clothes.
But at the very last moment, when there was almost no distance left to the fabric, Loki accidentally looked up and locked eyes with her victim.
The smile instantly melted off the Goddess's face.
There was no submission, no disgust, no fear in Carol's eyes. There was only an absolute, maddening abyss. A black hole of detachment, at the bottom of which swirled something so sick and dark that even the Deity felt an icy sweat crawl down her spine. The closer Loki brought her hands, the wider this abyss grew, as if ready to suck her inside and crush her. Carol was looking at her not as a Goddess, but rather as a slimy bug.
Loki's hands froze in the air. Her fingers began to tremble slightly, no longer from anticipation, but from primal discomfort.
"U-uh... screw you," the Goddess let out a nervous, hysterical chuckle, abruptly yanking her hands back and taking a step away. "You're seriously creepy today. I've completely lost my appetite. Go to your little runt, just get out of my sight!"
Carol gave a short, lifeless bow and walked out the door.
She "borrowed" the maid's uniform from one of the junior servants. The girl tried to protest, but one cold glare from Carol was enough for her to voluntarily part with the bonnet and apron.
Approaching the guest bed, Carol froze.
Bell was sleeping restlessly. He tossed on the pillow, his breathing erratic, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was clearly reliving the nightmare he had been through. His weakness, his fragility—all of it made a strange, burning sensation bloom in Carol's chest.
She slowly sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over, and weightlessly ran her fingers through his soft white hair.
"Cutie..." slipped from her lips, a quiet word filled with a bizarre mix of tenderness and possessiveness.
The subsequent moments became the sweetest nectar for her. She was constantly by his side, playing the role of the flawless, silent servant. Carol absorbed his every emotion. The way he timidly blushed. How his eyes filled with panic. How desperate and pathetic he looked in front of her Familia's elite.
He was so fragile. So helpless.
That is exactly why, when this whole farce with the trial began, Carol knew it was her chance. Loki pitted her against him to show the difference in strength. But Carol herself wanted only one thing: to push him to the brink. She wanted to beat the remaining hope out of him, to make him realize his absolute worthlessness.
She anticipated what a deliciously desperate expression would appear on his pretty face when he realized he would never join a Familia. That he was weak. That he could only submit.
And so they were in the arena.
At first, everything went according to her plan. She beat him. Backed him into a corner. Every strike with the wooden sword, every one of his ragged breaths brought her a twisted, sadistic pleasure. Her icy mask cracked; she was enjoying the process.
And then she decided to amp up the pressure. Carol waited for him to fall. For tears and long-awaited despair to freeze in his red eyes.
But he didn't fall.
In a split second, everything flipped. He didn't just refuse to give up—he flared to life.
Meeting his eyes in the moment of his furious counterattack, Carol saw a flame. A pure, unbearably bright flame of stubbornness. He wasn't even considering the option of surrendering. He stubbornly refused to accept such a future.
Two wooden tips crossed at her throat. He pinned her. He won.
A deep blush burned Carol's cheeks. In that second, when his searing gaze pierced right through her, something inside her finally and irreversibly broke. And when Bell, his strength entirely spent, collapsed unconscious right onto her chest, Carol didn't even try to push him away.
She lay on the stone slabs of the arena, feeling the weight of his body, listening to his ragged breathing. Her eyes widened, staring up at the blue sky. Her heart pounded like crazy.
He is mine. That thought throbbed in her temples, eclipsing everything else.
The softness of his cheek. The smell of dust and sweat. And that incredible, scorching contrast between external weakness and an inner core of steel.
When Bell began to come to with a quiet groan, his eyes slowly fluttered open. Carol looked down at him, carefully tucking away a stray dark lock of her hair. Her face remained habitually cold, but inside, a true hurricane was raging.
"What a pity," she said in an icy tone, looking into his sleepy, uncomprehending eyes. "I was hoping you'd never wake up."