Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"You must make a debut in a marriage mart next season!"

"No, father. I do not want to participate."

"This is an order! You've reject every proposal from those gentlemen, now you are considered a spinster be glad the higher up still allow you to join."

The horizon seemed endless, the more you chased it the further it drifted away. The gentle breeze became your companion on that mighty blue ocean, carrying messages from every corner of the world. With seagulls soaring through the clouds as your friends, you enjoyed the sunset on deck. The orange rays of the sun painted the evening sky as the waves grew wilder, rising toward the tide. You could not turn your gaze away from such beauty, wondering whether you would ever experience a moment like that again in the future.

The quarrel between you and your father still echoed in your mind. You were not a daughter who obeyed without question, yet you could not simply defy him either. You were not that bold and did not possess such courage. Like a bird trapped in its cage… no, you were more like a puppet controlled by your parents to fulfill their desires, or a pawn on the chessboard of aristocratic society. You were anything but their cherished daughter, and they thought you owed them gratitude for birthing you into nobility. But what meaning did that hold if your freedom was restrained?

Since you were 17, your father Outlook III who happened to be a Baron has always tried to arrange your marriage with other noble families, particularly first in liners or heirs to certain titles. He even once betrothed you to a young and handsome Duke, who wholeheartedly agreed and personally asked for your hand in marriage. Yet you refused every proposals because those were never made of true love, but rather business transactions with their own interests at stake.

Perhaps your mother was right, those romance novels you often read changed your perception of relationships, love, and marriage. Most of them told stories of princesses rescued by a prince charming or a knight in shining armor destined for their happy endings, and they made you dreamed of being saved by your own prince or knight. But as you grew older, such fantasies remained no more than innocent youthful imaginings and you stopped daydreaming. Still, deep within the depths of your heart a silent belief in true love lingered in it

Now you are 25 years old, and society considered you a spinster. Truly ironic, wasn’t it? 25 is not that old yet society’s opinion seemed to drag you down and condemn you as they said that your womb had already dried up and that you were no longer in a woman’s prime. As if the sole purpose of our life was only to satisfy lust and serve as a vessel or even machine to produce childern. The misogynistic environment, steeped in the heavy weight of patriarchal culture among the nobility, torments not only you but also countless other women.

That grand ship struck the unstable, unpredictable waves, carrying you toward the unknown, a place so strange it felt as though it existed only in fairy tales. Correction, not the kind of fairy tale that ended with “happily ever after,” but rather something closer to a nightmare. This ship was taking you to the Holy Land of Mary Geoise. All you knew was that the place lay thousands of feet above sea level, the nest of the Celestial Dragons, and a living hell for ordinary people who were not of their kind. Even high-ranking nobles and rulers of nations were not spared from their cruelty.

As you looked back at the horizon, for some reason, the thought of your late younger brother slipped into your mind when you considered your prospects in the marriage mart. Sabo, huh? Perhaps if he had still been alive, he would have been 22 years old now. But the news of his death remained fresh in your memory even though twelve years had passed. There was no grave to mourn at, no ashes to scatter, only the fleeting memories of your childhood together to hold on to.

You hated them! All those damned Celestial Dragons had killed your brother, just because he was passed on their way when he was try to sailed. Such a demon claimed to be a god, they were not wanted to be called a human. And worse, your parents seemed indifferent to it and just going about their lives as if nothing had happened. Truly barbaric, cold-hearted, and cruel. You wished you could curse your parents for everything, for your brother’s death, for the pressure and expectations they placed upon you, for all the coercion and poor decisions they made on your behalf. Yet once again, you did not have the courage to resist. You could only wear the mask of the obedient daughter, even though in your heart that mask choked you unbearably.

The air grew colder as the sun had fully set, erasing its orange glow from the sky and replacing it with the darkness of night. The waves became larger than before, shown by the ship rocking with greater frequency. That expensive fur coat was not enough to keep you warm, even though you also wore several layers of clothing beneath it.

Perhaps it was time for you to return to your cabin, yet the stars scattered across the sky caught your attention. The crescent moon stood as the leader of the constellation’s formation, one of the ancient methods of navigation that was even more accurate than a compass or a Log Pose. You recognized several of them—there was Orion, Sabo’s favorite constellation. He had never stopped talking about navigation, and you had always been fascinated by the subject. But your mother had always given you sharp looks and remarks, saying that navigation was not suited for a girl.

“Darling, why are you still on the ship’s deck? The air was getting colder, come inside! We do not want you to catch a cold.”

That soft yet forced voice you would recognize anywhere, it was the Didit’s voice, the woman who had given birth to you into this world. But did she deserve to be called a mother when she had never raised you, never nurtured you, and only sought to use you as a tool for your family’s nobility? Even your nanny had known you better than both of your parents combined, until the day you reached the proper age for marriage and your parents coldly dismissed her.

You knew too well that all her attention was fake. Your mother did not care for you as a mother affection toward her daughter, she only cared that you would not fall ill before your debut and would ruin your marriage prospects. Once again, you wore the mask of the obedient daughter and nodded.

“Yes, Mother.”

With heavy steps you walked away from the deck to return to your cabin that has been prepared by your family’s servants.

_____________________________________________________

“The last marriage mart season was not so impressive. There was not a single girl suitable for my son, none worthy of bearing the title of Saint Figarland, and none fit to give birth to the heir of this family.”

Saint Figarland Garling calmly voiced his disappointment about the marriage mart of the past season. Year after year, not a single debutante managed to capture his son’s heart or meet the standards of becoming a Figarland’s wife. Even the so-called diamond of the season, praised as the most perfect future lady of the house, was not enough. Perhaps he was greedy and expected too much from the commoners of the lower world, yet this family deserved nothing less than the best.

The family dinner was attended by only two people without warmth or affection, only the cold glitter of luxury at the dining table. Of the many dishes served, more than three quarters of them would remain untouched. It did not matter that most of the slaves in this land starved to death—let alone the slaves, millions of common people suffered the same fate every day while the World Nobles wasted food without a second thought.

Meanwhile, the red-haired man who sat at the other end only responded with a nod and a murmur. Shamrock, the sole heir of the Figarland family sipped his wine and seemed unbothered by his father’s words. His eyes focused on his father as they discussed the matter. He was already used to such things and did not mind the silence in this grand mansion.

Their relationship was never colored by warm embraces or lighthearted jokes like ordinary families. Since childhood, Shamrock grew up under his father’s sharp gaze not as a beloved son, but as an heir being forged. Every conversation at the dining table more often resembled a brief meeting about plans, targets, and strategies for the future rather than a light exchange about the day.

The affection Shamrock received was limited to nods of approval when his academic abilities improved with each exam, when his physical strength grew with every training session, when he completed his tasks flawlessly without a single mistake, and when he slowly climbed the ranks of authority within the Holy Knights’ organization. Even the word ‘proud’ was never uttered from Garling’s lips and Shamrock seemed uninterested in earning his father’s affection or recognition.

Though devoid of tenderness there was an undeniable bond stronger than a mere blood. They stood side by side like two figures who needed one another to safeguard a legacy, to build the future, and to ensure the family name remained untarnished. In the silence they both knew that their relationship was not merely that of father and son, but of two partners destined to work together. How long such a bond would continue to replace the warmth that should have been there neither of them could tell.

“Perhaps a lady of the house is not really necessary in our family. As for an heir, I can simply pay a servant or a courtesan to bear my child.” Shamrock stated this casually, as if he were discussing the dinner menu.

He was never interested in being bound by marriage, for whenever he needed sexual release, he only had to call for a servant (a slave) or visit a brothel where someone would fulfill his desires. He did not need a wife for that. Yet, if his father told him to find a bride suitable for him, then he would do so for the sake of preserving the family’s legacy.

Garling muttered while cutting his steak with the silverware, “I will give those girls one more chance next season. Perhaps there will be a promising debutante. But if they do not meet expectations, then I will reconsider your suggestion.”

After listening attentively to his father’s words, the son once again nodded, professional in demeanor, like a businessman who had just received counsel from another businessman.
“Yes, Father.”

Chapter Text

Tight, choking, and difficult to breathe that was what you felt when you wore this corset, not unlike the feeling of wearing the many masks you had put on depending on the situation. The corset was so tight that it shaped your waist into an unrealistic form. People said no one wanted a waist smaller than nine inches; even breathing required tremendous effort, let alone dancing on the ballroom floor later.

Yet it could not be denied that the debut gown you wore that evening was truly beautiful. The white gown shimmered like morning dew frozen into pearls. Made of soft satin that fell gracefully, the gown radiated purity and elegance. The empire-line cut flowed elegantly from the bust to the floor, while the embroidery on the shoulders and waist added a touch of unspoken luxury. The entire gown was adorned with intricate sequins of crystal and other precious gems, as if illustrating the complexity of your thoughts at that moment.

Accessories, too, completed your appearance. Your hair was styled into an elegant bun, leaving a few strands to frame your face. Atop it sat a gleaming white-gold tiara, like the crown of a princess you had once dreamed of. A simple diamond necklace graced your neck, its jewel dangling upon your chest, yet still allowing the gown itself to remain the centerpiece. On your ears, a pair of diamond earrings swayed like leaves in the wind. And the long white gloves that wrapped from fingertips to elbows added an undeniable aura of nobility.

You were dressed up like a bridal doll by your family’s servants, under the direct supervision of your mother, who made sure the makeup achieved nothing less than perfection. It felt unbearably awkward—you only wished the process would end soon so you could regain your personal space. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, all the preparations were finished, though for you it felt as if they would never end.

Leaving the guest house, you and your parents traveled along the Red Line in a horse-drawn carriage, heading toward Pangaea Castle where the first ball of the season would be held. The coachman skillfully controlled the horses, while the footman studied the map and directed the way. Meanwhile, the passengers inside sat in silence no one asked if you felt nervous, no one inquired about your state of mind. Why would they care? The only thing they worried about was their scheme of ascending into the ranks of the Celestial Dragons through your marriage prospect.

You did not attempt to break that awkward silence either the stillness was far more bearable than enduring their scolding and passive-aggressive remarks. Throughout the journey, you occasionally stole glances out the window. Several other carriages could be seen traveling in the same direction, their horses’ hooves striking the ground in rhythm with the wheels intertwining with the sound of your own carriage belonging to other debutantes bound for the same destination. 

The scenery you saw from the window varied beyond the other carriages. There were luxurious residential complexes, flower gardens where a few people strolled leisurely, and before long, Pangaea Castle came into view from the distance. This was it, the place where your entire fate would change the moment you set foot inside.

The very heart of the world’s civilization stood tall, as if declaring its strength, power, and the secrets hidden within. The grand structure displayed intricate architecture, its soaring towers piercing the heavens as though they sought to tear through the clouds. White marble accents blended with emerald green adding to the air of opulence even from afar.

The gates opened wide for the guests and debutantes, stretching as far as the eye could see, firm and imposing like the fortress of a civilization guarding itself from foreign threats. Was such a defense truly necessary? You did not know. Your thoughts lingered only on finding a way to endure this marriage season.

As your carriage drew closer to the castle, you adjusted your gown slightly to keep it flawless. You looked in the mirror one last time to ensure your makeup and hairstyle still appeared neat, highlighting your beauty. Meanwhile, your parents once again inspected your appearance in the finest detail, from head to toe, as though their very lives depended on it. But you ignored their gaze and focused only on yourself.

You picked several stems of fresh roses that had just been bought on the way here at your personal request. Specifically, you asked for red ones. Red roses were your favorite flowers, symbolizing passion, courage, strength, and love. Everything you desired for could be described by this single flower. You closed your eyes as you inhaled their rich fragrance, as if you truly stood in the middle of a beautiful rose garden. Carefully, you cut the stems with scissors, leaving only the blossoms without thorns.

After collecting a few, you tucked the roses into your bosom from the neckline of your dress one by one, creating a unique fragrance that belonged to you alone with this little trick. You had already worn a generous amount of perfume, yet its scent would not last for long. This was not the first time you used this method, and because of it, those who passed by you often felt captivated by your fragrance. You could even do it while keeping your gaze fixed elsewhere, just as you did now, as though it was your subtle way of hypnotizing someone into submission.

Just as you slipped the last rose into place, the carriage stopped right in front of the castle’s entrance. The footman opened the door and set down the step, raising his hand to assist you. You rose from your seat and carefully took your steps down, supported by the footman who held your hand. 

Your eyes lowered for a moment, focused only on your footing, and when they finally met stable ground you lifted your head with poise and confidence. Your gaze fixed upon the staircase draped in red carpet, laid out to welcome the debutantes and other honored guests. Garlands of flowers, carefully arranged, adorned the length of the steps as though they themselves were hosts greeting the arrivals.

There was no denying that your heart beat faster than usual, while your feelings tangled in a confusion that no words could truly explain. A mix of resentment at being forced to participate in this marriage mart, a surge of self-assurance tinged with a trace of nervousness, and a flicker of hope that circumstances might shift in some unexpected way.

Without glancing back to check whether your parents had stepped down from the carriage, you began your ascent toward the first step with deliberate care. The sound of your heels rang out distinctly with each movement—three inches high, perhaps? You could not quite remember. 

Step by step, you walked forward, keeping your breath steady despite the tightness in your chest, until you reached the castle’s main entrance. A guard stood ready at his post, greeting you and your parents politely while offering to escort you to the ballroom.

“Welcome to Pangea Castle, Sir, Madam, and Young Lady. May I escort you to the ballroom?”

You nodded politely and accepted his offer. “Of course, thank you.”

“This way, Miss,” the guard said, gesturing toward the ballroom with his arm.

You followed him through the castle’s endless corridor. You noticed that his pace seemed to adjust to yours so you wouldn’t fall behind how considerate of him. It seemed that he possessed more kindness than all the Celestial Dragons combined.

When you finally arrived in front of the ballroom, you saw a line of debutantes waiting for their turn to shine at their very first ball. The queue was long, giving you a brief moment to calm yourself and think of a way to survive your debut without having to deal with the Celestial Dragons. Perhaps you would avoid the crowd or even hide in a corner if necessary.

Your cunning thoughts wanted to ruin the plans your parents had built for years to gain luxury and status in the land of the Celestial Dragons, sabotaging your own marriage prospects. But all of that existed only in your head, because you didn’t even have the courage, not even the slightest, to actually do something about it.

You briefly glanced at the other noble girls who would face the same fate as you, participating in the marriage market held by the Celestial Dragons so they could find potential partners. This method was quite popular for quickly elevating one’s social status. How pathetic, you thought. Marriage, which you believed to be a sacred bond sealed with vows before God should have been filled with love and affection, not turned into a mere tool of transaction to obtain what they desired.

Most of these debutantes were impatient to take part in the event. These young ladies had been polished since birth to become perfect wives, ideal in every sense. You had been raised the same way since childhood, yet you never truly obeyed everything your parents said but neither were you a rebellious daughter. They could only sigh in confusion at your unpredictable behavior.

Behind the open doors, the world’s nobles had already gathered inside the grand hall, each with their own purpose. Some sought talented young ladies to marry, others came to make deals with fellow nobles, and some were simply there to pass the time. Conversations overlapped with music and the gentle clinking of glasses. The welcoming melody for guests and debutantes was played beautifully by the musicians, blending harmoniously with the sound of footsteps as the young ladies entered the hall one by one.

Figarland Shamrock was also present at the first ball of the season, only to honor an invitation from the Gorosei and a request from his father. He stood tall, wearing a formal black suit with a matching vest and a white shirt underneath. A black tie hung neatly from his neck down to his chest, adding an undeniable air of authority. His polished black shoes gleamed under the chandelier light, making him look like a nobleman born to command every gaze in the room.

His long crimson hair flowed past his shoulders, smooth and glossy, giving him an aura of both sharpness and elegance. The front strands framed his face with long side bangs that fell slightly across his eyes, enhancing his mysterious appearance. A small braid pulled part of his hair back neatly, creating a refined contrast with the rest that cascaded freely. His hands were covered with black gloves matching his suit, completing the impeccable image.

The young master stood there with composure and pride, fully aware of his duty to carry on the Figarland name, that was the only reason he was here. His crimson eyes scanned the debutantes one by one with a gaze that felt like silent judgment. One girl looked far too confident, as if she believed she could get anything she wanted through her beauty alone. Another seemed painfully awkward, afraid that even breathing might count as a mistake. A few others had empty, lifeless eyes. They were clearly forced to participate in this marriage mart. But why should he care enough to look at them so closely, anyway? 

The ball had not yet begun and many debutantes still waited outside the hall, but several girls had already approached him. Their voices were deliberately soft and gentle, crafted to display their femininity as they fluttered their lashes at him. One girl even waved her fan toward her chest, clearly hoping to draw Shamrock’s gaze to her cleavage. They were all practically throwing themselves at the commander of the Holy Knights.

This was one of the reasons Shamrock disliked the idea of marriage. These girls, though born into noble families, had no dignity at all. Their minds had been washed clean to become puppets chasing wealth, titles, and fame. He was certain that their parents were eyeing him, using their daughters as bait to secure power and fortune. Shamrock excused himself under the pretense of getting a drink perhaps he needed something strong after dealing with those debutantes.

Now it was your turn to enter the ballroom. Your parents handed the invitation to the announcer, while a servant tied a dance card around your wrist. You felt like livestock being measured by how many men invited you to dance the more partners you had on the dance floor, the more desirable you were considered to be. Perhaps next time you should bring a pen to write down random names, just so you could politely refuse an invitation with the excuse that your card was already full.

Your thoughts instantly refocused on the event when the announcer called out your name.

“Miss (Y/N) of the Goa Kingdom, East Blue. Accompanied by her beloved parents, Lord Outlook III and Lady Didit.”

Beloved? You almost laughed at the irony, though you forced yourself to remain composed as you stepped into the grand ballroom for your debut. You were certain that several pairs of eyes were already fixed upon you. Every step you took was measured and precise like a deer entering the lion’s den careful not to become its prey.

Your body language spoke of confidence, though not in the arrogant way of a pick-me girl. For a brief moment, the world seemed to stop. Noble mothers and fathers examined you with sharp, calculating eyes, deciding whether you were worthy of their sons, while the young princes and noble heirs tried to hide their admiration behind unreadable smiles.

Your white gown embroidered with shimmering gold glowed under the chandeliers, every fold of the fabric moved as if it danced along with your graceful steps. The orchestra played softly, the sound of violins and harps filling the air as though welcoming your first step into a world built on pretense, false promises, manipulation, and cruelty.

Your eyes scanned the room, mapping every corner while quietly planning an escape route should any Celestial Dragon dare to approach you. You had already secured your hiding spot in the corner of the ballroom just as you had planned from the very beginning.

The entire process made you a little thirsty. Your eyes fell upon the table where light snacks and drinks were served, and several guests were already sipping from their glasses. Ignoring the glances and whispers directed at you, you walked toward the refreshment table, planning to take a glass of drink and quietly slip away to a corner to avoid attention.

Meanwhile Shamrock with a glass of rum in his hand, finally managed to take a small breath after being overwhelmed by the girls desperately trying to capture his attention. They were no different from the prostitutes in the brothels he often visited all competing to satisfy his desires and earn his money. Perhaps it was time to conclude that this year, too, there would be no woman worthy of becoming Lady Figarland. 

Lost in his own thoughts, he failed to notice the people passing by the table. He didn’t realize that a woman, the very one who would change his life had accidentally brushed past him. It happened in less than ten seconds, yet it left an impression that he would remember for the rest of his life.

Roses. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t possibly be so intoxicated from a single glass of rum that he hallucinated the scent of blooming roses when there were none nearby. It wasn’t just the cheap perfume worn by the debutantes around him, but it was the fragrance of fresh roses like those in a garden. Exotic, intoxicating, yet calming, leaving a mark that lingered in his mind long after the moment passed.

To be certain, his sharp eyes scanned every floral arrangement around him, lilies, tulips, edelweiss, daisies, orchids, and even some rare species he could not identify. They were all fragrant of course yet none of them carried the same scent of roses he had caught just moments ago. Once again, Shamrock looked around and there it was! Roses, arranged beautifully among other flowers, stood on another table across the room.

With confident strides, he walked toward the table where the roses were placed. He didn’t need to lean in and sniff like a hound to compare. Without even touching them and with just a single breath the man immediately realized that the fragrance of these roses was different from the one that had lingered in his mind. These roses carried a sweet, soft, and simple scent nothing like the wild, daring, and complex aroma that still haunted his senses.

What made it different? Shamrock knew well that it was the scent of roses, but what made that fragrance so distinct from the one before him now? Once again, he inspected the arrangement with his sharp eyes. The flowers were crafted in matching pastel tones, pink, white, bright yellow, and peach. Still, something was missing

The chime of a small bell rang through the corner of the ballroom, marking the official beginning of the dance. Instantly, the murmur of conversation that had filled the air faded away, replaced by the graceful swell of an orchestra playing the first notes — a grand waltz that seemed to make every crystal on the chandelier tremble.

The ballroom came alive, a sea of color and light. Silk gowns shimmered in soft pastel hues, flowing elegantly as their wearers moved, while dark suits stood beside them in striking contrast. The polished marble floor gleamed so brilliantly it reflected the glow of countless candles, making every dancer appear as though they floated above glass.

As the first pair stepped into the center of the floor, the crowd parted gracefully to give way. A polite applause followed, before more couples joined in forming a mesmerizing swirl of motion, like constellations spinning across a night sky. The ballroom had become a stage where love, reputation, and ambition were all wagered with every turn and step.

You, however, had already secured your spot at the far end of the room, away from the center of attention. From there, you quietly observed the atmosphere while sipping from the glass you had just taken from the refreshment table. You couldn’t care less where your parents were perhaps off somewhere, scheming to approach one of the Celestial Dragons, pushing forward yet another of their marriage plans for the sake of wealth and status, just as they always had.

Despite the romantic air that hung over the debut, you never once forgot the cruelty of the so-called nobles who ruled this world, monsters whose sins could never be atoned for. Slavery, racism, genocide and countless other atrocities. If one were to list them all, the record would span volumes upon volumes, a saga chronicling the barbarity of the world’s so-called elite.

You could clearly hear the voices of the Celestial Dragons, unfiltered and disgustingly loud.

“Look at those debutantes,” one of them sneered. “In their white gowns, they look like helpless swans waiting to be devoured by crocodiles.”

“How pitiful,” another laughed. “I’ll play the role of a charming suitor, only to shatter their innocence later.”

“They dream of becoming respectable wives? Nonsense. I’ll turn one of them into my slave instead.”

“That one has a fine ass and tits” a third added crudely. “Perhaps I’ll take some pleasure in her.”

Their conversation was revolting every word dripping with arrogance and lust. They spoke as if women were nothing more than objects of desire, not living beings with dignity. It was as if they had forgotten they themselves had been born from the womb of a woman. Such vile and backward thinking was precisely what made women feel unsafe, often condemned to silent suffering. You thought bitterly that it was far better to remain unmarried for life than to wed a man with such a misogynistic mind.

You were so consumed by anger and disgust that you failed to notice the music shift, the tempo slowing, softening into something tender and romantic. Yet even that gentle melody could not hide the ugliness of the truth, nor the cruelty of those men. You took a deep breath, willing yourself to endure this cursed season — to prove to your parents that their plans were absurd and meaningless. Perhaps then, they would finally open their eyes and allow you to choose your own path.

Song after song flowed from the musicians, couples gliding across the dance floor with effortless grace, while you remained in your quiet corner, unaware that a pair of eyes had been fixed on you all this time. At last, their owner began to move, his heavy steps drawing closer.

“Hiding from the crowd, young lady?” a voice drawled behind you. “Or is this your way of drawing attention? Because you’ve certainly caught mine.”

You turned toward the source of the voice — only to find one of the Celestial Dragons approaching. You could not lie to yourself: the sight of him was repulsive. His body was grossly overweight, his face sagging with a double chin, and his hair styled in an absurd fashion. From his posture alone you could tell he was very drunk. The reek of alcohol clung to his breath, saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth, and most revolting of all, a string of mucus threatened to spill into his lips. By appearance, the man looked far older than your father though you neither knew nor cared to know his true age.

It took every ounce of your self-control not to recoil or gag. You lowered your eyes to avoid looking at his face, but your gesture was disastrously misunderstood. He took your averted gaze as a sign of shyness even modesty. A smirk curved his lips, his bloated face twisting with misplaced confidence, assuming your silence was a sign of interest when reality could not be further from the truth.

He began to boast, words tumbling from his mouth without pause. From his drunken bragging you learned his name: Saint Charlos, a man embodying the very worst traits of the Celestial Dragons. He flaunted his wealth, his newly acquired slaves, his private island reserved for hunting and without your having spoken a single word, he had already crossed into a subject far more indecent.

“You have fine hips for bearing children,” he slurred, his eyes crawling over you. “So there’s no need for small talk or dancing. You’ll come with me as my eighth wife.”

This time, you could not hide the look of shock on your face. Not only had this wretch verbally harassed you, but he had also brazenly declared that you would become one of his many wives — without knowing your name, without ever hearing your voice, without even attempting to know who you were. How could a man sink this low? His words made your skin crawl; you could no longer bear it.

Your eyes darted around, searching for an excuse, any excuse to escape without offending him.

“My apologies, but I believe my father is calling for me,” you said, setting your glass on the nearest table before stepping away from the man’s loathsome grip.

But Charlos paid no attention to your discomfort. Instead, he grinned as if he had just won a grand prize, following behind you with heavy, lumbering steps.

“Perfect,” he said smugly. “We can discuss your dowry with him then.”

Shit! The bastard was following you refusing to take your polite rejection seriously. Or perhaps he was simply too ignorant to understand it. You tried to quicken your pace, but your gown and high heels were of no help. Sooner or later, he would catch up, forcing himself upon you. Yet you found a sliver of consolation in the fact that his overweight frame made it difficult for him to move quickly.

“Wait, miss… what is your name?” he called after you. “I won’t ask for much, just a few hundred million!”

How shameless! After ignoring your rejection, he now dared to chase after your family’s fortune under the guise of a forced marriage dowry. Your worth, your dignity was being priced like an object at auction. Fury and disgust burned within you, nearly boiling over. You rubbed your gloved palms together anxiously at your wrists, trying to calm yourself before the trembling in your hands gave you away. 

Your anxiety clouded your mind so much that you barely noticed where you were going or even how frantic your movements had become. All you could think about was finding a way to escape from Charlos. You didn’t realize that your dance card had slipped from your wrist, nor that the lingering scent of roses trailing behind you had caught the attention of someone, someone who was about to change everything.

A man with long crimson hair had been quietly observing the chaos of the ballroom when he noticed a young debutante trying to avoid something or someone. His sharp eyes caught sight of the small card that had fallen from her wrist onto the polished floor. Normally, Figarland Shamrock had no interest in meddling in other people’s affairs. But the moment the young woman brushed past him, every ounce of his indifference shattered.

As you passed by him, Shamrock caught the scent he had been chasing all evening — the same intoxicating fragrance that had haunted him since the start of the ball. The garden of roses he’d imagined before was real, and it lived within you. There was no mistake. This was the woman who had nearly driven him mad with curiosity. It would be a crime to let you disappear without at least knowing your name.

Before you could run any farther, he bent down, picked up your fallen dance card, and turned toward you.

“Excuse me, miss. Your dance card—”

At the sound of another man’s voice, you stopped in your tracks. Turning your head slightly, you saw a gentleman extending his hand toward you and for a brief moment, you assumed he was inviting you to dance. That was when you caught a glimpse of Charlos still lumbering after you, his face flushed and dripping with sweat.

Your mind raced. There was no place left to run… but there was one way, one brilliant way to turn this situation to your favor.

“Dance? Of course, Sir.”

Before the red-haired man in front of you could even finish his sentence, you hastily agreed to whatever he was about to say assuming it was an invitation to dance and placed your hand upon his.

Your sudden words startled the commander for a moment; your behavior toward a World Noble was rather… unusual. He had only meant to return your fallen dance card and perhaps exchange a few polite words. Yet, the misunderstanding began to make sense once he realized you thought he had invited you to dance. From the corner of his eye, Shamrock noticed your obvious attempt to avoid Charlos and decided to play along with the situation.

Raising an intrigued eyebrow, Shamrock chose to join your little act. Your gloved hands intertwined before he gently released yours only to fasten the dance card back onto your wrist. He then wrote his own name upon it, officially marking that Saint Figarland Shamrock had claimed a dance with you.

In that moment, the two of you learned each other’s names without any need for introductions.

“Miss Y/N.”

“Saint Figarland Shamrock.”

Both of you silently repeated the names in your minds, trying to carve them deep into memory. With a mutual nod, your hands met once again as the gentleman guided you toward the dance floor, watching every one of your steps and adjusting his pace to match yours. Your eyes met your gazes locking in quiet intensity. The contrast between your eye colors was striking, and to Shamrock, it wasn’t only your scent that intoxicated him; your gaze, as deep and endless as the ocean, could easily drown him whole.

In an instant, he led you to the center of the ballroom, beneath the dazzling light of a crystal chandelier. Other couples soon followed, all sharing the same purpose. The grand hall stood witness to countless matchmaking seasons, yet this moment felt unlike any other.

You no longer cared how Charlos might react upon seeing you dance with another man one far more attractive in both face and presence. Hopefully, this little act would be enough to make him retreat from the so-called “competition” for your hand.

The waltz began to play, each instrument weaving into the next, creating a melody both intricate and beautifully romantic. The gentleman bowed slightly, lifting your hand and bringing it close to his lips. He kissed it softly, his gaze never leaving yours. You couldn’t lie to yourself though the dance had only just begun, your heart seemed to stop for a moment, only to race even faster afterward.

His other hand rested on your waist, guiding you gently closer to him. Your hand now lay upon his arm firm and steady. You could feel the strength beneath his attire, the result of years of disciplined training. Your first step felt cautious, as though the world itself were testing your courage. But as he led you, to your surprise, each movement became lighter than you ever imagined.

His steps began slowly, each forward motion measured and precise, while he guided you backward with an effortless grace. When Shamrock moved to the right, he subtly guided you to your left, the two of you moving in perfect rhythm with the music, forming a seamless harmony. The symmetry of your dance was so flawless it seemed as though you had practiced together countless times yet this was your first meeting on the dance floor.

He spun you gently, your gown swirling in a circle like the petals of a flower blooming in spring. Each time you returned to his arms, there was a quiet strength in his embrace, holding you as though the world could crumble around you but you would never fall.

The marble floor beneath your feet felt like a glass stage, reflecting your mirrored figures moving in perfect synchrony. You hadn’t expected it, but you found yourself enjoying every motion, every step, every turn. Without realizing it, a small smile appeared on your lips for the first time since your father had commanded you to attend this marriage mart.

Perhaps… this wasn’t so bad after all.

In the midst of the dance, the commander broke the silence between you. His voice struck like thunder on a clear day.

“It seems you owe me something, rose.”

You were taken aback by his words, surprise flickering across your face—something the gentleman surely noticed. “Pardon?”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Shamrock murmured, guiding you once again to move with the melody that floated in the air.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, though your steps never faltered, before looking up at him again with confusion clouding your expression. What debt was he talking about? And why did he call you ‘rose’? Did he mistake you for another woman by that name?

“First, I have no idea what you mean. And second, my name isn’t Rose, I—”

“Are you certain it isn’t?”

He cut you off so smoothly that you barely realized it until a heartbeat later. What is it with this dance and everyone interrupting sentences?

Shamrock’s lips curved into a faint, teasing smile as he let go of your waist, leaving you standing still for a brief moment, unsure whether to continue. Then, he began circling you slowly, deliberately his gaze tracing you from the crown of your head to the tips of your shoes, like a lion sizing up its prey before the pounce.

When he spoke again, his tone was low, laced with a charm that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Because this intoxicating scent of yours nearly drove me mad and made me question my own sanity all evening. A red rose, am I right?”

Damn, you hadn’t seen that coming at all. Even a Celestial Dragon, with all his arrogance and noble blood, seemed far from immune to your charm built only from a few simple tricks you’d learned from the beauty magazines Didit had bought for you. But the commander’s smooth flirtation? That was the cherry on top, sweet, unexpected, and dangerous. You didn’t even realize that the corners of your lips had lifted slightly, and a faint blush had begun to color your cheeks.

Shamrock circled you again with calm, measured steps, his eyes half-closed as he breathed in the scent of roses that clung to your presence, as if it were something heavenly. His expression peaceful, collected, yet carrying a trace of danger made you wonder who this man truly was.

Your eyes followed his every move, trying to predict his next motion. When he finally moved behind you and slipped from your line of sight, you turned your head slightly over your other shoulder, meeting his gaze once more with eyes that, somehow, felt like they had been waiting for him all along.

But… wasn’t this all happening too fast? Just minutes ago, you didn’t even know his name, and now you were dancing together beneath the glittering chandeliers as if the world had shrunk to fit only the two of you. Was this what they called courting in a marriage mart? You honestly had no idea, and deep down, you wished there were some kind of handbook for absurd situations like this.

You finally spoke, trying to mask the storm inside your chest with a calm tone. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, sir?”

Your question was met with a low, amused chuckle deep, smooth, and strangely comforting. With a practiced motion, Shamrock spun you once more, following the rhythm that had now grown slightly faster.

“I don’t know,” he replied with a teasing smile. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

He pulled you a little closer, his voice dropping low soft enough that only you could hear.

“Besides, as I said, you owe me one. I just ‘saved’ you from Saint Charlos. And trust me he can be quite troublesome.”

You could only offer a faint smile, unsure whether to thank him or be suspicious. In the whirl of the dance, your gown flared around you like a blossom in motion, your gloved fingers brushed against his, and your eyes locked once again. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. Just two pairs of eyes holding each other unknowingly binding a secret that even the waltz itself could not capture.

You muttered under your breath, your tone laced with sarcasm. “So? Should I consider you my knight in shining armor? or should I start worshiping you like a god?”

Your sarcasm seemed to catch the gentleman off guard. He hadn’t expected such sharpness from you. He had assumed you were just another obedient, docile debutante, delicate and harmless, like the rest of them. That miscalculation only made him more intrigued. But Shamrock wasn’t about to admit that. If he did, it would only feed your pride and inflate your ego and that, he couldn’t allow. His ego was the only one that needed to be satisfied here.

“Oh no, my rose,” he replied smoothly, his lips curling into a faint, unreadable smile. “There’s no need to go that far.”

Once again, he refused to call you by your real name, and that deliberate avoidance began to gnaw at you. Was he doing it on purpose? Or was “rose” simply another one of his teasing games?

Before you could respond, the commander suddenly grabbed your hand—his movement swift and unexpectedly forceful. The pull sent you stumbling forward, and you landed against his chest in a sudden, ungraceful thud. The change in his demeanor was stark his once-gentle touch now replaced by something intense, commanding. It was like falling from heaven straight into the underworld.

His gaze sharpened cold and piercing, twin blades glinting in the dim light. For a heartbeat, you felt as though he could slice through your soul with just a look.

The music swelled, violins crying out in perfect crescendo as the tempo quickened. Then, in a single heartbeat, he dipped you backward. His body leaned forward, supporting you with one firm arm against your back. Instinctively, your hands clung to his shoulders for balance, while his other hand still held yours in an unyielding grip.

Shamrock held you there suspended between control and surrender for just a little too long. Long enough to make it clear who truly commanded the rhythm of this dance… and to remind you that he could let go of you and make you fall at any moment.

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening at the abrupt change. You tried to read his expression, to find a trace of the charming gentleman from earlier, but his face had hardened into something almost predatory. Had your sarcasm offended him that deeply?

You had thought Saint Figarland Shamrock was different that he was a gentleman of class and respect. But in that moment, staring into those piercing eyes, you began to wonder if he was any different at all from the other Celestial Dragons men who wore civility like a mask to hide the hunger beneath.

Meanwhile, Shamrock felt a sense of victory when he managed to break your confidence and pride. Still holding you in that position, he leaned closer until your bodies were once again pressed together and whispered something very near your lips in a tone full of ambiguity.

“You owe me a dance at the next ball,” he said.

The music stopped, and it felt as if your heartbeat stopped too. You no longer paid attention to your surroundings because it seemed he had purposely tried to make you lose your patience. The man near you had already shown his true face during your first dance, and from the beginning, he never intended to hide it.

For a moment, you tried to process all his actions and words, but it seemed Shamrock didn’t let you. With a single gesture to the musicians, like giving a command, the waltz started again with a faster tempo than before. Every instrument raced as if competing to be the most dominant, creating a melody that made your heart beat faster.

With one quick movement, the gentleman pulled you up so you stood on your feet again, only to guide you back into another dance with the new fiery melody. His grip on your waist was firmer, reminding you of his authority, as he led you spinning across the smooth dance floor. The whole floor belonged only to the two of you; no one dared to join or interrupt this “romantic” moment.

You didn’t notice the jealous stares from the debutantes or the whispers of gossip floating through the air. You also didn’t realize that only the two of you were lost in the dance, while everyone else held their breath, watching something that had never happened before — one couple ruling the floor as if the world belonged only to them. What you tried to understand was why this man still insisted on making you dance with him.

Either way, one thing was certain:

Saint Figarland Shamrock wasn’t dancing with you anymore, he was tried to claiming you.

“I thought you said a dance at the next ball” you replied as the two of you continued to circle the dance floor.

Hearing the confusion in your voice was another victory for Shamrock. “This doesn’t count, Rose.”

That nickname again it felt as if he was trying to reshape your very identity, even though he had only just met you. Meanwhile, in his heart, the commander enjoyed how easily he could irritate you. That would ensure his presence was etched in your mind, just as you lingered in his. It was as though he refused to lose this game after all, he was a man who always claimed victory, whether in war or in romance.

The deeper you both fell into the rhythm of the song, the more intense the gentleman’s movements became. Now both of his hands were on your waist as he lifted you off your feet, spinning you effortlessly through the air. It was completely unexpected and honestly, it made you a little uncomfortable.

You tried to say something, to find any excuse to escape this situation that had surprised you twice in one day. “I believe we should stop, or we might cause a scandal.”

“Should we? So, you’d rather deal with Charlos instead?”

Ugh! now you were truly cornered. You felt manipulated into dancing with him even longer.

“Besides,” he said, “I actually want to use this little scandal to make the debutantes leave me alone.”

Your breath grew slightly uneven dancing at such a fast tempo, combined with a conversation that only tested your patience further, was utterly exhausting.

Shamrock continued as he pulled you closer into his embrace, refusing to let you escape his grasp. “I’m certain you’re not exactly enjoying being part of this marriage mart. How about we pretend to take an interest in each other? I’ll pretend to be courting you because that way those men won’t dare approach you while I’m with you, and the debutantes will finally leave me alone. It’s a mutual benefit for both of us.”

His offer didn’t sound entirely unreasonable, yet what right did he have to decide what you should do? You could no longer hide the irritation written all over your face, an expression the commander seemed to take as another trophy of victory.

A fake relationship? You were all too familiar with that trope from your collection of romance novels and knew exactly how it ended two people pretending to date for convenience, only to slowly fall in love for real. Romantic in fiction, perhaps, but not in reality. Some things were better left as fantasies.

“I’m not interested in getting involved in this drama,” you said firmly. “I can find a solution to my own problems.”

Meanwhile, Shamrock, of course, was not the kind of man who accepted rejection in any form. He always got what he wanted — and this time was no exception. The two of you were equally stubborn, driving each other to frustration. The other guests watching your intense dance had no idea about the tension between you; what they saw was simply a potential couple trying to get to know each other.

“Correction,” he said coolly. “This isn’t an offer. It’s something you’re expected to accept — or face the consequences.”

The commander spun your body sharply, forcing you to follow the rhythm of the instruments. You wanted so badly to pull away from his grip, to end this dance, but you still worried about what people would say — and worse, about what he might do if you humiliated him in front of everyone. The last thing you wanted was to cause trouble with a Celestial Dragon; your life itself could be the price for such defiance.

You still wanted to live.

You still wanted to chase your freedom.

And now you hated how powerless you were.

But damn it! this man truly pushed you past your limits, and you couldn’t hide your anger anymore. “You’re no different from those men who think they can force themselves on women,” you spat, your teeth clenched in fury.

Shamrock didn’t care about your opinion because it was the truth, a well-known fact he had never bothered to hide. He was a womanizer, one who could impose himself on any woman he desired.

Once again, his arrogance refused to let him lose, and his reply came sharp and cruel, yet delivered in a tone almost casual. “And you’re no different from those whores,” he said. “You literally threw yourself at me with that intoxicating scent of yours.”

Bastard! He had truly pushed you past the edge. How dare he call you a whore. This was the breaking point, where your anger and frustration finally burst through every wall you had tried to hold up. Your whole body felt as if it were set ablaze, a fire that no ocean could ever extinguish. Your eyes burned like embers waiting to explode.

You hated him.

Saint Figarland Shamrock.

The thunderous music echoed through the ballroom, fast, grand, and full of passion. Every strike of the violin seemed to ignite the fury burning in your chest. The two of you stood face-to-face in the middle of the dance floor, your eyes locked not out of love, but out of hatred that could no longer hide behind polite smiles.

Before you could say something that would only make things worse, the music suddenly stopped and it had reached its end. It felt as though the universe itself was warning you to restrain yourself, for your own good. Your breathing came fast and uneven after keeping up with his steps, your chest rising and falling with each breath. Your eyes still blazed with fury, and your flushed face was not from shyness, but from humiliation and rage. To Shamrock, it was a beautiful sight the image of his victory.

Without a respectful bow, without a word of farewell, you turned and stormed off the dance floor, as if escaping a circle of fire, leaving the commander standing where he was. The guests around began to whisper among themselves this scandalous scene would no doubt become tomorrow’s gossip headline.

“Did you see that couple? Their dance was so passionate.”

“I never thought Lord Shamrock would find himself a bride.”

“Look at the blush on her face and how she rushed away — that girl was completely flustered.”

“Perhaps she’ll be crowned the diamond of the season. Imagine, a debutante who managed to catch the eye of our cold-hearted commander.”

You ignored all the compliments; the only thing you wanted was to return to the inn as soon as possible.

Your parents, who had been watching your dance with Shamrock the whole time, looked proud — proud because you had caught the interest of a potential suitor. And not just any Celestial Dragon, but a commander of the Holy Knights.

A woman’s gentle voice, forced and overly sweet, tried to keep up with your hurried pace. “Oh, darling. You have such a wonderful marriage prospect. I can’t belive you’ve manage to pull up the Commander of Holly Knight. He is so handsome tho”

“I’m so proud of you, my daughter,” a man’s voice added, echoing as he placed a hand on your shoulder.

All of it was fake and you knew it. They weren’t proud of you, they were proud because of what you achieved tonight. To them, this was a small step toward gaining titles and wealth through you. You weren’t their daughter you were their puppet.

You made an excuse to leave your debut early. “Can we go back to the guest house, please?”

“Of course, dear,” Didit replied. “That intense dance must have exhausted you. You need to rest.”

Outlook wrapped his arm around you, guiding you out of the castle. But there was no warmth in his touch only a cold, conditional sense of tolerance. You expected nothing from them, yet you couldn’t help but wonder: if they had even an ounce of real affection for you, would your life have been any better? 

Lost in thought, you didn’t even notice when the carriage started moving. You left behind the grand castle a place filled with coercion, pretense, and manipulation that suffocated you.

You gazed out the window, pulling out the rose you had tucked into your bodice. That man had managed to disrupt your entire life to the point that he’d made you hate your favorite flower. But who was he to have that right? No, you refused to let him win. At the very least in this matter you would not surrender. You would continue to love roses, just as you always had.

While you departed with your parents, Shamrock also left the dance floor, carrying a mix of emotions he had never experienced before a strange blend of attraction, irritation, and satisfaction that he couldn’t quite put into words.

But one thing was certain.

He had to have you.

“If that sweet lady refuses to pretend to be courting wit me,” he said with a smirk, “then I’ll court her for real”

He walked toward his personal attendant and spoke with firm authority.

“Find every piece of information about that debutante. I believe her name is Miss Y/N.”

“Certainly, sir,” the attendant replied, leaving immediately to fulfill his master’s command.

Chapter Text

Dearest Gentle Readers,

This season’s marriage mart has commenced with something most unprecedented indeed.

There appeared upon the ballroom floor a pair who commanded the dance as though the world itself had graciously withdrawn, leaving only the two of them behind.

Their ardor filled the grand hall, shaking not only the chandeliers but the hearts of every guest and debutante in attendance. The dance floor itself seemed to ignite, set ablaze by the fire of romance burning unmistakably within their eyes.

One might have sworn Ares himself had descended to dance with Aphrodite.

Not once did either avert their gaze, for as they claimed the floor, it was theirs alone— laimed boldly, unapologetically, and entirely.

All present bore witness as the couple transformed that glittering ball into a small world of their own making.

This author is quite certain that everyone knows precisely of whom we speak.

The Commander of the Holy Knights, Saint Figarland Shamrock, it would seem, is at last preparing to anchor his heart after a long and arduous voyage across the vast seas of love.

Unexpected? Certainly. Unfounded? Hardly.

For this debutante—though cruel tongues have dismissed her as “a spinster past her prime” has managed to thaw the famously icy heart of our esteemed commander.

Her beauty rivals that of the Goddess of Love, Beauty, and Fertility herself.

 May Aphrodite forgive this author for daring to draw such a comparison.

Her grace is that of a pristine white swan, wings unfurled elegantly upon a sapphire lake.

At first, she went unnoticed—hidden among the crowd—until young Lord Figarland discovered this rare diamond gleaming quietly in plain sight.

And this author dares say that had their gazes lingered but a moment longer that night, our valiant commander might well have fallen to his knees before her, before all of society.

Surely, we are all in agreement that this young lady deserves to be crowned “the diamond of the season.”

Miss (Y/N) of East Blue

 a name destined to command attention throughout this social season.

Will this young lady soon bear the title of Lady Figarland?

Or shall she gift us with another surprise, one we never dared anticipate?

Let us watch… together.

Your devoted author,

 St. N. I

The gossip newspaper had spread across the Holy Land, and all of Mary Geoise was now fixated on the steaming hot tea offered by this anonymous author. Every word they wrote was capable of influencing the unrest among the Celestial Dragons; their opinions could elevate one’s image or utterly destroy a reputation. People regarded their words as life advice, holy scripture, or something sacred that must be obeyed.

No one knew the true identity of this writer—male, female, okama—no one had the slightest clue about their gender. And it seemed that no one was particularly interested in uncovering their deeply mysterious identity either. Even though this author possessed the power to steer society into doing whatever they desired, as if they held absolute control through nothing more than a gossip paper. They had wrapped the entirety of the Red Line around their pen.

People said that the gossip paper of St. N.I had existed for as long as anyone could remember. Some believed that the author was not a single individual, but rather a title and occupation passed down from generation to generation. It sounded like nepotism, but it was a reasonable explanation for the anonymous writer’s involvement since time immemorial.

However, terrifying conspiracy theories surrounding the author’s identity were also whispered among the masses.

That they were immortal.

It was difficult to digest with common sense, but such wild thoughts were nothing more than gossiping about the gossipmonger.

Now, your parents were hosting a small gathering alongside other noble families from all corners of the world whose daughters were participating in this marriage mart. It seemed they had managed to establish connections while you had been busy dealing with Shamrock at the time (and Charlos). Somehow, your father had succeeded in building relationships in this land overnight.

The drawing room was filled with random chatter, accompanied by the soft piano music played by you. Your slender fingers pressed against the ivory keys, dancing between black and white notes, forming harmonies that blossomed into a gentle melody perfectly complementing the laughter and chatter filling the room.

The young ladies who had debuted alongside you that night watched your piano performance intently. It was as though they wished to memorize every movement and replicate it to charm gentlemen, just as their mothers had advised them to learn from you.

The mothers were embroidering while gossiping cheerfully about anything and everything, all while reading the society newspaper. To them, other people’s affairs were their affairs as well. It was as if they had no other pastime.

The fathers, on the other hand, were now half-drunk on alcohol and feeling high from the marijuana they smoked. It seemed they were making deals under the influence of liquor and narcotics, an activity that was highly discouraged and potentially fatal.

Your piano performance came to an end with a final chord. Three young ladies applauded sincerely, clearly enjoying your performance. You had met them earlier while welcoming the Outlook guests: Annelise from the North Blue, Liliana from the South Blue, and Layla from the West Blue.

You offered one of them the chance to play, and the brown-haired Liliana accepted your invitation. You nodded softly and rose from the piano bench, allowing the girl to showcase her skills. Meanwhile, you took a seat on a nearby sofa, lost in thought over this unexpected friendship.

“Darling, look at this. St. N.I’s newspaper praises you in their article. They even agree that you are truly worthy of being crowned the diamond of this season.” Didit approached you as you sat on the sofa, handing the paper to you. You couldn’t deny your curiosity about what was written on that thin sheet of paper. You took it from their hand and examined every word closely.

Your eyebrow lifted, impressed and slightly surprised. Being called a diamond was nothing unusual in this marriage mart, but being compared to the Goddess of Love—wasn’t that a bit excessive? This is going to be interesting, you thought to yourself. The paper contained various bits of gossip, but the writer deliberately highlighted your “closeness” with Saint Figarland Shamrock and your new title as a diamond.

Another woman exclaimed, “They even compare you to Aphrodite. That’s the highest praise a woman can receive.”

Layla and Annelise joined you on the sofa, sitting on your right and left, just as curious as you were about the “hot tea” presented on that sheet of paper. Meanwhile, Liliana remained focused on her piano performance, enveloping the drawing room in her own atmosphere.

At the very least, the paper did not mention the private argument between Shamrock and you. Curiosity crept into your mind, who was this writer? and how did they know (almost) everything? Perhaps, while you were in Mary Geoise, you could uncover the identity of this anonymous author. That reckless idea would undoubtedly land you and your family in serious trouble so you quickly abandoned it.

The paper remained clenched in your hand. Your new friends were left in awe by the praise directed at you, now watching you with rapt attention, as though they wished to be you. You weren’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but one thing was certain—every eye would be on you for quite some time.

You could hear Outlook chatting with other nobles, “If my daughter is Aphrodite, then I must be Zeus,”followed by booming laughter that echoed throughout the room.

At least Zeus didn’t attempt to pursue a romantic relationship with this particular daughter.

Meanwhile, Didit rejoined the mothers and quite literally paraded you before them, declaring that their daughters should learn from you. They took her words seriously. You meant no offense, but you frowned at her statement. What exactly could you teach these young girls to attract potential suitors? Flirting? Dancing? Or perhaps your sarcasm?

No… perhaps you could teach them how to captivate gentlemen using the same trick you had used to unintentionally draw the Holy Commander’s attention by creating a unique personal scent using their favorite flowers (or the favorite flowers of the man they were interested in, if they were lucky enough to obtain such information).

They didn’t need to copy you. They were their own people. Though you had only just met them, you were certain they could shine in their own ways. Everyone possessed their own personality and uniqueness, after all.

That morning was still wrapped in peace and tranquility, granting you a brief moment of rest before you would be forced to face a flood of suitors. Once you were crowned the diamond, this drawing room would be filled with men striving to win your heart—like gods competing for Aphrodite, or bees drawn to the sweetest flower in the field.

Amid the quiet morning, one gentleman speaking with your father remarked, “I heard there will be a slave auction this afternoon. The Celestial Dragons will surely gather there. Why don’t we attend and show off our daughters as well?”

You could hear murmurs of agreement, even Outlook approving the idea. You felt disgusted, slavery being treated as entertainment as if it were an opera. What angered you most was the Celestial Dragons themselves, who normalized such cruelty as if it were an average Monday afternoon.

You glanced at your new friends, who looked anxious and visibly uncomfortable with the sensitive topic. Bless their innocent hearts in such a cruel world. You couldn’t help but notice that, like you, they disliked the idea of watching another’s suffering, yet lacked the power to refuse. So you spoke up on everyone’s behalf.

Rising to pour yourself a cup of tea, you said “Why should we go there? Only Celestial Dragons are allowed to own slaves, so what’s the point of us attending?”

Before anyone could answer, you continued, “Do you want them to mistake us girls for slaves and put us up for auction?”

Your tongue, sharp as a katana, silenced the fathers and mothers. The truth was, such a possibility was not impossible. No one was safe in the Holy Land except those bastards themselves. Didit could only rub her temples, while Outlook let out a long sigh. They hated how you were right—and they were wrong—and they had long grown accustomed to your mildly rebellious nature.

Your words made the girls feel heard, represented. Timid girls who had long existed only in the shadows now dared to step forward because of you.

Annelise, the blonde with blue eyes, spoke up “I think she’s right. Besides, I’m sure you all have more important matters than watching something so dull, don’t you?”

She continued, “The fathers can attend to their business affairs, the mothers to their ‘hot tea,’ and we girls can share tips on how to survive this season.”

It all made perfect sense. The parents had no choice but to concede and agree. Staying behind and doing something productive was far more beneficial than wandering around and displaying the debutantes.

“Besides,” you added, “our absence from society every now and then will work in our favor. It’ll make us seem mysterious unattainable. Men love women like that.”

Layla, who had been listening closely, asked, “Does that mean it would make us even more desirable?”

“Exactly.”

You suggested attending other events that were far more refined and humane—balls, galas, operas, orchestras, anything of the sort. Everyone seemed to agree, especially the mothers, who valued their daughters’ marriage prospects above all else as a ticket to social ascension.

However, Didit protested “Perhaps these girls still need to work harder, but what’s the point of you being mysterious? You’re already the diamond, Aphrodite. What could be more desirable than that?”

“Oh, Mother dear. You’re the one who taught me to be greedy for power and to always strive for more,” you replied, your sarcasm laced with truth. You sipped your tea as though it was rightfully yours.

“Besides, Aphrodite had many lovers aside from her husband. Perhaps I should follow in her footsteps, don’t you think?” You let out a soft laugh, joined by the girls, who covered their mouths as they giggled. “Ares may be one of her most famous lovers, but the goddess’s lawful husband was Hephaestus.”

Outlook, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke without leaving his seat “You know their marriage was an unhappy one, don’t you?”

“What do you expect from an arranged marriage, Father?”

Silence fell over the room, brought on by the weight of truth. Arranged marriages often resulted in unhappy unions, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, your father and mother, and nearly all nobles bound by political marriages. There wasn’t an ounce of love or affection in any of them.

You rejoined the others on the sofa. Liliana had finished her piece as well. Still seated at the piano, she asked you “Then what about Sir Shamrock?”

“What about him?” you replied, lifting your gaze from your teacup.

“I mean, I thought he might come here as a potential suitor. You know—to get to know you better before asking for your hand.”

Truthfully, you hadn’t thought that far ahead. It had only been one dance at one party, yet everyone had blown it out of proportion as if you were already destined to become Lady Figarland. Besides, his absence would be preferable you wouldn’t have to pretend to tolerate or even enjoy his presence when, in truth, you despised him.

His arrogance, the way he carried himself as if the world belonged to him, forcing his will upon others you had seen his character clearly enough during last night’s dance. There was no need to know him further to conclude that you hated him and would never marry him.

Smoothly, you offered an excuse so as not to appear irritated. “It was only one dance, Liliana. I have no right to ask him to come here to courted me. If he wishes to, he will.”

Layla the black-haired girl, chimed in “Or perhaps he’s simply busy with his duties as the Holy Knights’ commander.”

“What do we even know about the commander?” Annelise asked, clearly curious about your potential suitor.

Nothing. Nothing was known about Shamrock beyond the fact that he was the son of Saint Figarland Garling and the Commander of the Holy Knights. That was all anyone even fellow Celestial Dragon was permitted to know. It was as though any information regarding the Holy Knights was deliberately withheld, treated as classified secrets known only to a select few.

In any case, you had no interest in knowing him. One night was more than enough to confirm that he was not a good man though you never expected a Celestial Dragon to possess even an ounce of goodness to begin with. Avoiding him was for your own sake.

Before your hatred for Saint Figarland Shamrock and his kind could consume you further, your friends teased you about your success at the very start of the marriage season. You laughed softly not out of pride, but because of how amusing their teasing was. The small gathering grew warmer, free of heavy conversation, filled only with light chatter at least among the girls.

They were slightly younger than you, likely in their late teens or early twenties. It seemed they now regarded you as an older sister, someone to look up to. You brushed it off as playful exaggeration but they did not because you could see how serious they were.

You had no intention of forming attachments, yet this unexpected friendship might be the only good thing to come out of this marriage season. You genuinely enjoyed their company, and with them, you could be a little more open. And silently you hoped this friendship would last.

_____________________________________________

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, dawn had yet to fully greet the land when the thunder of cannons shook the earth. The morning fog—once soothing—now served as a veil for the destruction that awaited. Gunpowder erased the crisp freshness of dawn, blending instead with the metallic stench of blood spilled by the conflict, compounded by the slow, rotting odor of corpses strewn everywhere.

The heart-pounding explosions of grenades, the clash of swords drawn and thirsting for blood, and rifles spewing bullets ready to pierce anything in their path echoed across the island. These sounds reverberated endlessly, coloring the civil war that tore through what had once been a beautiful nation adding yet another chapter to the long history of unrest in this broken land.

The grasslands, once lush and serene, had turned into a savage battlefield. Harbors and shores that once shared a gentle friendship with the blue sea had become oceans of blood. Buildings were reduced to rubble by relentless bombardment, memories destroyed without mercy. Hospitals overflowed with the wounded, schools were repurposed into refugee shelters, and looting of resources was no longer uncommon amid the chaos.

In the distance, tattered flags fluttered among smoke, ash, and dust—marking ideologies locked in brutal struggle. The boundary between right and wrong had thinned to a single thread, morality sinking into gray. Would all these conflicts truly yield results worthy of the devastation and the countless lives lost?

Casualties fell on all sides: royal soldiers merely carrying out their duties; civilians fighting to defend the factions and ideologies they held dear; women and children who did not even understand the roots of the conflict; even paramedics striving to save as many lives as possible were not spared from danger.

The Kingdom of Lvneel had once been like any other kingdom in the world a beautiful and peaceful land in the North Blue, rich in resources, and even home to its own famous legend: “Noland the Liar.” But now, the kingdom was far from well.

From the beginning, Lvneel had been an independent, isolated nation, unaffiliated with the World Government. Yet government agents sought to fan the flames of rebellion and discord among its people, splitting them into two opposing factions. One wished to keep their beloved kingdom independent, preserving tradition and culture. The other desired for Lvneel to join the World Government in exchange for protection, prosperity, and various benefits embracing modernization with open arms.

It was not only the people who were divided. The kingdom’s highest officials were now locked in heated disputes within the court, even before the sun had risen to its throne. The tension in the palace was so thick it could be cut down with a single swing of a sword.

The King was resolute in keeping Lvneel unaffiliated with the World Government. The Prime Ministe , however already swayed by the whispers of government operatives. He was just as stubborn in pushing for the kingdom to join by any means necessary. Everyone understood the severity of the chaos gripping the nation; a decisive choice had to be made swiftly.

One minister proposed holding a public vote, allowing the people to decide the kingdom’s fate. Another suggested dividing the kingdom into two, as had happened in the Sorbet Kingdom of the South Blue one region aligned with the World Government for those who supported it, and another remaining independent for those who wished to preserve autonomy.

Rather than resolving the issue, these proposals only made the King feel as though his head were about to split. This was a monarchy not a democracy. holding a vote would only cause the people to question the King’s authority. Meanwhile dividing the kingdom would undoubtedly spark even greater internal conflict and threaten national sovereignty.

Amid the mounting tension within the palace, a mysterious black lightning bolt struck without warning, its origin unknown. The deafening thunderclap sent shockwaves through the hall, startling everyone present and making their hearts race. A strange wind suddenly swept through the enclosed chamber despite the doors and windows being tightly shut, bringing with it a deathly chill that pierced straight to the bone. The floor trembled as if an earthquake had struck, causing nearby objects to fall and scatter across the ground. The atmosphere in the palace grew even more ominous a clear omen that a nightmare was about to become reality.

Everyone attending the meeting fell into confusion and panic, their hair standing on end as a primal human instinct warned them of impending danger. The palace’s luxurious chandeliers flickered erratically lighting up, going dark, then lighting again some even crashing down and narrowly missing those below, worsening the chaos in an already crumbling situation.

Suddenly, an intricate black marking appeared upon the marble floor: a pentagram encircled by rings and seals forming unfamiliar inscriptions, resembling an arcane incantation whose meaning was unknown. The symbol was as mysterious and dark as a moonless night above a raging sea. Some immediately recognized it as a sign of demonic worship, often associated with heretical cults that demanded sacrifices.

The Abyss Mark, its appearance always heralded calamity and unforeseen disaster. It devoured all light, pulling everything into a profound chasm of death without leaving even a single glimmer behind. Its overall design created an eerie harmony between order and destruction. Circles, stars, and seals intertwined as if illustrating the balance between bound power and free will between structure and chaos.

From within the Abyss, a figure emerged from the depths of darkness, like a guardian angel of the underworld. Half of his face was concealed beneath a black cloak that blended seamlessly with the shadows surrounding him, though strands of crimson hair were visible, framing and accentuating his sharp features. His red eyes surveyed the room, Observation Haki scanning for threats, while everyone in the court stood frozen in shock at his terrifying and unexpected presence.

Saint Figarland Shamrock stood at the center of the Abyss circle like a sovereign ruler, his gaze sharp as a blade and cold as ice as he calculated every possible outcome before taking a single step forward. The sound of his armor echoed with each measured stride.

His cloak billowed in the wind that accompanied his arrival, revealing his face and brushing against his long hair. Beneath the mantle, he wore a dark maroon noble uniform, meticulously tailored and embroidered with softly gleaming gold thread. Dark leather gloves wrapped his fingers hands capable of holding a pen to sign decrees, yet just as capable of gripping a weapon to determine another’s fate.

Light reflected off his gold-layered greaves, shimmering between folds of fabric that wrapped from his ankles to his knees along his long legs. Each step mirrored sacred flames. A sword with a golden hilt hunged at his wrist, secretive and mysterious sacred blade rumored to possess power rivaling Yoru wielded by the world’s greatest swordsman.

By his presence alone, all the guards carrying out their duties collapsed and lost consciousness instantly, as if commanded to do so without him uttering a single word his Conqueror’s Haki striking like black-and-red lightning. Deliberately, he spared only the ministers and the King, leaving them paralyzed and unable to move.

Everyone in the court was stunned by the mysterious man’s sudden and grand entrance. Some recognized the extraordinary red hair and face from bounty posters, newspapers, and whispered propaganda.

“Oi, isn’t that the Sea Emperor Shanks?”

 “What is he doing here?”

 “But he looks a bit different from the wanted posters, don’t you think?”

 “What kind of power is that?”

The whispers slithered through the air like fine thorns, piercing patience itself. Everyone in the hall had mistaken the secretive Commander of the Holy Knights for the twin brother of the Red-Haired Emperor. Hearing this clearly irritated Shamrock his furrowed brow and the sharp, scornful glare of his red eyes made it unmistakable. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to cut everyone in the room down with his razor-sharp blade.

In the Holy Land of Mary Geoise, he was known as the son of Figarland Garling, as though Shamrock had lived his entire life as his father’s shadow. Even his current title was said to be the result of nepotistic promotion, granted simply because he was the son of the champion of God Valley. He held no resentment toward such claims on the contrary, he considered them only natural and rather enjoyed those privileges like a pampered child. 

However, his reaction was entirely different when those from the “lower world” mistook him for his infamous twin brother, the Yonko. Shamrock, who had been standing tall in the center of the hall, closed his eyes briefly. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he struggled not to spit in the faces of those who dared to call him Shanks.

It was painfully clear from his expression that the Commander despised being compared to his twin brother the one who had betrayed the sacred blood of the Figarland family and chosen to live as a pirate, wandering the filthy lower world, rather than embracing the life that had been destined for him alongside his brother.

Yet Shamrock forced those emotions aside and focused on the task entrusted to him directly by the Gorosei. His steps were taken without the slightest hint of hesitation, every movement precise leaving the entire audience both awestruck and intimidated at once. Everyone in the chamber began to wonder what purpose this mysterious man had for appearing so suddenly.

The Commander walked straight toward the King seated upon his magnificent throne. Step by step, he conquered the stairs, each one making King Lionhart increasingly uneasy. The King knew this was no good omen for either himself or the kingdom he ruled. After all, why would a Sea Emperor come to a nation consumed by civil war? Was he here to seize control and claim the Kingdom of Lvneel as his territory? At least, that was what the King believed.

Resting his gloved hand casually upon the hilt of his sword, Shamrock spoke without bowing in respect. “King Lionhart, I want to hear your decision now. Do you intend to make Lvneel a part of the World Government, or—”

Figarland’s voice echoed like a command, carrying an authority that surpassed even that of the King himself. He did not need to finish his sentence—he only wanted an answer. With slight hesitation, the King’s hand hovered above the sword resting beside his throne, preparing for the worst.

“You are with the World Government? We thought you were—”

Before King Lionhart could continue, Shamrock cut him off. He knew the King was about to utter the name of his infamous twin, and he refused to hear it—especially while carrying out a mission of such importance.

“Answer me. What is your decision?”

The King grew irritated, humiliated before all his subordinates. This man dared to interrupt him and command him as if he were nothing. And this was not the first time King Lionhart and Lvneel as a whole had been stripped of dignity by agents of the World Government. He was the King. This was his kingdom. He held the highest authority in this land. Yet here he was, being disrespected on his own soil.

Raising his voice, King Lionhart spoke loudly, attempting to reclaim his pride as ruler and assert his authority. “The answer is no! We, the Kingdom of Lvneel, will not become part of the World Government! not when you cannot even show us the slightest respect!”

His voice rang firm, clinging to the ideology upheld by Lvneel’s rulers for generations. None of the ministers dared to move. Some were clearly pleased by the King’s decision to defend the kingdom’s dignity and sovereignty, while others vehemently opposed it, believing the King had just shut the door on Lvneel’s future prosperity.

Figarland Shamrock however showed no reaction to King Lionhart’s refusal it was irrelevant to him. His mission was simple: Lvneel was to join the World Government, by any means necessary. His grip on his sword tightened, realizing that “negotiation” would never work on such an arrogant ruler.

With a single step synchronized to the pounding of his heart, the Commander closed the distance between them and drew his blade. His movement was fluid and natural, like Ares dancing across the battlefield with his divine weapon—as though he had been born and destined for this very act.

The sword unleashed a terrifying power from the underworld. Cerberus, the manifestation of the three-headed hound guarding the gates of hell. Three aspects of wrath. Three bloodthirsty spirits. Its blade was so sharp it could sever even atomic bonds. Their howls echoed like ravenous beasts, eager to drag their prey into the blazing depths of damnation.

King Lionhart refused to yield. He raised his loyal sword to block Shamrock’s attack. But his strength was no match for the red-haired man, despite being the ruler of a kingdom. The pressure alone overwhelmed him, forcing the King backward as the relentless beast tore into him without mercy.

With a single indirect strike, King Lionhart’s head was brutally severed torn cleanly from his body. Blood gushed from his neck, staining the carpet and the throne crimson. His lifeless body collapsed as though it had never lived, while his head rolled down the steps, stripped of all dignity. When it finally came to a stop revealed his eyes were wide open as if staring directly at the angel of death come to claim him.

The remaining ministers could only watch in horror. Never had they imagined witnessing the beheading of the King they served. Mouths agape, eyes darkened, not a single soul in the court dared to even breathe. 

Some questioned the sanity of this madman who dared commit such an act against their ruler. Some wished for revenge only to abandon the thought when they recalled what he was capable of. And others, silently and shamefully, felt relief because their desire to join the World Government had just gained a far greater chance of becoming reality.

Figarland Shamrock showed no reaction whatsoever. To him, this was nothing more than an ordinary Monday. Carrying out filthy work like this was simply part of his duty as the Commander of the Holy Knights. Killing a king merely because he refused to place his nation under the World Government meant nothing to him—no different from deliberately crushing an insect in childhood simply because it annoyed him.

The remaining witnesses were unable to utter a single word, frozen in silence, terrified of saying anything wrong. Meanwhile, Cerberus slowly shed its bestial form and returned to that of a sword.

Shamrock gazed at the weapon he revered, its polished surface reflecting light—and his own shadow like a mirror. Each time he looked into it, he did not see only his own face. Instead, he seemed to behold two other images within the reflection. One belonged to Garling in his youth, for it was undeniable that the young Figarland had inherited his father’s features a fact well known throughout Mary Geoise.

Yet the other face stirred a storm of conflicting emotions within him. A face recognized by the inhabitants of the lower world, the face of his twin brother, the one separated from him: Shanks. The brother who chose to roam the seas as a pirate betraying the Figarland legacy. The same facial structure, the same eyes save for the scars, the same thin beard and mustache, even the same red hair inherited from their mother.

“…”

The man drew in a long breath and slowly exhale, recalling his twin’s betrayal, the one that had left him deeply disappointed. After reuniting with Shanks, he had believed they could rebuild their bond and make up for lost time. But his twin had chosen his own path, sailing freely across the seas and breaking every code of knighthood. Shamrock could not deny it he envied the freedom Shanks possessed, something he himself would never have.

Perhaps he should dye his hair blond and shave his beard, so he would no longer be compared to his twin and would resemble Garling in his youth instead.

 No, absolutely not. Shamrock refused to allow his twin to influence his decisions in any way, even indirectly.

He slid Cerberus back into its sheath at his waist. Turning around, he descended the steps, deliberately avoiding King Lionhart’s blood unwilling to soil his boots with the filthy blood of a man from the lower world. With a sharp gaze, he shifted his attention to the Prime Minister and delivered the Gorosei’s decree.

“From this moment on, Lvneel will be affiliated with the World Government. You will rule as the new King, under the authority of the Elders.”

The Prime Minister swallowed hard, briefly attempting to process what had just transpired before greed overtook his thoughts. It was unexpected, yet immensely advantageous. Meanwhile, the other ministers were far more concerned about the people and the unresolved conflict raging outside.

One of the ministers dared to ask “What about the civil war?”

“That is not the World Government’s concern,” Shamrock replied coldly and with calculated indifference, already walking back toward the Abyss to teleport himself to the Holy Land.

_____________________________________________

Still on the very same afternoon, instead of attending the highly unethical slave auction, you, Layla, Annelise, and Liliana found yourselves occupied elsewhere—thanks entirely to your influence. Your families had each gone about their own affairs; you had no idea what your parents were currently discussing with the other noble families. For now, you and your new friends were keeping yourselves busy on the balcony, passing the time with a card game and small wagers to lighten the mood.

“How about we bet a small amount of money?” Liliana suggested.

“So you want us to gamble?” Layla replied.

“Oh, come on, Layla. Don’t tell me you’ve never made a bet like this before.”

The three of them let out soft laughter, instinctively covering their mouths with gloved hands that reached just past their wrists. You merely smiled faintly, amused by their banter. Not long after, Layla turned to you, asking for your opinion on what kind of wager the game should involve.

You paused for a moment. The relaxed curve of your lips slowly shifted into a sharp, calculating smile. Everyone present seemed to recognize it instantly—as though they had known you for years and understood exactly what it meant.

“How about this,” you said smoothly. “Whoever loses has to do whatever the winner asks. Whatever.”

“Oh, this is going to be very interesting,” Annelise chimed in, clearly intrigued and eager to see how things would unfold.

“No! The last time I played with a wager like that with my siblings, I was almost humiliated in front of everyone,” Layla protested, her face flushing red as she recalled the unpleasant memory.

You responded in a teasing tone, “Don’t tell me you’re scared, Layla. It’s just a harmless little bet.”

Liliana quickly tried to negotiate. “Then the winner isn’t allowed to ask for anything crossing the line.”

“…Alright. I’m in.”

As the cards were dealt and the game progressed, the tension steadily rose. Strategy after strategy was deployed with careful calculation. None of you seemed to be taking this lightly. From the players’ expressions alone, it was impossible to tell whether fortune favored them—or if misfortune had already sealed their fate.

You glanced down at your own hand: three of clubs, five of diamonds, two of hearts, two of spades, and nine of hearts. A terrible hand. Not even a Jack, let alone an Ace. Goddess of Fortune clearly wasn’t on your side this round. Perhaps the next draw would be kinder.

Just as it became your turn to pick a card, Annelise nudged your arm with her elbow, calling your name to grab your attention.

“Y/N, look down there!”

Sure enough, your focus shifted away from your cards to the street below. From the balcony, you did not expect to see the very person you least wanted approaching your residence.

You gotta be kidding me, you muttered inwardly.

Every step he took radiated arrogance, visible even from afar. The high collar did him no favors—only forcing his chin upward in a haughty angle, as though he looked down on everyone by default. His red hair was brushed by the gentle breeze, flowing like the mane of a proud lion, the same side braid still intact from your first encounter.

Figarland Shamrock was coming visiting as a prospective suitor—and would soon arrive t the front door.

You barely registered your friends’ voices anymore, though it was clear they were teasing you mercilessly about his arrival.

“Look, the great knight has come to fetch his beloved.”

“No, no. It's the prince rescuing his lady from the high tower.”

“You’re right! Look at the princess waiting for her prince from the balcony.”

Soft laughter echoed around you, but you ignored it. Meanwhile, the Commander continued forward, accompanied by several figures who were likely his attendants. Shamrock glanced upward, searching for the source of the noise only to find you standing on the second-floor balcony, staring down at him with measured scrutiny.

Your gazes collided like blades in a deadly duel.

Saint Figarland Shamrock who had spent his life looking down on others now looked up at you, as though he were wagering his pride for the privilege. And you, who had always been taught to look up at those of higher status, now gazed down upon him with quiet judgment. The moment was broken when he reached the front courtyard and moved toward the entrance.

Truthfully, you had no desire to meet him especially after what had transpired between you the night before, when the seeds of hatred had already taken root in your heart. But you had little choice. Refusing to meet him now would deeply insult the Commander, and provoking the anger of a Celestial Dragon was a luxury you could not afford.

You let out a long breath and murmured to yourself, “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

As expected, not long afterward one of your family’s servants came to summon you, informing you that Saint Figarland Shamrock had arrived to pay a visit specifically to see you. This only fueled your three friends’ teasing even further, though you knew well enough that it was harmless banter not worth taking to heart.

You placed your cards down on the table and rose from your seat, making your way toward the drawing room to greet your so-called prospective suitor. Naturally, Liliana, Layla, and Annelise followed close behind, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. They were eager to see the man approaching you the one you had jokingly dubbed Ares to your Aphrodite.

For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, the walk to the drawing room felt unbearably heavy, as though each step required you to carry half a quintal of rice on your shoulders. Was it your hatred toward him? Or the crushing weight of your parents’ expectations and the society you had only just stepped into? Either way, fate seemed thoroughly stacked against you.

You entered the drawing room, which felt increasingly suffocating with guests, each harboring their own agendas. And once again, a second round of silent confrontation unfolded between you and Saint Figarland Shamrock. Neither of you was willing to yield in this unspoken contest who would conquer whom?

His sharp gaze followed your every movement, observing you as though studying how your gown brushed against the floor with each step. What he found was not arrogance, but confidence your poise and elegance radiating something unmistakably different from other young women. Perhaps Shamrock should retract what he had said yesterday, a notion that had never once crossed his mind before. It was difficult to admit, but undeniably true. No wonder all eyes were drawn to you.

“Good afternoon, Miss Y/N.”

He inclined his head ever so slightly barely noticeable, yet undeniably there. Your name left his lips, and for the first time, you heard it spoken by him directly. At the very least, this time he addressed you properly, not with one of his improvised nicknames.

You responded with a small nod. “Lord Figarland.” Simple. Just his title and surname.

Everyone in the room bore witness to the meeting of two people bound by fate—like an audience watching a romantic opera, enjoyed by everyone except the performers themselves. All of this was merely a performance to preserve a reputation as fragile as glass, liable to shatter at the slightest impact.

Outlook and Didit welcomed Shamrock as though he were the son they had never had, already convinced he would become their son-in-law. All because the man who possessed the title they had long coveted was now “approaching” you. None of it was sincere only a hollow attempt to grasp whatever advantage they could.

“Welcome, Lord Figarland. We’ve been expecting you. Please, make yourself comfortable,” Outlook exclaimed enthusiastically, extending his hand for a handshake.

Shamrock ignored it entirely, his attention fixed solely on you, creating a brief but palpable awkwardness.

Didit hastily tried to ease the tension with an awkward joke. “Such a lovely day, isn’t it? Did you have any trouble finding our humble residence?”

Instead of helping, it only made things worse. The Commander offered no response at all, dismissing him like the irritating buzz of a mosquito. He hadn’t come to exchange pleasantries with the Baron and Baroness he was here for you. Only you. No one else.

His deep voice echoed through the room. “I won’t waste time on formalities. I am here to court Miss Y/N officially.”

“Oh, really? I’m flattered,” you replied flatly. “You don’t have to do that, my lord.”

Your tone left no room for interpretation. He truly didn’t have to and you meant every word. Your wish had been to take part in this society quietly, without drawing attention, to prove that your parents’ plan was nothing but absurd. That hope, however, had already been crushed. You had caught the attention of this Commander, and now you were being hailed as a diamond.

“Yes,” Shamrock said with a mocking smirk. “I should have done this long ago.”

Why did he phrase it like that like a damn predator? The words sent a chill crawling down your spine, your disgust and hatred swelling like the rising tide of Aqua Laguna in Water 7. He did it deliberately just to irritate you, to leave an imprint in your mind.

Only then did his attention shift to Outlook, whom he had ignored until now, delivering a crude jest. “Where have you been hiding such a beautiful rose from the world all this time?”

Your father could only laugh awkwardly, not quite grasping the implication but unwilling to risk offending a Celestial Dragon especially one with the looming title of future son-in-law. Outlook gestured for Shamrock to take a seat then instructed ... no, forced you to accompany him during his visit.

You couldn’t refuse. After all, the Commander had come specifically to see you personally with the intention of getting to know you better… hadn’t he?

And then with that your family’s butler, Mr. Li, guided the two of you to a pair of chairs in the drawing room, positioned not far from the unlit fireplace. From time to time, you stole glances at the red-haired man who had come all this way solely for you. Yet his sharp eyes caught you in the act, as though he were searching for answers in your gaze. Once exposed, you turned your eyes away, feigning indifference to his presence perhaps because you truly did not care.

Mr. Li pulled out a chair for his missus before doing the same for the guest. Now the two of you sat opposite one another, locked in a silent stare, as if competing to see who would look away first. Neither of you yielded, both as stubborn as ships refusing to be conquered by a raging storm.

Neither of you paid any mind to the questioning looks cast in your direction. Like passing wind, whispers of gossip and unnecessary assumptions drifted through the room, unworthy of acknowledgment. Let them whisper and stare as they pleased—your focus and energy were already being drained by the effort it took to hate the man sitting before you.

Saint Figarland Shamrock.

He thought he could get away with anything simply because he was a Celestial Dragon. 

And you hated the bitter truth that he was right.

The man seated across from you inhaled, catching the scent that had drawn his attention since the night before. He was beginning to grow accustomed to that bold, passionate fragrance of roses, hidden somewhere unknown as if your body itself were the embodiment of the flower that symbolized love. It might have been excessive, but Shamrock found himself craving you more and more.

You were the first to break eye contact, turning instead to thank the staff who were arranging various snacks and drinks on the table. A simple courtesy you had learned from your caretaker one your parents had never bothered to teach you. You were fairly certain you had never once heard Outlook or Didit utter the “three magic words” in your entire life.

When one of the staff asked for your drink preference, you requested nothing more than a glass of water. You had already had enough tea for the day and were not in the mood to touch alcohol. Shamrock, on the other hand, chose the complete opposite—asking for whiskey to begin the conversation. How two people so fundamentally different were meant to find common ground remained a question… one that might soon be answered

The Commander began by speaking about his day, mentioning that he had just completed an important mission for the Elders omitting, of course, any mention of the killing he had carried out only hours earlier. You had no interest whatsoever in his achievements; to you, he sounded like a dog seeking validation from its master. Your responses were limited to nods and low hums, careful not to offend him, as though your life depended on it.

The mostly one-sided conversation went on for quite some time. Occasionally, you noticed Shamrock lifting his glass of golden whiskey its hue reminiscent of some of your gold jewelry. His now-uncovered fingers wrapped around the rim of the glass, his wrist rotating slowly, causing the liquid to swirl like waves yearning to kiss the shore.

“Why are you telling me about your mission?” you finally asked, your objection grounded in logic. “Shouldn’t that be classified information?”

Shamrock replied flatly, “It is crucial. That’s why I didn’t disclose any sensitive details. Besides, I’m certain you have little interest in World Government politics.”

You shrugged lightly. “Fair point.”

He was right, he would be violating protocol if he were to disclose sensitive information. And he was also right about your lack of interest in politics or anything related to the World Government. Ironically, a man you had only just met seemed to understand you better than your own parents ever had. You drew a short breath as you lifted your glass of water, taking a sip to hydrate yourself.

“Is that topic a bit too heavy for our first date, Rose? Because I—”

His sentence cut off when you set your glass back onto the table, your gaze lingering on the faint imprint of soft pink lipstick left on the rim. It resembled the petals of a pale rose.... no, more like a lotus resting gently against the edge of a clear lake. Perhaps he truly would lose his mind if you wore red lipstick instead, forming crimson rose petals so unmistakably associated with you.

How many flowers could possibly be linked to a single woman sitting before him?

Once again hypnotized by you, Saint Figarland Shamrock fell silent, his eyes fixed on your glass as if wishing he were the one feeling your sweet lips against him, no matter how much lipstick they left behind. For a fleeting moment, he wished he were a glass, a cup, anything that could meet your lips whenever you sought to quench your thirst. Jealous of an inanimate object? How utterly absurd.

“Pardon?”

You remained blissfully unaware of his thoughts, forcing him to cut himself off. Your voice shattered the silence between you, pulling the Commander back into reality. He denied it inwardly and hurried to redirect the conversation.

“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

You let his strange behavior slide, recognizing his attempt to change the subject by asking about your recent activities with your new friends—a topic everyone seemed eager to hear about.

“What do you think of the gossip papers talking about us?” the young Figarland asked.

“You mean the latest issue of St. N.I Society?” you replied, your tone noticeably more animated, laced with a thin layer of mockery. “I never imagined the mighty Commander of the Holy Knights would be interested in such trivial gossip.”

You were certain people were straining to overhear your conversation now, desperate for answers to satisfy their curiosity.

“Normally, I wouldn’t be,” Shamrock answered. “But this time is different, it involves me and this season’s diamond. Isn’t that right, my Aphrodite?” His voice was loud, deliberately echoing throughout the drawing room, as if he were declaring you his lover to everyone present.

You could swear you heard whispers and hushed murmurs, especially from the women trying to piece together the puzzle of your life. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes in irritation they expected nothing short of perfection. And if that was what they wanted, then that was exactly what they would get.

“I think they’re exaggerating something quite insignificant, don’t you?” you said, casting a sideways glance in an attempt to brush the topic aside.

But the red-haired man responded with an openly flirtatious tone, one he made no effort to conceal. “I don’t think so. They did you justice in their description. You truly are a rare diamond. I’d say Aphrodite herself has taken form in this world—as you.”

“Seriously? You too?” you said sarcastically. It seemed Saint Figarland Shamrock had decided to join this high-society game as one of its leading figures.

“Let them call you whatever they wish the season’s diamond, the goddess of love, anything,” he continued. “But these lips will call you by a name only I am allowed to speak, Rose.”

Before you could respond, Shamrock pressed on, his sweet words paired with a faint smile at the corner of his lips. “I’m no poet, but I hope my words can soften a heart as hard as the diamond they compare you to.”

You froze, not in admiration, but in surprise. “Do you assume I’m cold-hearted?”

“I’m not assuming. I know,” he said casually, as if he weren’t prying into your private life. “Shall I list the gentlemen whose proposals you rejected? Or the arranged matches your father tried to force upon you?”

Your eyes widened in shock at his answer. How could he possibly know about the arranged matches and proposals you had deliberately ignored? Surely he hadn’t gone so far as to dig that deeply into your life like some obsessed follower—had he?

 No. That possibility was, in fact, painfully plausible, given his arrogant nature and his refusal to ever accept defeat. 

“Do you really think you can win a woman’s heart just by sweet-talking her and digging up information about her life?” you snapped, your question sharp, testing the depth of his intentions.

Shamrock merely chuckled, taking another sip of his liquor as though every flicker of emotion on your face were nothing more than entertainment. “It’s the marriage season, Rose. Flirting and being flirted with are part of the ritual. You’ll get used to it.”

All you could do was exhale in quiet resignation. You should have known better—you were no stranger to arranged marriages, courtship games, scandals, and manufactured passion among the nobility of your homeland. The same reasons, the same games, the same rules. You had no right to be surprised.

“I believe actions carry far more meaning than empty words when it comes to winning a woman’s heart. Don’t you agree?” the Commander said, delivering his statement like a preacher offering a sermon.

With a challenging, faintly disdainful tone, you asked, “Then what exactly is your action, sir?”

The man raised an eyebrow, as if uncertain whether you were daring him to claim you—or simply impatient to witness how far he would go to pursue you. Either way, Saint Figarland Shamrock was certain of one thing: he would have you, no matter the means. He always obtained whatever he desired. That had never changed.

“I’ll need permission to summon a few of my men here.”

Without waiting, the red-haired man issued a command that sent a subtle tremor through the room. You hadn’t even granted the permission he claimed to ask for, yet he had already overstepped inside your own residence. It was as though he were mocking the very idea of consent, treating it as a meaningless formality to be ignored at his convenience.

Heavy footsteps echoed soon after his order. You hadn’t realized that everyone who had been eavesdropping on your conversation now turned their attention toward the entrance, eager to satisfy their curiosity.

But among those footsteps was another sound metal clinking rhythmically with each step. This was no decorative anklet meant to beautify. It was the unmistakable sound of chains shackles meant to restrain and punish.

The sound drew closer until its source finally emerged through the doorway: a girl no older than eighteen, her wrists and ankles bound in chains, being dragged forward by a guard like a circus performer hauling a wild beast on display. The difference was cruelly obvious this girl was human! harmless and utterly incapable of defending herself.

Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, as if trying to hide her fear, horror, and trauma. Her clothes were neat, yet the condition of her body suggested she had been forced into them merely to be presented before you a servant’s dress in white and gray accents. Her lips were cracked from dehydration, her pale complexion offering no relief to her pitiful state.

“What is the meaning of this?” You rose from your seat, demanding an answer, your voice firm and threaded with anger.

You were witnessing it with your own eyes a Celestial Dragon treating a human being like property. You barely registered the reactions of the other guests, nor the servants of Figarland presenting items on red trays lined with gold-trimmed velvet, or another holding a bouquet of flowers. Your mind was focused on only one thing: processing what stood before you.

“Just a few small gifts from me,” Shamrock began. “A set of ruby jewelry, flowers—”

“Not that,” you cut him off before he could finish. “Why is this girl chained like a prisoner?”

He showed no reaction to your interruption. “From what I’ve been told, you don’t have a personal servant. So I thought I’d… recruit someone to attend to you.” Shamrock rose as well, his words carefully measured, as though he were trying futilely to avoid offending you.

“So, in other words,” you said coldly, “you bought me a slave?” Not only had he violated your privacy, he had casually purchased a human being for you as if she were a cheap commodity.

“I assumed you’d be upset if I said it plainly,” he replied indifferently. “But yes. I bought her so she could work for you.” He spoke as though the chained girl were not a person deserving of dignity, but an object to be bought and sold like merchandise on a shelf.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, forcing yourself not to say something you might regret later. Your gaze drifted back to the poor girl—bound, restrained, stripped of freedom and basic rights. No one ever wished for a life like this. Your empathy screamed at you to do something. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, as though the very walls were watching. Dim light reflected off the marble floor cold and slick, just as cold as the man’s gaze fixed upon you.

“Do you truly believe that by doing something so vile you can buy my feelings?” Your voice trembled not from fear, but from disgust. Your chest rose and fell as you struggled to contain the rage boiling in your throat. “Perhaps your cheap tricks worked on the women you approached before. But not on me.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound echoing like a blade slowly dragged across bone. There was no guilt in it only the certainty that the world existed to kneel before him. “Oh, don’t pretend to be innocent, Rose. You stepped onto this land with full awareness. You came here to become one of us.”

His eyes regarded you as if you were an object already labeled and appraised. “This is the air we breathe, our lifestyle. I’m merely showing you how a Celestial Dragon lives in his world.”

Your hands clenched unconsciously, nails digging into your palms until they stung. You had long crossed the thin line between fear and anger. “A lifestyle?” Your voice rose, reverberating through the room. “You call slavery and the oppression of the weak a lifestyle?”

“This isn’t a bedtime fairy tale where everyone goes home with a happy ending,” he replied flatly, as if reciting an unchallengeable law of nature. “This is reality. Accept it.”

“Then tell me,” you shot back, holding his gaze, “is that enough to justify violence? To excuse every inhumane act you’ve committed-who knows for how long?”

Word after word spilled from your lips, each exchange growing louder than the last. Arguments were hurled like cannon fire on a battlefield. The combination of your sharp tongue, like a drawn blade, and his unwavering rebuttals, like an impenetrable shield, only emphasized how utterly incompatible you were—opposites that would never meet.

Perhaps you were never meant to be together, only to cross paths briefly—your lives divided like sky and earth. Two souls from entirely different worlds were never meant to coexist.

Maybe Shamrock was right. Maybe you were nothing more than a naïve girl longing for a life without suffering, like something out of a children’s fairy tale despite knowing full well how cruel this world truly was. But was it wrong to wish for peace? Of course not. Still, life never unfolds according to our wishes, does it?

Meanwhile, Outlook was seething with fury at his daughter for defying what he believed to be a woman’s nature to be timid and silent. To him, and to other misogynists like him, a woman had no place voicing her opinions, let alone defending others. He nearly stepped forward to “teach you a lesson,” to remind you of your place until Didit stopped him gripping his arm tightly. This family could not afford another scandal should this conflict become public.

The red-haired man remained as unyielding as ever. He did not blink even once during your exchange, his composure seemingly untouched. Yet you caught the subtle tells in his body language, his jaw tightening, his throat tensing as he swallowed, veins surfacing along his temple beneath pale skin and a few stray strands of hair. As though he were exerting every ounce of restraint to keep something dangerous from breaking free.

His anger.

For the first time, someone from the lower world let alone a woman had spoken to him like this. And it was testing the limits of his patience.

In a voice cold and stripped of emotion, Shamrock said, “Don’t lecture me about right and wrong. Look at your own family first. Greedy humans who justify every means to gain titles and wealth selling their own daughter on the marriage market without a second thought.”

He did not raise his voice, yet the depth of it pierced straight into your heart, because it was steeped in truth. There was no need to judge the Celestial Dragons alone your own family was no better. That bitter reality was impossible to deny. A life devoid of love and affection, where you were reduced to nothing more than a social bargaining chip by the very people who were meant to be your parents. You did not defend Outlook and Didit but you would defend your own dignity.

With a low, sardonic laugh, you replied, “You think I wanted any of this? Nonsense. Living freely as a pirate would be far better than being bound by chains as a noble of this world.”

Your words struck Saint Figarland Shamrock like a slap. Your ideology awakened memories he despised of the freedom his twin brother claimed as a pirate, while his own fate was shackled to duty and obligation. He would never admit it, but the truth was undeniable: he envied Shanks. Just a little. And you had forced him to remember that.

His restraint thinned with every word.

“Coming here was a mistake,” you declared loudly, intentionally, so everyone in the room could hear like a proclamation carved into stone. “And meeting you is the greatest regret of my life.”

You didn’t just hate him.

You despised him.

If your prospects of marriage were to crumble after this, so be it. To hell with a society that magnifies trivial scandals while turning a blind eye to real cruelty.

The man could only grit his teeth, suppressing his anger, clicking his tongue in irritation as though disappointed that the situation was no longer unfolding in his favor. You—so deliberately difficult to obtain—only drew his attention further, yet at the same time fueled his frustration and resentment. Women were difficult to understand; at least, that was what he believed.

Your gaze shifted to the chained girl, who had remained frozen like a statue the entire time. Your hatred for Shamrock was pushed aside by something greater, something far more importantat, and it’s pity. Your heart ached at the sight of someone being treated this way. You felt powerless, and you despised that feeling. If only you had the authority and strength to free her… you would have done so without hesitation.

“Lord Figarland,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady, “I am asking you politely to leave this place with your people and the gifts you intended to give. I cannot accept them.”

You did not know what would become of the nameless girl if she left with Shamrock, but you also could not allow yourself to become complicit in the long chain of slavery. At first, he said nothing. Someone of lower status daring to tell him what to do struck at his ego as a man—regardless of how politely you had spoken. 

“I will leave,” Saint Figarland Shamrock finally said, “but a gentleman never takes back gifts once they have been given.”

With that declaration, he turned sharply and strode away. His people followed, placing the gifts on the table before retreating, leaving the chained girl behind as they hastened after their master—eager to erase any trace of their presence.

Your anger flared even hotter. He could not even grant your simplest request—something utterly intolerable. Now you were entangled in the very chain of slavery you had tried so desperately to avoid, all because of him. You moved to follow him, your gown sweeping across the floor as you unleashed your frustration at the infuriating man.

“You call yourself a gentleman? Your behavior is no better than a pile of—” You bit your tongue, stopping yourself before the insult could leave your lips knowing you would regret it.

You drew in a heavy breath, your emotions tangled in ways you had never experienced before. But before you could fully process any of it, Outlook hurried toward you, already armed with a reprimand he had clearly been preparing.“What were you thinking? Speaking as though you were equal to Lord Figarland—”

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly as you cut him off. “Father… please. Not now.

The timing of his reprimand could not have been worse, because the most urgent and pressing concern was the fate of the girl who had been given to you. You refused to call her a slave—and you refused to become her owner. If her basic human rights were now in your hands, then you also held the power to give her freedom.

Beside the set of ruby jewelry lay an iron key, its presence jarringly stark against the surrounding luxury. It was not merely a key, but a symbol of both bondage and liberation. And now, as you picked it up, you realized you were holding another person’s fate in your trembling hand. You could not deny it your fingers shook, and your steps grew heavier as you approached the girl.

Your father’s scolding had long since entered through one ear and slipped out the other. Your focus was fixed on unlocking the iron restraints wrapped around a girl whose name you did not even know. You could not bring yourself to meet her eyes afraid that you would see the full weight of her suffering reflected there, and that it would crush you with guilt.

You had no words to comfort her. You could not begin to imagine what she had endured. The chains fell away but her body and soul did not. They were still bound by the suffocating grip of a rotten system that had shaped her entire existence.

In a voice meant to soothe, you said, “I am not your master. You are free now. You don’t have to work—”

Before you could finish, the girl collapsed at your feet, bowing deeply as she pleaded, “Please… at least allow me to serve you.”

Her trembling hands clutched at your shoes, and through them you felt fear, desperation and a fragile thread of hope. Your eyes widened as you witnessed firsthand the horror wrought by a system long sustained by cruelty. You had never imagined that someone could be terrified of freedom itself, molded by years of indoctrination and oppression.

Her tears soaked into your shoes as everything she had held inside finally spilled forth.

 “You don’t understand… a slave without a master lives in hell. I will do anything you ask. I’ll gladly serve you.... just please don’t make me go through that hell again…”

The desperation in her voice was unmistakable. If you refused her, you would be extinguishing the last spark of hope she clung to—her final trust in the world. Yet you could not bring yourself to stain your hands by participating in slavery, even under another name.

The choice before you felt unbearably heavy.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you would never forgive the person who had forced you into this dilemma.

Chapter Text

A white quill pen danced across the blank page, forming word after word, number after number, along with symbols meant to describe something. Thick books lay scattered open and the once-clean sheets were now stained with ink some crumpled after you squeezed them in frustration whether from accidental spills or strokes that failed to match the thoughts in your mind.

The sun had only just reclaimed its throne after the night’s long rule, yet you had already buried yourself in work. Still dressed in your nightgown, its color matching the quill in your hand, you sat in focused silence on an intricately carved teakwood chair. Soft morning light filtered through your window, gently illuminating the room before gradually turning harsh and hot against your skin.

Investments, asset management, the very things people claimed were 'too complicated for women.' And yet in truth such essential knowledge had long been monopolized by men, deliberately kept out of women’s reach. The reason was simple: to ensure women remained dependent on them for life. A woman who was too intelligent, too independent, was far more difficult to control or so they said.

Why did they want to control us? Were women truly that powerful, capable of ruling and leading better than men that they constantly tried to belittle us with the excuse of 'know your place'? This world was never fair. Equality was nothing more than an illusion,a dream that would never be reached.

All this time, you secretly studied finance something strictly forbidden by your parents. Only men were allowed to be educated in managing assets and land while women were expected to learn dancing, music, and how to become obedient wives who managed household affairs. That had been the aristocratic code for centuries.

Yet in reality, women from common society had far more freedom than you. They could work, earn money through their own efforts, and even own assets in their own names. Meanwhile, noblewomen lived at the mercy of men, unable to truly possess anything not even their own bodies or souls.

You had to admit, you felt a quiet envy toward them. More than once, the thought crossed your mind to run away from this society and live a simple but free life, like a bird soaring through the open sky. Even at your age already labeled a spinster you were still dependent on your parents.

You found yourself wondering how Outlook had become so wealthy, enough to afford your debut, which was far from cheap — the sea voyage to Mary Geoise, this luxurious residence with its unimaginable rent, your gowns, and countless other expenses. By your own analysis, his wealth even surpassed that of the Earls in your city, despite holding only the title of a Baron.

Was your father truly that skilled in managing his assets? Or was there influence from your adoptive sibling, who married the crown princess of Goa and became part of the royal family? You didn’t know. But one thing was certain even if he paid for everything, there was always a price you had to pay in return.

Your freedom. 

That was why you began to gather your own money by little, building assets that truly belonged to you and learning how to manage them. Just like what you were doing now, studying something considered taboo for women. However being self-taught came with unavoidable drawbacks. When there was something you didn’t understand, there was no one to give you answers.

As you continued studying, your Den Den Mushi suddenly rang with its distinctive tone, pulling your attention away from your work. You rose from your cluttered desk and walked over to the small table near your bed where the receiver rested.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N. How are you?”

“We haven’t heard from you in a week.”

“Are you alright after… you know?”

It was a group call you could hear Layla, Annelise, and Liliana’s voices from the other side. The transponder snail mimicked their voices and facial expressions so perfectly that it felt as if your friends were right there in front of you.

You answered, “Hi, everyone. I’m doing well. How about you?”

Light teasing and small talk flowed easily among the four of you, lasting long enough for you to lie back on your bed, holding the call like any other girl confiding in her friends. With them, you could almost reclaim the youth that had been taken from you by the weight of expectations from your parents and from society.

The chatter continued as they filled you in on everything you had missed during the week you isolated yourself. You had even refused to meet potential suitors, prompting St. N.I. to claim that your shine as the season’s diamond was already beginning to fade.

To hell with those gossipmongers. After the way a nobleman had so shamelessly humilientirely after you and made you chose to withdraw yourself from the marriage market entirely.

“You missed quite a lot. A whole week without socializing must have been boring,” Liliana chimed in, clearly ready to spill everything. “Especially last night, I won’t give any spoilers, but you have to read today’s St. N.I. gossip column.”

“That sounds interesting. What did you guys do?” you asked, your tone turning slightly interrogative as you suspected one of them had caused a scandal.

None of them admitted to anything, leaving you to figure it out yourself and letting the question hang unanswered. Strangely, Layla was much quieter than usual — not like the girl you had met just a week ago. Still, you didn’t dare to ask about it. Perhaps it was simply another side of her personality revealing itself.

Anneliese, the blonde, drew your focus back to the conversation with a careful question. “What about… the new girl who was with you?” she asked, clearly trying to avoid saying the word 'slave'.

“Her name is Nada. She works as my lady’s maid now,” you answered, satisfying their curiosity. You could hear the three of them murmuring softly, their questions finally answered.

That was indeed what happened, Nada became your personal maid after she asked you to employ her. Until now, your mother’s servants handled everything under her command, so you never really had a choice. But now, you finally had someone you could rely on and trust to manage your needs.

However, your father refused to pay her the same wages as the other servants, claiming she was merely a “gift.” From your own observation, Nada performed far better than the rest of the staff, it was undeniably unfair. Paying her so little was no better than treating her like a slave, and so you planned to compensate her properly with your own allowance.

Then Layla, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke.“Was your family invited to the Donquixote ball?”

The name sounded familiar the same family name as one pirate captain who was also a king of a certain country. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. The world could feel so small at times, yet unbearably vast at others.

Liliana and Anneliese gave the same answer they had both been invited to the ball. You were certain Didit had mentioned it during dinner the night before. Still, you had no intention of attending. Not when there was a chance you might run into HIM. 

“Why won’t you come? That party is going to be spectacular.”

“Is it because you’re avoiding Sir Shamrock after what happened? Don’t let him stop you from enjoying your life.”

Liliana and Anneliese kept trying to persuade you to attend the ball that evening. You continued to refuse, offering one excuse after another, yet they remained persistent. With no other option left, they decided to play their trump card.

“Remember our bet? The loser of the card game has to do whatever the winner says,” Anneliese declared, her tone regal as if she were a queen issuing a command. “So, Y/N, we order you to attend the Donquixote ball tonight.”

That made you rise from your bed, the Den Den Mushi mimicking an arrogant expression as if trying to intimidate you. You didn’t waver in the slightest and immediately denied it. “I didn’t lose. Our game was never finished ! there was no winner or loser.”

“Oh, we saw your cards, and they were terrible,” Liliana said, offering you absolutely no support.

You let out a quiet sigh. It was true your cards had been bad, and you would have lost no matter how the game ended. It seemed you had no choice but to accept your defeat and the bet that came with it.

“Please, Y/N. Come tonight. There’s something I want to talk about with all of you.”

This time, it was Layla speaking. Her voice sounded different softer, more uncertain than usual. Your instincts told you something wasn’t right with her, and that your presence might truly matter. You didn’t press her for an explanation now. You would let tonight reveal the answer.

“…Alright. I’ll come,” you said at last, giving in.

The three of them immediately sounded delighted upon hearing your answer, and you could have sworn you heard Layla let out a quiet breath of relief as if she had been holding it in the entire time, waiting for your response. That only made you more worried.

Before you could voice your concern, the call had to end. Nada knocked on your door, informing you that Mr. Li wished to see you. You quickly said your goodbyes, promising to see your friends tonight, before ending the call. The transponder snail immediately fell asleep, the small creature finally getting its rest after listening to your long chatter.

Afterward, you rose from your bed, taking your dressing robe to cover your nightgown and tidying your hair slightly before allowing your family’s butler and your personal maid to enter.Without much delay, they stepped inside. Mr. Li said nothing, he simply presented a suitcase to you. And that alone was enough for you to understand.

Not long ago, you had asked him to sell the jewelry Shamrock had given you.

You refused to keep anything that would remind you of him. It almost felt deliberate the ruby he chose matched the color of his eyes, eyes that held no kindness within them. As if it were a silent message, a constant reminder that he was watching you through that very shade. That was why you decided to sell it. Even the bouquet he had given you had already withered, and you had instructed the staff to throw it away.

The suitcase felt slightly heavy in your hands not only because it contained money, but because you had asked Mr. Li to convert half of the jewelry’s value into gold bars. When you opened it, you were met with the gleam of gold and the distinct scent of paper currency two things people would do anything to obtain, even through the dirtiest means.

Your family’s loyal butler reported that the total came to 50 million berries, a considerable amount for what was merely a gift from a potential suitor. You had asked him to do this many times before, not out of greed, but because you wanted to build your own assets, so you would never have to depend on anyone in the future.

You made sure to pay Mr. Li for his services and thanked him for helping you in secret. You also handed Nada some hush money, ensuring that this would remain a secret even from Outlook and Didit. She looked slightly confused, trying to process the meaning behind all of this, while the dark-haired butler simply nodded, already accustomed to the tasks you assigned him.

“Could you prepare a horse for me? I believe there’s a Line Bank nearby, isn’t there? Could you give me directions?” you asked the man who had long served your noble family.

At first, he offered to arrange a carriage and insisted that you should not travel alone. It was unsafe for a woman to go unaccompanied, especially while carrying such a large sum of money, a reasonable concern and Mr. Li seemed genuinely worried for your safety.

But you simply thanked him and declined politely, saying that a spinster like you did not need a chaperone. Besides, you wanted to experience riding a horse in a place thousands of feet above sea level. You could take care of yourself and once you made up your mind, nothing could change it.

Having known your obedient yet quietly rebellious nature for so long, he finally gave in and agreed

_____________________________________________

The queue at the bank was long, filled with people of all kinds of needs. Some wanted to withdraw cash, others to open new accounts, and a few were applying for loans each neatly organized into separate queues. Matters involving money never seemed to end.

You waited for your turn, seated among them, your appearance now vastly different from your usual self. You blended into the surroundings without drawing unwanted attention. The brown-toned outfit you wore would never make anyone suspect you were a noble in fact, some might even assume you were a servant or a working-class woman.

Didit would probably faint if he saw you dressed like this, wearing trousers and a coat like a man, paired with black paddock boots that only reinforced the image. Though you added a touch of femininity with a matching headscarf that concealed your hair, it also served as a precautionary disguise.

After quite some time, your turn finally arrived. The teller greeted you politely and asked how they could assist you.

“I’d like to deposit a sum of money into this account,” you said, handing over the cash along with a bankbook you had brought from Goa, from the same bank.

The teller took the book and checked it through the system. From the subtle shift in their expression something you easily caught there was a hint of suspicion. Before they could question you, you spoke up to clarify.

“It’s under the name Sabo. It belongs to my younger brother. I’m just depositing it for him while he’s out at sea in case he needs extra funds.”

The excuse you gave was rather cliché ,the same one you used every time you dealt with the bank. You used the name of your late younger brother to store part of your assets, avoiding suspicion, since a noblewoman was not allowed to hold wealth under her own name. Yet each time you made a deposit, there was always that lingering doubt another risk waiting to surface.

If you were ever discovered, it could be considered identity fraud. But for years, everything had gone smoothly. And this time was no different. Besides, the identity you used did not belong to a stranger who would be harmed. The teller simply nodded and proceeded with your transaction after your explanation.

A few moments later, it was done. The teller returned your bankbook, and you checked it 20 million had been successfully deposited into your account (Sabo’s account). The remaining 5 million, you planned to keep in your bed chamber alongside the gold as an emergency reserve in case you ever needed immediate cash.

You thanked the teller and left the bank as quickly as possible, not once looking back hiding both the truth and your doubts behind you.

Outside, numerous carriages were lined up near the entrance, their coachmen waiting patiently for their masters and mistresses to finish their affairs. And in the nearby several horses were tied to wooden posts loyally waiting for their owners and one of them was yours.

The black Friesian horse as dark as a moonless night turned its head toward you and let out a soft neigh, as if greeting your return. It felt like he was calling for you, eager to carry you wherever you wished to go. You approached him and gently stroked his neck.

“Missed me already Raven?”

You weren’t particularly good at naming things. It was a bit strange perhaps to name a horse Raven. But the resemblance was undeniable and besides the creature had quite ravenous appetite so you thought the name suited him well enough.

You untied the reins from the wooden post and guided the majestic horse a few steps back before mounting him. Your foot settled into the stirrup as you lifted yourself onto the saddle secured on Raven’s back. After adjusting into a comfortable position you guided him forward.

The rhythmic sound of his hooves echoed like your own heartbeat, thudding against the ground and leaving trails of dust in your wake. A gentle breeze brushed against your face and with that you hoped the knot of your headscarf beneath your chin wouldn’t come loose and be carried away by the wind.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking but you flicked the reins signaling Raven to pick up his pace.It wasn’t that you were in a hurry but it would be better if you returned before anyone noticed you had left the inn.

The ball would not begin for several hours, but you needed a long time to prepare. Besides, your new gown still had to be adjusted to fit you perfectly, and you were in no mood to listen to another lecture from Outlook and Didit about your lateness.

In your mind, you began to map out what you would do with the money you had saved. Should you buy land and become a landlady? But most of the land in the Kingdom of Goa was already controlled by nobles and the royal family. Perhaps you should purchase land in another country? Or invest in other instruments?

Your thoughts drifted away for a moment from the road that should have been your main focusbuntil you realized that right ahead of you was an intersection, where from the right lane another rider was passing by nearly causing you to collide.

It all happened so fast.

“Woah, there!”

“Oh, my—”

You quickly pulled on your horse’s reins to slow it down and bring it to a halt. The sound of its neigh echoed through the air as Raven reared up on his hind legs, lifting his front hooves and tossing his head high. The sudden movement pushed your body backward, but fortunately, you managed to keep your balance, gripping the reins tightly. You only hoped your beloved horse wasn’t hurt by the abrupt stop.

Your adrenaline surgedbmaking your heart pound rapidly and your breath come in uneven gasps. The thud of hooves was clearly audible as both horses brought their feet back down to the ground. Thankfully the two riders had managed to stop just in time before a collision could occur.

You tried to steady your breathing before turning toward the rider you had nearly crashed into due to your own carelessness. There you found a man with tousled blond hair riding a horse as white as snow contras with yours. At a single glance anyone would assume that the man before you was a prince from a fairytale and you wouldn’t blame them.

“It seems this road isn’t quite wide enough for the two of us,” he said, a soft chuckle accompanied his words clearly not expecting to encounter a beautiful woman in such an unexpected way.

The man handled his horse with calm precision as if the incident had not disturbed him in the slightest. He hadn’t even flinched when you nearly collided, while you though only slightly were still shaken. He did it all while observing you closely, as if he were counting every breath you took, though you were completely unaware of it.

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have been riding so fast with an intersection ahead,” you said quickly offering your apology. After all this had been your fault.

“Are you alright, miss?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You seem troubled.”

“I’m not, truly.”

“Were you being chased by bad guys?”

“No.”

“In a hurry, I see.”

“Not really.”

You answered each of his questions swiftly without the slightest hesitation because you had nothing to hide. The man furrowed his brows clearly puzzled and unable to understand. You could see his expression plainly even though he was wearing sunglasses. There was no strong reason for you to have been riding your horse so recklessly earlier.

He murmured, though you could still hear him, “I just thought you were… in trouble.”

You fell silent for a moment, the all-too-familiar assumption lingering that a woman must be weak, always caught in trouble waiting to be saved by a man

“And why would you assume that?” you cut in before the man could speak. “Just because I’m a lady doesn’t mean I’m always in distress, does it?”

“No, of course not,” he agreed immediately, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face at having thought of you as a damsel in distress.

“Good.”

An awkward silence settled between you, filled only by the sound of the horses’ breathing, two creatures so starkly different in color.

That silence gave you a moment to study him more closely. You couldn’t quite tell the color of his eyes behind those… peculiar glasses. A white shirt hung loosely on him, its buttons left open, paired with a feathered cloak in a striking shade of pink. Dyed goose feathers, perhaps?

Not that you meant to judge a book by its cover, but from his appearance alone, he was clearly no Celestial Dragon nor a soldier of the Holy Land. His style was far too unrestrained for someone bound by rigid aristocratic norms.

You felt as though you recognized him perhaps from a newspaper? Or maybe even from a wanted poster?

“Well then,” the man said, breaking the tension. He guided his white horse a step back, giving you space to pass. “Ladies first.”

At his gesture you inclined your head and the blond man mirrored the motion a silent exchange of respect. You flicked the reins lightly, urging your horse forward along the road.

In the end, you left behind nothing but a trail of dust and the fading echoes of hoofbeats And just like that it was over so abruptly that the man forgot to even ask the name of the woman he had met in such an unexpected way.

_____________________________________________

The Donquixote Ball the most anticipated social event this week and here you were standing in a grand ballroom whose brilliance could almost blind the eyes. Several couples were already gliding gracefully across the dance floor, while the cello, pianoforte, violin, and other instruments wove a melody that accompanied every movement. 

Crystal chandeliers illuminated every corner, as if banishing even the slightest trace of darkness unwelcome in a celebration like this. You could hear the faint squeak of shoes brushing against the polished marble floor, whether from careful steps or the sweeping motions of dancers locked in elegant rhythm.

You were blending into the crowd hoped and prayed that you would go unnoticed staying far from anyone’s attention. But a diamond remains a diamond, even when its shine is dimmed. You could feel several pairs of eyes upon you, as though stripping you bare with their gaze. You tried not to respond tried to make yourself invisible but failed.

The bold red gown you wore only made you stand out even more. Yet it was the only new dress you hadn’t had the chance to wear. It had been a sudden decision you chose to wear what was available rather than commission something new. The embroidery crafted with golden thread had been tailored perfectly to your figure but the neckline dipped far too low, as if deliberately designed to reveal more of your cleavage than you were comfortable with leaving you feeling slightly exposed.

This time gold jewelry completed your appearance, a delicate headpiece resting upon your neatly arranged hair, earrings that swayed with every movement, a necklace adorned with an oval diamond pendant, and bracelets encircling your gloved wrist alongside your dance card.

Your eyes scanned the room searching for your friends amid the crowd. In the midst of your search you spotted Outlook and Didit engaged in conversation with someone you assumed to be the host Lord Donquixote Mjosgard. Whatever they were discussing you could only guess. Perhaps your father was building connections to further his plans.

You shifted your gaze and continued looking. On the dance floor, you saw Layla dancing with a gentleman- no, her bethrored. The St. N. I. newspaper had announced the first engagement of the season between Lord Ward and Miss Layla a debutante from the West Blue. You had only learned of it while reading that gossip column as you prepared to attend this very ball.

So that was why she had asked you to come, she wanted to introduce her fiancé to you and the others, perhaps?

Good for her… maybe?

You weren’t sure.

You had not the slightest right to interfere in someone else’s personal affairs. But this felt too fast. The season had only just begun, barely a week, and to you that was far too little time to truly know someone you were meant to spend a lifetime with. Society however seemed to think the opposite: the sooner a couple became engaged and married the better.

The tension between the two was unmistakable, even from a distance. Throughout the dance Layla never once met her partner’s gaze keeping her eyes lowered instead. Their movements felt mechanical like two rigid machines made of iron devoid of even the faintest trace of emotion. You supposed you shouldn’t expect much from an arranged match.

Your concerns were momentarily pushed aside when Liliana and Anneliese approached you after finishing their conversation with a group of gentlemen. You took the chance to chat with them about everything you had missed during your self-imposed seclusion and quickly realized just how much you had fallen behind including your own friend’s engagement.

One set of dances had come to an end. The couples bowed to one another, expressing gratitude for a delightful performance. They stepped off the dance floor and went about their own affairs everyone except Lord Ward. The moment the dance ended he hurried away leaving Layla standing there awkwardly on her own. There was no affection, no trace of romance.

Trying to save her from what was quickly becoming an embarrassing situation, you waved at Layla, signaling for her to come over. And she did, stepping down from the dance floor and making her way toward you and the others.

“I read that one of us is already engaged. Congratulations, Layla.” You took both of her hands, and the dark-haired girl blushed like a bride.

Layla lowered her gaze as she explained, “Lord Ward courted me all week, we shared dances, promenades. And he proposed just yesterday during dinner with his family.”

“I had intended to introduce him to all of you, but… it seems he’s rather busy at the moment.” Her tone shifted, laced with a hint of disappointment.

“It’s alright, we can get acquainted another time, can’t we?” Anneliese chimed in, gently taking over the conversation as she tried to reassure the newly engaged girl. You and Liliana nodded in agreement.

“If you’re happy, then we’re happy for you,” you said sincerely almost as if you were trying to convince both Layla and yourself.

She only offered a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her lips curving in a way that felt forced. You could read her like an open book and you weren’t the only one who noticed.

Liliana spoke softly, “If there’s anything you want to talk about, we’re here to listen.”

Unfortunately, Layla shook her head and immediately denied it. “It’s not like that. I have to be happy- I am happy with this bethroral. The marriage will benefit me and my family, I will have secure future.”

The irony was almost painful. It sounded as though Layla was trying to convince herself far more than she was trying to convince any of you. But not every woman was granted the luxury of romance. Security and a guaranteed future often took precedence over the desires of the heart. Perhaps there was no one to blame.

Sensing the tension thickening in the air, you decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I have a question,” you said, attempting a lighter tone. “After we marry a Celestial Dragon… do we actually have to wear those ridiculous space suits with the helmets?”

At your teasing question, the trio couldn’t hold back their laughter. They covered their mouths trying to muffle it, momentarily forgetting the weight of society and all its expectations hoping no one overheard such a dangerously candid conversation.

“That’s a good question. Let’s use Layla as our reference.”

“Please, anything but that outfit.”

“Maybe I should negotiate with my fiancé to give me permission to wear whatever I want.”

You chimed in, “As much as I hate feeling suffocated by a corset, I do love wearing beautiful dresses.”

Everyone seemed to agree, being constricted by a corset was far preferable to wearing the uniforms of the Celestial Dragons especially those ridiculous outfits. It felt like a fair sacrifice in the pursuit of beauty. After all beauty required suffering and pain.

“Speaking of dresses, I love yours. Red suits you,” Anneliese said, admiring your appearance this evening.

You thanked her for the compliment but admitted that red felt too bold for your taste it made you stand out too much and drawing attention you didn’t necessarily want.

“I think if you wore ruby it would make your look even more… intense.” Layla added.

Since that humiliating gift, you found yourself suddenly disliking rubies. You wanted nothing associated with that man Saint Figarland Shamrock. Besides there was no point dwelling on it. You had already sold the jewelry and tonight was meant for you to enjoy.

“Ruby just isn’t my stone. I think I’m more of an emerald person,” you replied.

The conversation carried on, drifting from wedding plans to lighter topics, drinks in hand accompanying your laughter. For tonight, you allowed yourself to forget your troubles and simply live in the moment. And perhaps, if your mood remained pleasant, you might even step onto the dance floor with a gentleman who dared to ask.

As you discussed bridesmaids, your gaze wandered and then stilled. A figure had just entered the ballroom. He drew attention effortlessly. A blond-haired man wearing distinctive glasses, someone you recognized from earlier that day now dressed in a striking red suit, his polished black shoes gleaming under the lights.

You knew him. There was no way you could forget the man you had nearly collided with just hours ago, not with those unmistakable glasses.

Still uncertain, you listened closely to the whispers around you following his arrival. And soon enough, the truth revealed itself.

One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea.

The King of Dressrosa.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

No wonder his face had seemed so familiar it was one you had often seen in the newspapers. You hadn’t expected to cross paths with someone so important in such an unexpected way. You could only hope that whatever first impression you left on him had been… decent.

It seemed the man noticed your observant gaze as well. Your eyes met across the distance, separated only by space and the tint of his lenses. Now you stood composed, refined, and proper a stark contrast to the free-spirited girl he had encountered earlier that day. Yet he still recognized you.

Recognition and curiosity.

As if drawn by a magnet, the king stepped forward, closing the distance between you — even leaving his previous conversation behind without explanation. And without realizing it you too took a step forward as though ready to meet him halfway.

“I didn’t expect to see you again at my cousin’s ball,” Doflamingo began. That alone explained his presence here. 

You were standing before a king. Your body responded instinctively, one foot stepping back your knees bending slightly as you lowered your gaze in a respectful curtsy.

“Your Majesty, please forgive me for not recognizing you earlier today.”

He raised a brow, clearly amused by your sudden shift. “And now that you know who I am, your attitude changes so drastically, miss?”

“I’m simply behaving… according to proper norms,” you replied shortly choosing your words with care.

“There’s no need for all that formality. I’m not a king in this land… at least,” he said, his tone blending teasing and charm. “Go on, look into my eyes though I should warn you not to fall in love with them.”

A joke and a flirtation in a single breath. He seemed intent on making you meet his gaze, as if he wanted to memorize every detail recounting your lashes though unfortunately for him your lashes were not entirely your own tonight.

At last, you lifted your head accepting the challenge and matching his tone. “How could I fall in love with your eyes when I can’t even see them behind those pink glasses of yours?”

Hearing you respond in kind, Doflamingo let out a small laugh perhaps a little louder than he intended. “That’s good. Then I suppose I should keep them on just in case, to prevent any broken hearts.”

You hid a soft chuckle behind your gloved hand, the noise of the ballroom fading slightly around you. “Do you truly believe in love at first sight?”

“I don’t think so, not with someone whose name I don’t even know.”

And so, you introduced yourself. Your name lingered in his ears, as if he were carving it into memory not into his heart. Not yet. As for him a man whose name and face were known across newspapers he hardly needed an introduction. And yet for you he offered one anyway a gesture of respect.

It was undeniable — Doflamingo couldn’t take his eyes off you. Captivated by your beauty and the way you carried your words, the king found himself drawn in. It wasn’t difficult for any man to be interested in a woman like you — at least, that’s what he thought.

The music began again, signaling the second round of dancing, but to you, it faded into the background — nothing more than a soft hum beneath your conversation. This time, there were no flirtations, only a steady exchange of words flowing like a river from source to sea.

“A pirate and a king at the same time. I imagine your schedule must be quite busy,” you said casually, keeping the conversation moving.

Doflamingo almost groaned. “Oh, tell me about it. Sailing and politics are two completely different worlds, yet I have to manage both.”

“So, do you steal treasure and share it with your people?” Your question was simple almost innocent in its curiosity.

“I’m not that saint,” he replied easily, unconcerned about how others might judge him.

“Besides, not all the ‘Saints and Saintesses’ here are truly noble” you murmured, your voice lowered to a near whisper careful not to offend even if it was the truth.

“Ah, so you know quite a bit for someone who’s only been here a few weeks,” he noted.

You turned your head, looking for your friends whom you had momentarily ignored but none of them were in sight. Had they been upset because they left behind without a word just because of a man? Hopefully not. Or perhaps they noticed something between the two of you and chose to give you space, quietly wondering from afar.

But instead, what you found was a figure with long red hair someone you despised. Of course Figarland Shamrock would find a way to disturb your night. His crimson eyes locked onto yours as if warning you not to speak with Doflamingo. And in response, you simply looked away indifferent as if you had never seen him at all. Who was he to tell you what to do?

“Sir. Doflamingo—”

“Too long, isn’t it? Why don’t you call me ‘Doffy,’ like my family does?”

“Family? Isn’t it a bit too soon for nicknames especially one that intimate?”

“You’re right, perhaps a little too soon. But when I say ‘family,’ I mean the officers of my pirate crew, people I trust completely. My loyal ones, who have been with me through highs and lows.”

“I see, I thought you meant your real family, like your parents or siblings.”

“…Perhaps that’s a conversation for another time.”

While you were absorbed in conversation with someone new, Shamrock still watched you from afar, tracking your every movement as if trying to read your lips to understand what you were saying to that pirate. Donquixote Doflamingo might be a Warlord of the Sea and a king of certain county but he was still someone who had once been cast out from the Holy Land. 

And perhaps that was what made his gaze feel different. Not mere curiosity but something hungrier. A desire for control, for understanding, for something he couldn’t simply claim. His eyes were sharp, yet not just cautious deeper than that. There was something in them that almost resembled curiosity or perhaps a judgment not yet finished.

You let out a soft laugh at something Doflamingo said light, but enough to make Shamrock’s shoulders tense. He didn’t hear the words but he didn’t need to. The slight narrowing of your eyes and the genuine curve of your lips something he rarely saw, or perhaps had never seen you give him were enough.

Shamrock had never liked this feeling. It crept slowly from his chest, climbed to his throat, and settled there like something bitter that could neither be swallowed nor spat out. He stood not far from the crowd, yet his mind was nowhere in that room.

All of his attention was on you. On the way you tilted your head ever so slightly when you listened. On the way you smiled something that, he wasn’t sure when, no longer felt like it belonged to him to witness. And what disturbed him most was the man beside you. Donquixote Doflamingo stood too close, too relaxed, far too confident as if he had every right to share the same space as you, perhaps even too certain that he could make you stay there.

His jaw tightened. Shamrock didn’t know what unsettled him more, the words he couldn’t hear or the fact that he desperately wanted to stop it all. To stop the conversation, to stop that laugh, to stop the way you looked at someone else like that. His hand slowly curled into a fist at his side.

This is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. The Commander of the Holy Knights muttered inwardly.

He was no one to you. No rights, no promises, no bond that had ever truly been spoken between you. And yet, that was precisely what made him more restless. Because without a bond, there was nothing he could demand. And without the right to demand, all he could do was watch.

And he hated that.

Meanwhile, you didn’t bother sparing him a glance, your focus fully immersed in the conversation before you. At the very least with Doflamingo you didn’t feel belittled you were treated as an equal, not someone to be looked down upon. That, at least, was the conclusion you had drawn.

Now, you became aware that the melody was nearing its end, the instruments softening as they signaled the close of the current set and the beginning of the next dance. You were certain some of the debutantes had already secured their partners. And now you found yourself wondering and betting, would this gentleman ask you to dance in this set, the next one, or not at all?

Unaware of the quiet wager you had made with yourself, the blond man glanced toward the dance floor, where the final movements of the dance were unfolding. “What’s the next dance? A waltz?”

You answered casually without checking because you already knew. “I believe the next one is a quadrille, according to my dance card.”

“Forget that little card. This ball is far too short to be bound by a schedule.” He hummed, followed by his distinct, booming laugh.

His words left you puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

Doflamingo extended his hand, waiting for you to accept his invitation. “Let’s do a tango.”

You could hardly believe what you had just heard, your lips parting slightly in disbelief. Tango was almost never danced during the social season at any ballroom—it demanded a level of closeness that was… scandalous. Bodies drawn together like a stamp pressed against an envelope, moving in a rhythm as quick and intense as a racing heartbeat.

Silence lingered between the two of you, giving you just enough space to reconsider his invitation. Meanwhile, the blond man looked almost impatient, as though he were already anticipating the moment you stepped onto the floor with him. And so, a quiet negotiation began.

“If you can’t do the tango, it’s fine. A quadrille will do,” Doflamingo said, his tone hovering somewhere between offering you a choice and issuing a challenge, you weren’t quite sure which.

“It’s not that. I’ve learned the tango, I just never had the chance to practice it. Besides, I don’t think my dress is exactly practical for it.” And it wasn’t, the gown didn’t allow much freedom of movement, though at least your corset wasn’t unbearably tight this time.

“I will lead. Do you trust me?” His hand remained extended waiting for yours to rest upon it, a silent request for trust.

Around you, the couples on the dance floor completed their steps and bowed to one another signaling the end of the set. If you didn’t answer soon others would take the floor.

It wasn’t greed not really but something within you wanted to claim that entire space just for the two of you.

And you knew exactly what that something was.

Passion

Dressrosa, a land famed for love and passion, now you had its king wrapped around your fingers. You had won your little wager with yourself and what you gained was far better than you had expected. It would be foolish to turn away something so enticing.

You placed your hand in his, a silent acceptance, your smile carrying a thousand unspoken meanings. “Very well, lead the dance, Your Majesty.”

Doflamingo laughed at your answer, amused by the teasing formality of your address even after he had asked you to stop being so proper with him. He enjoyed your little game perhaps more than he should have. But then again you were the one who had started it.

And so, your hands intertwined as you stepped forward together with effortless grace like a perfectly matched pair. When the blond man requested five minutes to claim the dance floor and instructed the musicians to prepare a piece suitable for a tango, the red-haired man remained where he was watching everything unfold. 

So now Doflamingo dared to have you dance with him alone? He had been the first to claim you for a dance or so he believed.

The tango did not begin with movement, but with closeness. Your bodies stilled for a brief moment in the opening position your chest nearly brushing against his. One of your hands remained entwined with his, while the other rested upon his shoulder. His hand settled at your back not rough enough to intimidate or force yet firm enough to guide your every direction.

Then the first step came slow and deliberate. Your foot slid back, guided by the subtle pressure of his hand at your back, a wordless signal. Tango was more than a dance, it was a silent conversation every gentle push, every measured breath forming a language only the two of you could understand.

Your head tilted slightly to the left, while Doflamingo’s angled in the opposite direction. Accompanied by the violin’s commanding presence you glided across the polished marble floor, your shoes whispering against its smooth surface. Any trace of envy from the room was swallowed by the music and the murmurs of the audience fresh gossip unfolding before those hungry for a story.

In a swift motion, your heads turned, and your eyes met. You held that gaze for a moment as your feet crossed in perfect sync. You couldn’t help but wonder about his eyes their color, their shape. You would wager they were hazel, sharp and cunning like a fox.

Once again you claimed the dance floor as your own.

It seemed you had a way of making anyone want to share it with you.

And you knew exactly how to use that.

Doflamingo guided you through each movement right and left, forward and back. With effortless grace you followed without hesitation, as though you had entrusted your very life to him. Your foot swept lightly between his forming a swift gancho teasing and almost like a trap, yet executed with such precision that it remained perfectly refined.

The music had reached its midpoint, the violin soaring higher, signaling the approaching climax. Your body spun with precision, your skirt flaring with the momentum yet its length and weight dragged against the floor. Then in a fleeting misstep the tip of your heel caught the delicate fabric nearly throwing you off balance.

Before you could even process it, an unseen force pulled you back steadying you holding you in place. Your arm lifted into the air beyond your control, your wrist crossing above your head as if guided by invisible threads shaping your movement into something unexpectedly mesmerizing.

The man only smirked. “I told you, trust me.”

The pirate had used the power of his Devil Fruit to guide you, to catch you just as you nearly stumbled over your own gown. Your heart pounded faster than the rhythm of the dance itself and it drew a matching smile from you in return.

All of it happened right before Shamrock’s eyes.

And he could only watch, gripped by a feeling he had never truly known before.

Consumed by burning jealousy.

At first the Commander had refused to acknowledge it, from the very moment he saw you speaking with another. But the longer he let it linger and the closer you became to that man the more it ignited within him until he was certain it could set the entire ballroom ablaze or perhaps even more.

From where he stood Shamrock felt his chest tighten painfully. This was no mere dance, It was too close, too intimate.

The way Doflamingo’s hand rested at your back. The way your body yielded to his every lead. The way your face seemed to glow alive in a way he had never seen when you were with him.

He stood rigid like a statue carved from restrained anger. Every movement you made on the dance floor felt like a series of small blades, slowly carving into something deep within him. Your closeness with another man only fed the fire burning in his chest.

And what hurt him most was the simple truth you were not being forced. You chose to be there in another man’s embrace. A stark contrast to the last time you had danced with him. No matter how much Shamrock tried to deny it that truth remained absolute.

Pathetic.

That final dip almost made him move. As your body arched backward, held so close by Doflamingo your faces only inches apart your hand resting on his shoulder and your form fully supported by his strength, something inside Shamrock cracked. His fist clenched again tighter this time until his knuckles turned white.

From that dipped position, your gaze caught him upside down in your line of sight. Close enough to witness everything, yet distant enough to remain uninvolved. And when his eyes met yours, burning with jealousy, you returned nothing but an indifferent look as though he were nothing more than a stranger in the crowd merely another spectator to your performance.

After holding you there for a few lingering seconds Doflamingo pulled you back upright guiding you into the final movement. As your body returned close to his once more Shamrock could no longer pretend to remain composed. He looked away for a moment drawing a slow breath trying to suppress something that was rapidly slipping beyond his control.

And before he even realized it the music had come to an end. The tango was over.

Doflamingo kept you in place for a moment even after the dance had ended. At first, no applause followed the audience seemed to be holding their breath still processing what they had just witnessed. Then you noticed three of your friends begin to clap and soon enough, the rest of the room followed.

“So, what do you think?” the King asked.

Your breathing was still slightly uneven but in a pleasant way as your heartbeat gradually began to steady. “That was… full of passion.”

“And that passion is what defines Dressrosa.”

Still standing at the center of the dance floor, Doflamingo offered his hand once more. “The next dance is a quadrille, isn’t it? Shall we?”

You raised a brow clearly amused. “Oh? And now you suddenly wish to follow the schedule?”

“Perhaps,” he replied casually.

“Then you should write your name on my dance card.” Without hesitation he obliged pulling a pen from his pocket and inscribing his name onto your card.

Once again, your hands found each other. Several other couples began stepping onto the floor alongside you. Before the dance could begin, you spoke again your tone light yet deliberate.

“I suppose I should warn you, one dance is like testing the waters. A second with the same lady signals interest. But three in a row…” you paused, letting the implication settle, "it essentially means a bethroral.”

“I know,” the blond man answered, utterly unfazed.

The harp strings were plucked by slender fingers, the pianoforte keys pressed into a flowing melody, violins rising in harmony alongside the cello. Couples took their positions four pairs forming a square each facing a different direction. Yet to your surprise at the southern point stood someone you had no desire to engage with.

Saint Figarland Shamrock.

And now he had brought along a random girl to join him.

The quadrille allowed for brief exchanges of partners meaning whether you liked it or not you would inevitably dance with him. If his intention in bringing another lady was to make you jealous in return, then it was rather unfortunate for him it would not work.

If the tango had felt like a dangerous whisper between two people now the ballroom was filled with something brighter structured, elegant, bound by rules. The notes of the quadrille flowed lightly yet deliberately inviting more couples onto the floor.

Each pair offered a polite bow before beginning the first sequence, three steps forward, a pause, then retreating back to their original place. There was no excessive contact only the occasional brush of fingertips before separating again in time with the music. And perhaps because of that restraint every touch felt more intentional.

Doflamingo guided you with effortless ease, as though the intricate patterns were nothing more than a simple game to him. A turn, a change of place hands meeting for only a fleeting second before parting again.

Meanwhile, Shamrock moved with his partner as well precise and controlled yet unmistakably stiff. There was a tension between them, a subtle awkwardness that stood in stark contrast to the fluid harmony you shared with your own partner.

The Commander followed the quadrille as though it had been etched into his very being. Every step landed perfectly on time, every turn was precise, every exchange executed without hesitation.

And yet—there was no warmth.

His hand held, but never truly grasped. His gaze looked, but never truly saw.

Because even as he danced with another, his eyes were searching for you.

Meanwhile you paid none of it any mind. You simply enjoyed the dance exchanging light conversation with Doflamingo. The ballroom had become a grand stage an unspoken performance of love, reputation, and honor, surpassing any opera. A spectacle where the performers did not need to act.

Then came the next sequence the formation that required partners to change.

Before you could prepare yourself to face him, the blond man spun you gently in time with the music, guiding you into the exchange. Whether he was unaware of the tension between you and the red-haired man or simply chose not to acknowledge it you couldn’t quite tell.

And then a gloved hand caught yours, Firm also almost forceful and Desperate.

You didn’t need to look to know whose it was. Saint Figarland Shamrock. With a single pull, he drew you into him as though that was where you belonged. Your eyes met at a distance far too close after a night spent only watching each other from afar.

Red roses, you still carried that intoxicating scent as though your very being was made of their petals. Was there a secret to it? He was too close leaning just enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushed the curve of your neck. Shamrock forced himself not to close his eyes despite how much he wanted to lose himself in your fragrance something that had become unmistakably yours.

So instead he focused on your eyes, on the dance, and anything but the way he wanted you.

He had to admit at least one thing.

He was yearning for you.

You nearly lost your rhythm but his hand caught you first, steadying you, pulling you back into the flow of the melody. This time, with him. His fingers closed around yours firm. Not rough but far from gentle as if he was making one thing clear: this time you would not slip away.

There was authority in every lead he gave, a stark contrast to the fluid ease of your dance with Doflamingo. 

The steps continued.

Forward.

Turn.

And then, Shamrock finally spoke “What does he have that I don’t?”

You averted your gaze, as though already tired of looking at him. “Everything,” you answered, sharp and without hesitation. “Integrity. Honor. Respect. I could make a long list.”

The Commander remained at your side, his hand never once leaving yours. As you moved through a half-turn forward and back your shoulders and arms brushed against each other. You kept moving refusing to meet those crimson eyes.

“So you’re calling me immoral?” His voice droppedblow and dangerous like a wolf’s howl under a full moon. It wasn’t just jealousy anymore. It was insult something he had never been forced to endure before.

His step faltered half a beat too late and barely noticeable to anyone else but unmistakable to you. Not because he lacked skill but because his emotions were beginning to take control of him. 

“Let me tell you something,” the Commander continued, a warning threading through his tone. “You know nothing about what that man did after his family was banished from the Holy Land.”

“And that makes you better than him?” you shot back, your attention no longer fully on the music.

The formation pulled you back side by side once more. This time, his arm hovered dangerously close to your waist, his breath brushing the side of your face—too near, too intrusive, like a hound catching the scent of something forbidden.

“Do I need to reveal the truth to you?” he murmured. “About how he became the king of Dressrosa?” He spun you slowly. The next step forced a slight separation just enough distance to breathe but nowhere near enough to ease the tension. 

This time, you dared to meet his eyes not in search of truth but in defiance. 

“You belittle others just to make yourself look better? To feed your ego?” Your voice was steady. “How pathetic.”

“At least I don’t need a mask to hide who I am,” he shot back his tone laced with mockery. “Unlike that man playing king-and-pirate, or you hiding behind your perfect-yet-defiant-lady façade.” The insult was clear—sharp and deliberate.

You wanted to retaliate to point out just how ridiculous he looked dragging another girl into this drama just to confront you in the middle of a dance floor. But the melody shifted signaling the return to original partners.

Before you could speak a familiar presence returned. A blond figure stepped in, his arm slipping around your waist gentle yet unmistakably possessive as though reclaiming something that was always meant to be his. He didn’t spare Shamrock a glance. You wondered briefly if he had noticed the tension between you and the Commander.

“Did I miss something?” Doflamingo hummed, answering the question you hadn’t voiced.

You let out a soft laugh as you moved with him once more “Just a minor disturbance.”

And you had to admit there was a trace of pride in the way you dismissed Shamrock, as though he were no longer worth your attention.

And with that, the quadrille came to its close—the final notes rising into a graceful finish. One last turn, and your bodies dipped in unison. It was the longest dance you had ever taken part in, filled with far more than just steps and music.

After the final movement Doflamingo guided you back onto steady footing before the two of you bowed to one another.

While the audience busied themselves with hushed whispers piecing together the spectacle they had just witnessed and other couples remained occupied with their own partnersbyou and Doflamingo quietly slipped away from the dance floor. He had offered to show you around the manor and the invitation came at the perfect time.

“We don’t need to sneak around like thieves just to give you a tour,” the King remarked, his hands resting behind his back.

You glanced at him, meeting his gaze despite the barrier between you.“I simply wish to avoid my chaperone for a while.”

“Very well. Then let the tour begin. Did you know this place used to be my home before my family moved below?”

“Oh? Really?”

“And after we left, my cousin inherited the title and the estate including this residence. I still stop by whenever I have business in Mary Geoise.”

Doflamingo led you through the manor guiding you from one space to another. After being overwhelmed by so much attention this was exactly what you needed, a quiet reprieve. Just a slow walk free from prying eyes as you admired the elegance of the grand, classical architecture surrounding you.

Just as you were certain no one had noticed your quiet departure with a gentleman without your assigned escort Saint Figarland Shamrock saw everything with perfect clarity.

He could have acted. He could have struck ignited whispers turned suspicion into scandal with a single spark. But he chose silence. Not for himself but for your reputation, suddenly he cared about your reputation? 

Even so, the Commander no longer spared a single glance for the partner who had unknowingly helped him reach you. He abandoned the dance floor alone leaving behind the very ball he had attended out of obligation.

Outside the Donquixote estate, the front courtyard was lined with waiting carriages, coachmen, and footmen standing at attention. The moment his presence was noted Shamrock’s personal coachman approached without a word.

“Take me to the red-light district.” The command left no room for questions.

The coachman bowed his head, unsurprised. It was not his place to comment only to obey. With the help of the footmen, the carriage was readied at once.

Drawn by four horses, the ornate coach carried the red-haired man away from the 'civilized' quarters of the Holy Land toward its other face. A place where reputation and sin blurred into one. Where the line between imagination and reality dissolved. And where as long as one had the coin any desire could be indulged.

Lights flicker brightly along the street since entering the district gate. Shamrock looks out the window of his carriage at the prostitutes seductively enticing potential customers from the balconies above, like a serpent hypnotically luring its prey into a deadly embrace. This place never sleeps.

The Commander was neither amused nor shocked by the sight. To him it was just a normal interaction like a casual conversation. Having frequented various brothels he wasn't bothered counting how many women he had slept with or concealing his reputation as a casanova, a rake or whatever other names he was called.

Until he arrived at one of the high-class brothels he often visited. Shamrock dismounted his carriage, leaving his servant to handle parking or whatever else.At the entrance, the brothel owner who knew him well greeted him warmly as a loyal customer.

"Show me your best whores" Shamrock demanded eager to unleash all his pent-up desires and jealousies that had burned throughout the night, and the fleeting sense of ownership even if only through these sex workers.

Without a moment's hesitation or shame, the owner summoned the girls to line up as if on display presented like dolls rather than living beings. Barely clad and provocatively enticing entry into the trap, they stood in sharp contrast to the elegant ladies at a society ball. 

His crimson eyes scanned every women before him, searching for a glimpse of you in their features to quench his thirst. Swiftly, his piercing gaze fixed upon one girl whose eye color matched yours but differed in shape, a nearly identical posture yet too many curves, facial features that at first glance seemed similar but were clearly not you. At least she was the closest among the rest.

"That one," Shamrock declared with authoritative tone, having made his selection which could not be disputed.

For how long he had been made out with the prostitute trying to find escape. Yet he still couldn't find you there despite the Commander's attempts being slightly too forceful. He didn't need to know the name of the woman currently serving him. Each kiss, each touch was directed towards you and unleashing his desire.

The man released his kiss and gazing hungrily at the nude woman sprawled beneath him panting heavily. It must be acknowledged that she was indeed a very attractive, sexy and talented woman. But his purpose here was to bring his fantasy of possessing you entirely to life.

In the midst of their session Shamrock noticed a vase filled with fresh red roses decorating the room of this brothel. You were everywhere but in the place he desired most. And this realization frustrated him until he groaned absently stroking his long red hair.

Still not fully undressed, with only the buttons of his shirt open and his belt undone Shamrock rose from the bed to pluck the roses. With a bit too much roughness he tore the petals from the stem inadvertently causing the thorn to prick his finger and draw a small bead of blood - but it didn't hurt him at all.

Then aggressively he tossed the rose petals at the sex worker he was about to bed. The woman closed her eyes and accepted it all interpreting it as a romantic gesture like a newlywed couple swept up in passionate love unaware of anything else. 

With the familiar scent of the rose wafting around him, Shamrock could almost imagine your presence here, closing his eyes. With fervor, he jumped back onto the bed, kissing the prostitue imagining it was your soft lips he was kissing, using the fragrance of the flower to envision caressing your body trying to claim you as his own.

Without shame he called out your nickname amidst the depraved act.

"Rose..."