Season 1: Survival of the Fittest

  Ch 13: A Viliness at Rest (Allegedly)

  Nysera awoke slowly, luxuriating in the unfamiliar decadence of silence. No Sck notifications. No passive-aggressive emails from Ben. No campaigns to save from incompetence. For the first time since her exile into this baffling world, she had no battles to fight. She stretched nguidly beneath the covers, turning her face toward the weak sunlight filtering through cheap blinds, and allowed herself the rare indulgence of idleness. Today, she decided, would be spent as any proper noblewoman would spend a day away from court: being admired, bathed, and pampered while subordinates scurried to present entertainment and tribute.

  Except, of course, there were no subordinates. The ft was silent. Dust clung miserably to surfaces. A crumpled takeaway bag leered at her from the corner. No maids came to open the curtains. No steward poured warm water for her bath.

  Nysera sat up slowly, taking in her surroundings with increasing displeasure. Fine. A queen could be gracious in modest settings. Dignity was internal.

  She rose, glided to the bathroom, and prepared to begin her morning ritual of beauty and command. The mirror greeted her as expected: sharp cheekbones, cold eyes, imperious bearing. Good.

  Except.

  She leaned closer, frowning.

  No, that couldn’t be right. She blinked once, then again, narrowing her gaze until the offending truth revealed itself in cruel, traitorous crity.

  A blemish.

  Small, but unmistakable — blooming defiantly on her cheek like some vulgar upstart daring to cim lineage in her royal bloodline.

  Nysera stared at it in mute horror. She turned her head this way and that, hoping, irrationally, that the reflection would recant. It did not.

  “What fresh hell is this?” she whispered, fingers brushing the imperfection delicately, as though touching it too firmly might somehow spread the curse.

  Was this corruption? Some foul miasma of this world leeching through her defences? Or worse — a sign of divine displeasure? Surely, such indignity could not be natural. A curse, then. Cast by some resentful peasant at her workpce, no doubt. Or perhaps a new disease, gifted generously by the teeming hordes who pressed against her each morning on the Underground, breathing and sweating like livestock in too-tight pens.

  Eyes narrowing, she seized Mira’s cursed phone and immediately began her investigation. She typed with the grave precision of a schor handling a dark grimoire.

  "small red mark face sudden why"

  Dozens of answers flooded the screen. Acne. Breakouts. Stress. Poor diet. Hormones. The words tangled and cshed like bickering courtiers offering contradictory advice.

  Nysera recoiled slightly. "Acne," she repeated aloud, tasting the word with deep disgust. A mortal affliction. Not corruption. Not divine punishment.

  Just... mortal.

  As the horror settled, she scrolled further, clicking on articles with headlines that sounded suspiciously like spell components.

  "10-Step Korean Routine That Changed My Life." "Minimalist AM/PM Regime for Busy Girlies." "If You Don’t Double Cleanse, You May As Well Give Up."

  Her lip curled. This was madness. Bottles, serums, oils, acids — a veritable alchemist's shelf of contradictions.

  Nysera straightened slowly, gripping the phone tightly. She would not be defeated by vials and tinctures. She had survived poisoners, assassins, political coups, and — most recently — marketing meetings.

  No blemish would hold her throne.

  She turned to Mira’s bathroom shelf. "Very well," she murmured coldly, cracking her knuckles. "Show me what passes for sorcery in this nd."

  She flung open the mirrored cabinet with the grim determination of a warrior unsheathing her bde. Inside, chaos reigned. Bottles of all shapes and colours lined the shelves in smug disarray — tubes promising to hydrate, jars vowing to purify, pumps eager to brighten, tighten, and, if they were to be believed, banish the very sins of mortal flesh.

  Nysera stared in mute disbelief. There were so many. Worse, they contradicted each other. One urged her to exfoliate mercilessly. Another whispered gently that over-exfoliation was the road to ruin. Some boasted words like "acid" and "peel" which sounded dangerously close to chemical warfare. Others insisted they were "clean," which implied the rest were not.

  "Why do they all say different things, yet cim to do everything?" she muttered, narrowing her eyes. "Is this some kind of sorcerer's trick?"

  Resolute, she began examining each bottle. Most instructions read like cryptic riddles.

  "Use AM and PM."

  She frowned. What was AM? What if it was already afternoon — had she missed the sacred window? PM sounded ominous. Was she meant to start this entire ordeal twice a day? That seemed excessive, even by noble standards.

  Still, she pressed on, applying logic where magic clearly failed. Cleanser first, obviously — one must purge impurities. Then toner... because it sounded vaguely authoritative. Essence? Possibly important, though suspiciously watery. Serums followed, because they seemed to take themselves very seriously, and finally, moisturiser, which at least had the courtesy of being honest about its purpose.

  By step five, Nysera was gring at her reflection, face damp and gleaming like a freshly waxed suit of armour. "I negotiated trade deals with less confusion than this," she hissed, patting delicately at her skin and praying none of the concoctions reacted violently when mixed.

  Her phone buzzed on the counter. Curious, she checked it mid-process — only to fall headfirst into a dizzying spiral of conflicting advice from skincare influencers. Some swore yering was the secret to eternal youth. Others insisted minimalism was the only path to salvation. One, with arming cheer, cimed "If it tingles, that’s how you know it’s working!"

  Nysera gnced at her already-prickling face and decided that influencer would be first against the wall when she recimed divine power.

  In the end, she abandoned strategy and followed a simple "zy girl routine" someone had posted with twenty thousand likes. Four steps. Barely acceptable, but achievable.

  As she patted in the final yer and studied her faintly glowing reflection, she allowed herself a slow, measured nod.

  "Victory," she announced quietly, surveying the battlefield of scattered bottles and slightly damp towels. "If imperfect. Acceptable for a day without court."

  By the time she finished the ordeal, the sun had shifted low in the sky and her stomach made a petunt demand for attention. She checked the clock with faint disbelief.

  "Half the day… gone. On my face."

  She swept back into the living room, expecting — by sheer force of habit — calm and order. Instead, chaos awaited. Takeaway containers slumped in disgraceful piles. Dust clung shamelessly to every surface. A faint, sticky circle from her tea cup stared back at her accusingly.

  Nysera froze, horror dawning slowly.

  "No one has cleaned."

  Of course they hadn’t. There was no maid. No steward. No footman scuttling helpfully with cloth in hand. She stood in the centre of the grim, cluttered room, utterly appalled.

  "This is undignified," she decred aloud, sweeping a hand imperiously as if the rubbish might scatter itself in fear. It did not.

  For a fleeting, shameful second, she considered doing it herself. Then common sense — and pride — intervened. She seized her phone instead and composed a post on her ViscountessV account, thumbs tapping with imperial precision.

  "Consider this: true tribute is not money, but service. Which among you is worthy enough to clean my chambers?"

  She hit post and waited, smug.

  Within moments, the replies flooded in.

  "I would spiritually cleanse your space, Viscountess. Please accept my tribute as incense."

  "I’m sweeping the sinners from your timeline as we speak, Mistress — all unworthy shall be purged."

  "Cleaning IRL is beneath you. I offer my wallet instead — let my bance bear this burden."

  Nysera stared at the screen, unamused. Tribute payments pinged softly in the background — generous, but utterly useless in the matter of physical grime.

  Slowly, with the weary grace of a monarch who has just been informed of yet another uprising in a particurly stupid province, she pced her palm against her forehead and dragged it down her face.