Alexia smiled. But it wasn't that soft smile that makes you want to offer your head for a pat. It was the smile of someone who had just won the lottery for the rights to your life.

  "Tomorrow," she sang out, savoring every single word, "you will be my servant for the entire day. My full-fledged, obedient slave."

  I froze. "WHA-A-AT?!" "You heard me, Greg. Fair and square." "Alexia, are you out of your mind?" I jumped up from the couch. "We were just throwing cards around! I lost a game of 'Fool', not my freedom at an auction!"

  "Greg," she crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at me. "You agreed to the terms yourself. I didn't pull the words out of your mouth. And mind you, I'm not asking you to pull the stars from the sky or build a new castle by morning." She paused, and little devils danced in her eyes. "You are simply going to be my lapdog. You will follow me around, fulfill my whims, and not dare to grumble. For. One. Day."

  I collapsed back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Crap. Absolute crap. Hundreds of scenarios of how I would disgrace myself tomorrow flashed through my head. A white suit, perfect etiquette, and me—serving tea to Alexia at the snap of her fingers.

  "A lapdog, huh..." I muttered. "You know, Alexia, dogs bite sometimes." "Mine don't," she giggled, getting up from the couch. "Sleep tight, Greg. You have a very, very hard day ahead of you tomorrow. We start packing my luggage at dawn."

  She left, leaving me in the empty room. Silence. I looked down at my hands. Tomorrow, these hands would be carrying someone else's bags and opening doors. Yeah. Seems I've found something far more terrifying than oblivion. And that is the wishes of a princess.

  I was woken up unceremoniously. "Sir Greg, it is time for you to get up. Princess Alexia will deign to wake up in half an hour."

  I cracked one eye open. The room was gray and uncomfortable, much like the inside of Alphus's head. "Why so early?" I croaked into the pillow. "If she's sleeping, let her keep sleeping. And let me finish watching my dream about the giant sandwich." "You lost yesterday," the servant's voice was as dry as old parchment. "Get dressed. Your time has started."

  I had to get up. I pulled on that blasted white suit and trudged down the corridor behind the steward. My organism was desperately demanding a horizontal position. I let out a wide, flavorful yawn, hoping my jaw wouldn't lock.

  SMACK! A rolled-up piece of paper slammed into the back of my head.

  "Hey!" I spun around, rubbing my head. "Why are you hitting me?" "Sir Greg, servants do not yawn with their mouths wide open," the steward stated instructively. "And keep your posture straight. You are not a sack of coal, you are the shadow of the princess." "Oh, come on," I grumbled, straightening my back. "Why so serious? It's just a game." "For you—it is a game," he cut me off. "For the reputation of the house—it is a job. Walk faster. The princess does not like waiting for her morning tea."

  I sighed, looking down at my polished boots. Yesterday I was creating ice titans and arguing with a prince. Today I'm getting whacked with a piece of paper for yawning. My life is definitely a comedy, the jokes are just way too dragged out.

  We entered the kitchen. The Head Chef, still eyeing me like an enemy of the state, shoved a tray into my hands. "Here, Greg. This is her morning tea, this is water, this is fruit, and this is a vegetable platter. Don't drop it."

  I looked at the mountain of dishware. "Hey, where are we taking all this? Are we feeding her or fattening her up for the winter? It's morning, not a state dinner with the Emperor."

  I trudged toward the doors of Alexia's chambers. I was about to habitually kick the door open with my foot, but...

  SMACK! The steward's rolled-up paper found the back of my head once again.

  "First, you must knock, Greg," he hissed into my ear. "And politely ask permission to enter. Etiquette is not an empty concept." "Yeah, yeah, I get it..." I grumbled and rapped my knuckles against the wood three times. "Knock, knock, knock." "Yes, yes..." a sleepy, enveloping voice called out from inside.

  I opened the door, balancing the tray. Alexia was already sitting up in bed, wrapped in silk, looking at me with obvious anticipation. I set the tray down on the nightstand.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "And where is the 'Good morning, Lady Alexia'?" she raised an expectant eyebrow. "Good morning," I muttered, trying not to sound too disgruntled.

  She leisurely picked up the teacup, touched the rim to her lips, and immediately wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, Greg. It's gone cold. What kind of servant are you? Bring me a fresh one."

  I looked at the cup. Walk all the way back to the kitchen? Through all those corridors? To the Chef with his ladle? No way.

  I simply extended a finger. A thin, but incredibly powerful stream of pure flame erupted from the tip of my nail. Right before my eyes, the snow-white porcelain of the cup darkened, covered in soot until it turned pitch black.

  "Here you go, Princess," I smirked, handing her the steaming vessel. "Will this do? Or should I roast it to the state of plasma?"

  Alexia cautiously took the cup with two fingers. "Now it's too hot. Are you mocking me?"

  I sighed. Two ice cubes materialized in the air and dropped right into the boiling water with a satisfying splash. "Now—perfect balance."

  Alexia took a sip, and a thoroughly pleased expression spread across her face. "Wow, Greg... you are convenient to have around. Listen, maybe you should become a servant full-time? I'll even pay you a salary. In candy." "Dream on," I cut her off.

  She suddenly stood up sharply and, before I could even jump back, placed her palm on top of my head. Her fingers instantly found those exact spots behind my ears.

  That was it. The end. My knees turned to mush. I started tipping sideways, feeling my consciousness wave goodbye and fly off to warmer climates. Alexia deftly caught my limp body and carefully laid me down on the rug, never stopping the motion of her fingers through my hair.

  "Get some sleep, Greg," she whispered, and that was the last thing I heard before reality completely shut down. "The servitude can wait."

  I woke up to a strange sensation of heavy weight pressing down around my shoulder blades. I tried to move, but something soft and hefty resolutely pinned me back to the rug.

  Squinting sideways, I discovered that I was lying face-down in the carpet, while Princess Alexia, comfortably settled in an armchair directly above me, was shamelessly using my back as an ottoman. Her feet, clad in elegant shoes, swung rhythmically, tapping out some beat against my ribs.

  "What exactly was that just now?" I croaked without lifting my head. "Psycho-magic? Did you use some kind of technique on me?"

  Alexia chuckled brightly, continuing to shift her weight from foot to foot right on my spine. "Let's just say, Greg, it turned out to be a remarkably useful skill. I didn't even expect you to power down in a single second. It's a literal 'off' button for monsters."

  She hopped lightly out of the chair (and off of me in the process), causing my skeleton to let out a pitiful crunch. "Get up, slave. I'm already dressed. Let's go."

  I struggled into a vertical position, dusting off the white doublet that now looked exactly like someone had slept on the floor in it (which, to be fair, was exactly what had happened). "Go where? The sun hasn't even had time to properly piss me off yet." "Into the city," Alexia adjusted her hair in the mirror. "We're leaving for another country soon, to this Academy of the United Nations of yours. We need to buy some essentials."

  I sighed. Going shopping as a bag-carrier was exactly what I had dreamed of when I signed up for the role of "distant relative."

  "And don't forget," she turned around at the threshold, her eyes flashing. "You are a servant today. So stay two steps behind and pretend that you absolutely love carrying my boxes." "Oh, yes," I muttered, trailing after her. "I'm just thrilled. I can literally feel my sense of self-worth growing. With every single step you take."

  I walked two steps behind, exactly as a good "lapdog" should. Alexia glided ahead, her shoes tapping rhythmically against the pavement, while I... I was thinking.

  Despite all her antics, despite this mocking game of servant and mistress, there was something... alive about her. Her sarcasm, her lies, her constant teasing—all of it made me feel alive. Whenever she looked me dead in the eye, I was never entirely sure if I could withstand the gaze. Everything inside me would pull taut, like a string ready to snap.

  Alexia was definitely not playing by the rules. She had found my weak spots and was striking them with pinpoint accuracy. The worst part of it all was the memory.

  I remember fragments of past cycles, but it's a strange feeling. It's like reading someone else's very intimate diary. You see the words, you can feel the emotions of the person who wrote them right on your skin, but at the same time, you are acutely aware: you didn't write this. That "me" from the past is a stranger.

  Foreign feelings boil inside me; old personalities scratch from the inside, trying to break out, to take a seat at the helm. But they are locked behind a fog of amnesia. To remember something truly important, I need triggers: a similar scent, the exact same emotion, or a situation that hits me right in the gut.

  And these strokes on my head... Why do they affect me so much? Why does my mind, capable of wiping out cities, yield to the motion of a palm? Is it a biological defect? Magic woven into the very fabric of my being? Or just a desperate thirst for warmth, accumulated over hundreds of years of loneliness?

  I don't know the answer. And, frankly, I'm afraid to look for it.

  "Greg!" Alexia stopped in front of a jewelry store window and turned around. "Why are you stuck back there with a face like you're deciding the fate of the world? Come here and hold my bag. I need to try on these bracelets."

  I sighed, returning from the depths of self-analysis to the harsh reality of a porter. "Coming, my lady," I said. "Just don't forget to buy me ice cream for this. A hungry servant is a bad servant."