Marcus paced the length of his bedroom like a man awaiting a verdict.
One, two, three, four steps. Turn.
One, two, three, four steps. Turn.
"It's not possible," he muttered to the empty air. "It's simply not statistically probable."
He stopped at the window and glared at the innocent garden below.
"Four women. Four specific, high-value, plot-critical women. All interested in me?"
He laughed, a short, brittle sound.
"Ridiculous. Theodore is projecting. He's confused.
He thinks polishing a sword is a form of intimacy, so clearly his judgment is impaired."
Marcus marched back to his desk.
The "Operation: Get My Brother Laid (For World Peace)" parchment lay there, looking increasingly like a conspiracy theory diagram.
He grabbed a piece of charcoal. Time for a rational analysis.
"Let's look at the evidence. Dispassionately. Logically."
He pointed a shaking finger at Seraphina's name.
"Seraphina. The Ice Queen. She's a teacher. I'm a concerned guardian.
We have a rapport. A professional rapport."
He ignored the memory of her smile when she accepted the flowers.
The way she'd touched the coat he'd left her.
The intimate coffee date that had lasted three hours and covered everything except Theodore.
"She's just grateful for the support," he insisted.
"Teaching is lonely. Dealing with students who only care about sword angles is exhausting. I'm a sounding board. An adult peer. That's all."
It made sense. It was logical. Teachers needed friends too.
He moved his finger to Catarina's name.
"The Duchess. Political alliance. That's what she said explicitly.
We are corresponding about military cooperation and literature. Intellectual peers."
He ignored the stack of letters in his drawer.
The vulnerable postscripts signed with just her initial.
The way she'd cried in his presence and then thanked him for it.
"She's overworked," Marcus reasoned.
"She needed a safety valve. I provided one.
It's a professional service. Like consulting. I'm basically a consultant for the duchy."
Consultants didn't usually get letters saying their presence made the world feel brighter.
But maybe they did in this kingdom. Cultural differences.
"Vivienne," he said, swallowing hard. "The Crimson Viper."
This one was harder. She'd literally told him she was hunting.
"She's bored. I'm new. I'm a novelty. Like a new pet or an interesting book.
She's just... testing the waters of society. Practicing her social skills on a safe target."
Safe target. Yes. That sounded right.
He was the safe, non-threatening older brother. Practice for the real thing.
He ignored the way she'd looked at him on the balcony.
The way she showed up everywhere he went.
The way she'd outbid him for a painting just to talk to him.
"And Iris," he finished, looking at the final name.
"She's an elf. Who knows what elves think?
Maybe 'sadness at your mortality' is how they say hello. Cultural differences. Very tricky."
He slumped into his chair, exhaustion washing over him.
"See? Perfectly logical explanations for everything."
The empty room didn't answer. Even the furniture seemed skeptical.
The wardrobe loomed judgmentally in the corner.
"Theodore is wrong," Marcus told his reflection in the mirror.
"He's dense. He thinks a sword is a valid romantic partner. Of course he misread the situation."
But Theodore's question echoed in his mind, loud and clear.
Are you popular, Brother?
"I'm not popular," Marcus insisted, his voice rising slightly.
"I'm the disgraced older brother. The family disappointment. The side character."
He was the life coach. The support staff.
The NPC who gave the hero quest hints and then faded into the background.
NPCs didn't get the harem.
That wasn't how stories worked.
That wasn't how the universe functioned.
"The author wouldn't write it that way," he reasoned, clutching at meta-narrative straws.
"It breaks the genre conventions. It ruins the power fantasy. Therefore, it cannot be happening."
This was a solid argument. Unbeatable logic.
The laws of narrative physics were on his side.
"Unless..."
A tiny, traitorous voice whispered in his ear.
Unless you changed the genre.
"No!" Marcus stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over.
"I refuse to accept that premise. I am helping Theodore. I am building bridges. I am a very effective wingman."
He righted the chair with excessive force.
"Think about it, Marcus. Look at you." He gestured at his reflection.
"You can barely dress yourself without help. You get winded climbing stairs too fast.
You died of a heart attack at thirty. You are not harem protagonist material."
He leaned close to the mirror, inspecting his face.
Dark circles under his eyes from worry.
Hair a mess from running his hands through it.
An expression bordering on manic.
"Look at this face. This is the face of a man who organizes paperwork, not a man who seduces duchesses."
His reflection stared back. The eyes were tired but kind.
The mouth was set in a determined line.
It was the face of someone who cared too much, tried too hard, and would do anything for the people he loved.
Seraphina had called him real.
Catarina had called him insightful.
Vivienne had called him dangerous.
Iris had called him fascinating.
"Coincidence," Marcus said firmly.
"All coincidence. A series of misunderstandings that have spiraled out of control."
He took a deep breath. Smoothed his hair. Straightened his tunic.
"The Royal Ball is next week. That's where it all comes together. That's where I fix this."
He grabbed a piece of charcoal and aggressively circled the "Royal Ball" entry on his timeline. The charcoal snapped in his grip.
"The ball is the perfect setting," he muttered, pacing again.
"Music. Dancing. Romantic atmosphere.
I just need to orchestrate some moments. Strategic interventions."
He started scribbling notes on the parchment, his handwriting frantic.
Plan A:
Push Theodore onto the dance floor with Catarina. She likes leadership. He can lead a dance. Theoretically. If he treats it like footwork drills.
Plan B:
Arrange 'accidental' meeting between Theodore and Seraphina near the refreshments. Discuss food. Everyone likes food. Even Seraphina must eat occasionally.
Plan C:
Introduce Theodore to Vivienne as a fellow combat enthusiast. They can talk about stabbing things. That's a shared interest. A romantic shared interest.
Plan D:
Put Theodore and Iris in a quiet corner. Let them be socially awkward together. Maybe silence is an elven love language.
"This will work," Marcus said. He sounded almost convinced.
"It has to work. Because the alternative is that I've accidentally seduced four powerful women who are vital to the kingdom's survival."
He laughed. It was a brittle, fragile sound that bounced off the walls.
"And that would be ridiculous. Utterly absurd.
The fate of the world depends on these alliances.
Destiny wouldn't let me screw it up this badly."
He looked at the parchment again.
It was a mess of arrows and crossed-out ideas. But underneath the chaos was a desperate hope.
"I just have to survive one night of social interaction," Marcus told himself.
"Easy. I'm a trained professional. I handle people for a living."
He ignored the fact that every social interaction he'd had so far in this world had resulted in accidental emotional intimacy.
"This time will be different.
I'll be professional. Distant. Helpful.
I will fade into the background like a good side character."
He picked up the parchment and pinned it to his wall. The charcoal circles around the Royal Ball looked like targets.
Or bullseyes.
"It's going to be fine," Marcus whispered.
"Theodore will dance. The women will be charmed. The prophecy will get back on track."
He walked to the window and looked out at the night sky. The moon hung heavy and watchful.
"I am not the protagonist," he said to the moon. "I am the brother. The guide. The coach."
The moon didn't reply. It just shone down on a world that seemed determined to prove him wrong.
"I just need to prove it," Marcus said, his voice stronger now.
"The ball will be my proof. When they see Theodore in his element: handsome, strong, heroic, they'll forget all about me."
It was a good plan. A logical plan.
A plan that respected the narrative structure of the universe.
"I'm just overthinking," he decided. "Theodore's comment spooked me. But he's dense. He sees patterns where there are none."
Marcus turned away from the window.
He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
But as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Theodore's innocent question played on a loop in his mind.
Are you popular, Brother?
"Surely not," Marcus whispered into the dark.
"Surely, absolutely, definitely not."
He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. Willing the world to make sense again.
But in the silence of the room, he could almost hear Fate laughing.
A quiet, amused chuckle that suggested the Royal Ball was going to be anything but fine.
"Just one night," Marcus muttered, drifting off. "Just one night to fix the world."
He didn't know it yet, but he was about to walk into the most disastrously successful night of his life.