Marcus finally escaped.
He felt like a social pinball, bounced between the four most powerful and beautiful women at the Royal Ball.
It had been a relentless hour of dancing, debate, and deflection.
A waltz with Seraphina that felt more like a therapy session.
A political "discussion" with Catarina about romance novels.
A dangerously flirtatious encounter with Vivienne.
A silent, intense observation by Iris that was somehow the most stressful of all.
He found a quiet corner near the orchestra, hidden behind a large, ornate potted plant.
Leaning against the cool marble wall, he tried to catch his breath. His heart was pounding, and not from the dancing.
His social energy, usually a deep well, was completely drained.
Okay. That was a complete and utter disaster.
But the night is still young. I can still fix this. There's still time.
His meticulously crafted plan was in tatters, a smoldering ruin of good intentions. But he could salvage it.
He had to. The fate of the world depended on it.
He just needed to find Theodore. Force him to interact with one of the heroines.
Just one successful, five-minute conversation. That was all he needed to prove his theory was still viable.
Marcus peered through the thick green leaves of the plant, scanning the glittering ballroom. He needed to locate his brother and his targets.
A general assessing a lost battle, looking for one last, desperate hope.
He spotted Theodore first.
His brother was not at the buffet table, as Marcus had feared. He was in a small, animated circle of young men. At the center of the circle was Damien Blackthorn.
And Theodore was happy. Genuinely, truly, incandescently happy.
He was gesturing excitedly with his hands, a wide, guileless grin on his face. Damien was laughing, a real, hearty laugh, and clapped him on the shoulder. They were not rivals in that moment. They were friends, comrades, two warriors bonding over a shared and sacred interest.
They were talking about swords. Of course they were talking about swords.
Marcus felt a strange pang of pride mixed with despair.
Theodore was making friends. Finding his place.
He was thriving in this environment, even without Marcus's convoluted, world-saving romantic schemes.
That was good. That was very good.
Now, where are the heroines? Where are the pillars of my crumbling plan?
His eyes scanned the room again. He found them easily.
They were impossible to miss, each a beacon of power and beauty.
Seraphina stood by the terrace, her silver gown shimmering like captured starlight.
She wasn't talking to anyone, her icy perfection keeping the crowd at a respectful distance.
Catarina had extricated herself from her political circle.
She stood alone near a grand pillar, her emerald eyes focused with the intensity of a general planning a campaign.
Vivienne leaned against the wine fountain, a half-empty glass of crimson wine in her hand.
Her playful smile was gone, replaced by a look of sharp, predatory intent.
And Iris was still near the grand entrance, a silent, beautiful statue in shimmering elven robes.
Her gaze was fixed, analytical, and unsettlingly direct.
Four women. Four corners of the room. Four pairs of eyes.
And they were all looking at the same thing.
At him.
Marcus's brain did something that felt like a system crash, a blue screen of death for his entire soul.
He forced himself to look away. He looked at Theodore.
Laughing, carefree, surrounded by his fellow sword nerds.
Completely content in his own world, a world made of steel and whetstones.
A world where he was happy.
He looked back at the four women.
Seraphina. Watching him with a soft, warm expression that melted her icy facade.
The kind of look he had only seen in the quiet of her office, a look of trust and connection.
Catarina. Her gaze was sharp, analytical, but held a new kind of warmth.
The look of someone who had shared a deeply held secret and found not judgment, but an unexpected ally.
An intellectual equal.
Vivienne.
Her expression was pure, undisguised predatory interest.
A challenge. A promise.
The look of a hunter who had finally found worthy prey after years of boredom.
Iris. Her violet eyes were full of a new, intense curiosity.
Like a scientist who had just discovered a new, fascinating law of physics and was determined to understand it, no matter the cost.
Four women. Four different, but equally intense, gazes.
All aimed directly at him.
Not at Theodore. Not in the general direction of the Aldridge brothers.
At him. Marcus. The side character. The NPC.
The carefully constructed walls of his denial, built from desperate logic and willful ignorance, shattered like glass.
The rationalizations. The coincidences.
The "it's all for Theodore" self-deception he'd clung to like a holy scripture.
All of it evaporated in the face of this undeniable, four-pronged truth.
He remembered Seraphina's voice in the café. "You see the world in an interesting way."
He remembered Catarina's last letter. "Your letters have become the highlight of my week."
He remembered Vivienne's whisper on the balcony. "You make me want to believe you."
He remembered Iris's quiet admission by the sunset. "I think I want to understand this feeling."
It was not about Theodore.
It had never been about Theodore.
He had tried to be a wingman. A good life coach.
He had listened to their problems. He had validated their feelings.
He had seen the real person behind the mask they showed the world.
He had done his job. His old job. The only job he had ever been good at.
And in doing so, he had royally, catastrophically, apocalyptically screwed up his new one.
The music of the ball faded into a low, buzzing hum in his ears.
The glittering ballroom seemed to stretch into an infinite, mocking space.
He was supposed to be the side character. The useless older brother who provided occasional comic relief or a minor obstacle.
The NPC who gave the hero quest hints and then faded into the background.
But the story wasn't revolving around the protagonist anymore.
It was revolving around him.
He looked at his brother, happy and oblivious, deep in conversation about the merits of a full tang versus a rat-tail tang.
He looked at the four powerful women, the pillars of the world's salvation, all focused on him with a dangerous, world-altering intensity.
The prophecy. The alliances. The demon invasion. The fate of the world.
It all depended on Theodore building a harem. A harem of four specific women.
And he, Marcus Aldridge, had just stolen it.
All of it. Every last piece.
He brought a trembling hand to his mouth.
The truth, cold and sharp and undeniable, finally broke through his defenses.
It was a truth so absurd, so monumentally stupid, that it was almost funny.
"Oh," he whispered to the potted plant, his voice a dry rasp. "Oh no."
His gaze swept over the four women one last time.
The teacher. The duchess. The adventurer. The elf.
He'd collected the whole set.
"I've stolen my brother's harem."
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow.
He staggered back against the wall, his breath catching in his chest. The weight of it was suffocating.
He was not a wingman. He was not a coach. He was not a helpful side character.
He was the villain of his own plan.
The saboteur of his own world-saving mission.
The architect of the apocalypse.
The music swelled again.
The nobles laughed and danced and plotted, completely unaware that their prophesied salvation had just been accidentally hijacked by a well-meaning idiot with an overdeveloped sense of empathy.
Marcus stared out at the glittering, oblivious crowd, his face pale with a unique brand of horror.
He had one job. One single, universe-defining job.
And he had failed in the most spectacular, ironic, and complete way possible.