The kitchen was, predictably, a nightmare.
Not because it was dirty or disorganized—quite the opposite. It was so immaculately maintained that I was terrified to touch anything. Copper pots hung in perfect rows. Knives gleamed like they'd been individually polished. Everything screamed "this kitchen has standards and you are not one of them."
A plump woman in a chef's hat looked up from a cutting board and frowned. "You're the new butler? The one who fainted?"
"I didn't faint," I said automatically. "I was... processing."
"Processing consciousness back into your body, yes." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Mrs. Blackwood said you need tea for His Grace. Eastern parlor. Important guests." Her eyes narrowed. "You do know how to prepare the Duke's tea?"
I did not, in fact, know how to prepare the Duke's tea.
In my previous life, I'd made approximately ten thousand cups of chai. I knew ratios. I knew timing. I knew that you always, *always* boil the milk separately or Uncle Rajesh will never let you hear the end of it at the next family gathering.
But this wasn't chai. This was fancy noble tea for a fantasy duke who could probably have me executed for using the wrong temperature water.
"Of course," I lied smoothly. "Just point me to the tea leaves."
The cook's expression suggested she saw right through me, but she gestured to a cabinet. "Silver blend for Count Rothford. His Grace prefers the black mountain blend. Water at exactly ninety degrees—any hotter and you'll burn the leaves, any cooler and His Grace will know. Three minutes steeping, no more, no less. Serve in the Valorian china, which is—"
"The set with the silver dragons," I said, praying I was right.
She blinked. "Yes. How did you—"
"Lucky guess." I grabbed a tray before she could interrogate me further. "Ninety degrees, three minutes, dragon china. Got it."
As I worked, muscle memory from a thousand late-night coding sessions kicked in. This was just like debugging under pressure. Identify the requirements. Execute precisely. Don't think about the consequences of failure.
The water heated. I measured the tea leaves with the paranoid precision of someone measuring medication. Three minutes steeping—I counted in my head, because I couldn't find a timer and I wasn't about to ask.
When I finally arranged everything on the tray—teapot, cups, small plates of biscuits I'd found that looked expensive—it actually looked decent. Presentable, even.
Maybe I wouldn't die today after all.
I made my way through the manor's labyrinthine hallways, trying to remember the route to the eastern parlor. Left at the statue of the angry knight. Right at the painting of someone's disapproving ancestor. Straight through the gallery of more disapproving ancestors.
This place had more disapproving ancestors than my actual family WhatsApp group, which was saying something.
I could hear voices ahead—the Duke's cold baritone and another man's oily smooth tone.
"—simply saying, Cassian, that His Majesty has concerns about your... methods. The northern territories are hardly pacified, and yet you insist on—"
"The northern territories are perfectly stable, Rothford. Unlike your eastern holdings, which seem to require royal intervention every other month."
I knocked. Silence fell.
"Enter."
I pushed open the door with my shoulder, balancing the tray carefully. The eastern parlor was somehow even more aggressively wealthy than the rest of the manor. The afternoon sun streamed through massive windows, illuminating two men seated in chairs that probably cost more than my previous life's car.
Duke Cassian sat with perfect posture, looking like he was carved from marble and disdain. Across from him, Count Rothford—overweight, overdressed, with the kind of smile that made you want to count your fingers after shaking his hand—watched me with calculating eyes.
"Your tea, Your Grace," I said, setting the tray on the side table.
"Finally," Cassian said. "Count Rothford, this is my new butler. Recently hired."
"How... quaint." Rothford's gaze swept over me. "From the colonies, I presume? The Duke has always been so *charitable* with his staffing choices."
I felt my eye twitch. The *colonies.* Of course. Because this trash-tier otome game probably had trash-tier worldbuilding with trash-tier colonialism parallels.
"From the eastern provinces, my lord," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral as I poured the tea. "Born and raised."
"Mmm." Rothford didn't look convinced. "Well, I suppose even the provinces produce adequate servants."
I wanted to pour the tea directly into his lap. Instead, I served the Duke first, then Rothford, with movements that were probably sixty percent correct butler technique and forty percent desperate improvisation.
As I stepped back, Cassian took a sip. His expression didn't change, which I chose to interpret as a good sign.
Rothford took a sip. Then another. His eyebrows rose slightly.
"Well," he said, sounding annoyed. "At least your charity cases can brew tea properly."
"Indeed," Cassian said dryly. "A useful skill. Now, about the northern territories—"
"I'm afraid we'll have to continue this discussion another time." Rothford stood, leaving his tea half-finished. "I have an appointment at the palace. Do give my regards to your... interesting household, Cassian."
After he left, silence filled the parlor. I stood by the wall, trying to be appropriately invisible. That's what butlers did, right? Fade into the wallpaper?
"You can stop pretending to be furniture," the Duke said without looking at me. "Rothford is gone."
I relaxed slightly. "My apologies, Your Grace."
"The tea was adequate."
Coming from someone who looked like he'd never given a compliment in his life, I decided to take that as high praise.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Cassian finally looked at me directly. "You're terrified."
It wasn't a question.
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"You're a terrible liar." He set down his teacup. "But you're competent, which is more than I can say for the last three servants Mrs. Blackwood hired. What's your name?"
My name. Right. I probably had a name in this world, and I definitely didn't know what it was.
"Arjun, Your Grace," I said, defaulting to my real name because at least I'd remember it.
"Arjun." He tested the name, frowning slightly. "Eastern provinces?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Can you read and write?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Understatement of the century.
"Handle basic accounting?"
I had a degree in computer science and three years of financial dashboard design under my belt. "I can manage, Your Grace."
Something flickered in Cassian's expression—interest, maybe, or calculation. "Good. Report to my study after dinner. I have documents that need organizing, and my current secretary is..." He paused. "Indisposed."
Oh no. Oh *no.* I knew what this meant. In the game, Duke Cassian's secretary was poisoned approximately two weeks before the heroine arrived at the academy. It was a minor plot point, barely mentioned, but it kicked off the Duke's paranoia arc and set up half the doom flags in his route.
Which meant either the secretary was currently dying, or about to start dying, or—
"Your Grace," I said carefully. "When did your secretary become indisposed?"
Cassian's eyes narrowed. "This morning. Why?"
"What were his symptoms?"
"Fever. Delirium. The physician says it's a sudden illness, but..." He studied me. "Why are you asking?"
Because in the game, it was absolutely poison, administered through doctored wine at a noble gathering three days ago, and the culprit was never caught because the Duke was too busy spiraling into paranoid rage to investigate properly.
But I couldn't say that.
"Just concerned for the household's welfare, Your Grace," I said. "Has anyone else fallen ill recently?"
"No." His gaze sharpened. "Are you suggesting something?"
"I'm suggesting that sudden illness in a ducal household might warrant... thorough investigation."
We stared at each other. I could practically see the gears turning in his head—suspicion, calculation, the beginnings of that paranoia that would eventually consume him.
"You're either remarkably perceptive or remarkably paranoid," Cassian said finally.
"Can't it be both, Your Grace?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Barely.
"Study. After dinner. Don't be late." He stood, moving toward the door, then paused. "And Arjun?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"If you're right about this being more than illness, I'll want to know how you knew."
He left before I could respond.
I stood alone in the eastern parlor, surrounded by expensive furniture and the afternoon sun, and let myself have exactly five seconds of pure panic.
The doom flags were already triggering. The secretary was poisoned. The Duke's paranoia arc was beginning. And I—a completely powerless, barely-competent fake butler—had just voluntarily inserted myself into the middle of a political assassination plot.
This was fine. This was *fine.*
I'd handled worse.
Probably.
Maybe.
The door opened. Mrs. Blackwood stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.
"His Grace seems pleased with you," she said. It sounded like an accusation.
"I made adequate tea."
"Hmm." She stepped closer. "Tell me, Arjun. How did someone from the eastern provinces learn to brew tea to ducal standards? They don't exactly teach that in provincial schools."
My blood went cold.
She *knew* something was wrong with me. She'd known from the beginning.
"I had a good teacher," I managed.
"Did you." She circled me slowly, like a predator assessing prey. "How interesting. Because I specifically requested someone with *no* prior noble house experience. Someone who wouldn't have... divided loyalties."
"I don't understand, ma'am."
"Don't you?" She stopped directly in front of me. "The Duke's secretary falls mysteriously ill. A new butler appears the same day. A butler who immediately begins asking questions about poison."
Oh. *Oh.*
She thought *I* was the assassin.
"Mrs. Blackwood, I assure you—"
"Save it." She held up a hand. "I've already informed His Grace of my suspicions. He'll be watching you very carefully now."
She swept out, leaving me alone with the tea service and the crushing realization that I'd just made everything infinitely worse.
I wasn't just a useless background character anymore.
I was the prime suspect in an assassination attempt against a duke who was one bad day away from burning down the kingdom.
*Perfect.*
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