The morning had broken with an almost offensive brilliance. Sunlight, a merciless and uncompromising flood of gold, poured through the colossal arched windows of the royal suite. It didn't merely illuminate the room; it vanquished the lingering shadows of the night, starkly revealing the vast, opulent chamber. The air, heavy and scented faintly with ancient cedarwood and the cloying perfume of rare night-blooming jasmine cultivated in the palace's inner gardens, seemed to shimmer in the harsh light.
The room itself was a monument to excessive wealth and dynastic pride. Walls paneled in dark, almost black mahogany were broken only by tapestries depicting grim, heroic scenes of past imperial victories.
A sound, thin and hesitant, scraped against the thick oak of the entrance door. Someone knocked the door gently, a polite, almost deferential tap, the kind a person makes when they are both required to announce their presence and afraid of disturbing their superior. The rhythm was familiar, precise.
There was no reply.
Inside the massive four-poster bed, draped in heavy, midnight-blue silk hangings embroidered with silver astrological charts, the occupant, the young master Luca, offered no sign of awareness. He was sunken into a nest of down pillows, a fortress of fabric against the waking world.
After a measured pause, clearly interpreting the silence as tacit permission or, perhaps, simply adhering to a schedule that brooked no delay, the person acted. A faint, precise metallic whisper—the sound of a key in a well-oiled lock—preceded the door yielding inward. The person slipped inside, and with another soft, decisive click, the doors clicked behind them, sealing the room once more in its exclusive quietude.
The intruder moved with a swift, practiced silence, crossing the vast distance from the door to the bed without a rustle or a creak. The first order of business was to draw back the heavy curtains. These were not mere drapes; they were elaborate, layered velvet barriers meant to protect the sleeper from the outside world. With a single, fluid motion that spoke of long years of dedicated service, the maid reached up and tugged the thick cord. The pulleys whined faintly, an almost musical sound in the silence, and the curtains around the bed opened with dramatic fanfare.
The trapped sunlight immediately surged inward, a physical weight of heat and brilliance, zeroing in on the bed. It hit my face like a sudden, unwelcome blow.
A long, low, profoundly aggrieved sound rumbled from my chest. I didn't stir fully, but my features contorted, the muscles around my eyes tightening in protest. My head turned sluggishly into the cool darkness of a pillow, seeking refuge. I let out a deep, internal groan in annoyance while still asleep, the final, pathetic plea of the unconscious mind to be left in peace.
A soft, but firm pressure landed on my shoulder. It was a gentle insistence, impossible to ignore, accompanied by a voice that was both melodic and entirely professional.
"Young master Luca, it is already morning. You need to wash up and join breakfast with the Empress." The maid's tone was neither rushed nor servile; it was simply factual, a statement of undeniable obligation. She spoke again, emphasizing the necessity as she continued to lightly tap my shoulder. The lingering resistance of sleep was crumbling rapidly under her steady, physical presence.
My protest was an involuntary, muffled noise, but the tapping persisted. Finally, the weight of the moment, the knowledge of the day's inescapable demands, won out. My heavy eyelids slowly opened. The world resolved into blinding streaks of light and then, gradually, a familiar figure stood silhouetted against the bright morning.
In front of me was a face I was familiar with, one of the few constants in this chaotic, gilded existence.
Her hair was a rich, burnished chestnut brown that caught the morning light in streaks of gold and copper. It was neatly managed, tied behind her head into a ponytail—a concession to practicality that belied the opulence of her surroundings, yet perfectly suited her no-nonsense nature. Her eyes were green emeralds, deep and clear, and they seemed to twinkle when the sunlight hit on them, an effect less of magic and more of a genuine, warm spirit shining through. Her complexion, a smooth, healthy tanned skin, spoke of a life spent attending to duties that often demanded venturing beyond the sheltered confines of the palace interiors.
She wore the official, if slightly archaic, uniform of the Empress's personal household staff: an oversized black and white maid dress that, by design, was meant to be the epitome of modesty. Yet, despite the high collar and long sleeves, the fabric was cut to a classic, inescapable silhouette, meaning that even while covering everything, you could still see the fine curves of her body. It was a testament to the fact that fabric could obscure but never truly hide.
And well, let's say she possessed a rather significant, heavenly bosom that defied the restrictive lace and starch of her uniform, adding an unexpected, yet entirely natural, voluptuousness to her otherwise formal appearance.
This was my personal maid, Evelyn. She was more than an employee; she was an anomaly, the only person that I probably liked in this family. In a house full of stiff formality, political machinations, and cold ambition, she was a quiet harbor of genuine warmth.
She got assigned to me ever since this became my home years ago, a young woman hired to look after a sickly, emotionally fragile new addition to the Imperial family. She had witnessed every awkward stage of my recovery and adaptation, and in that shared history, a quiet, unspoken bond had formed that transcended the barriers of class and position.
I stretched languidly beneath the sheets, a sound of profound relief escaping my lips.
"Good morning Evelyn," I managed, my voice still thick with sleep and dryness. I punctuated the greeting as I yawned and stretched my body. Every single bone crack—a symphony of pops and clicks from my neck, shoulders, and back—giving me a nice feeling of release from the night's rigid posture.
"What time is it?" I asked, the sheer necessity of the question weighing on me. Knowing the time meant knowing how much of the Empress's patience I had already consumed.
Evelyn offered a beautiful, genuine smile—a rare thing in the palace. The kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "It's 7 o'clock young master. You really sleep like a rock." She replied with a warm smile as she opened the curtains of the windows fully, completing her initial task with a grace unfit of a maid. Her movements were those of a trained dancer or a seasoned duelist—economical, powerful, and elegant.
'I guess I slept longer then intended, but who am I to blame other than the Empress?' The silent thought was sharp, laced with the bitter resentment that underpinned my relationship with my new family. The "sleeping like a rock" was a direct consequence of the exhausting, emotionally draining political maneuvering I was forced to endure every evening. The Empress demanded my presence at late dinners, forcing me to listen to endless, vapid conversations that were merely thinly veiled displays of power and subtle threats. My sleep was my only sanctuary, and I often needed a deep, almost comatose state to recover.
And of course, tiredness from the long nights of sex with the Empress.
Evelyn, sensing the shift in my posture, moved on to her next duty, adopting a posture of formal respect once more. "Your bath is ready young master," she said, bending at the waist in a precise, courtly bow that was entirely unnecessary, yet reflexively performed.
"That fast already?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I'd only been awake for mere seconds. The thought of the amount of water and heating required for my monstrous bathing facility made the quick preparation seem an impossible logistical feat, even for a well-staffed palace.
Evelyn paused her bow, giving me a look of pure confusion as if what she did was nothing impressive or out of the ordinary. Her expression clearly communicated, 'Of course it is ready. This is the Imperial Palace. Why would it not be?'
'Right, I am in a world of magic where they can warm up bathtubs in seconds…' The internal realization was a familiar, jarring reminder of my predicament. I was a man from another, technologically different world, and even after years, the daily casual use of low-level, utilitarian magic still caught me off guard. Evelyn, in her practical way, likely didn't even think about the little warming or cleaning enchantments that made her job easier.
Shaking the foreignness away, I focused on the one thing I could control: the absurd formality she insisted upon. I looked her straight in the eye and said, with weary patience, "You know how many times I told you to stop bowing at me, right?"
Evelyn straightened up, her face returning to its serene, unreadable maid expression. "No, young master, it is my duty." Her voice was quiet, firm, and absolute. The line was drawn.
I couldn't help but click my tongue in frustration. 'Very stubborn.' It was one of her defining traits.
Evelyn had been one of the few people that had treated me well in this world, a place that had initially been a hostile, strange environment filled with people who saw me as either a political pawn or an embarrassing necessity. Because of that genuine kindness, I did not like that she performed this act of subservience every single time. It felt like a betrayal of the quiet equality we shared.
I knew it was how they were trained, a deeply ingrained reflex from the academy for domestic staff, but to me she wasn't just a maid. She was a confidante, a buffer, and truly, she was kind of a friend as well. The designation didn't change the reality of her position, but it changed how I viewed her actions.
Shaking those thoughts away, realizing that I was debating philosophy while the Empress waited, I made a move to get out of bed. My hands reached for the edge of the blankets, prepared to push them aside, when I remember that I was still naked. Complete and utterly vulnerable beneath the thin sheet.
I looked back at Evelyn, who was standing perfectly straight with her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes fixed on a point just above my head, a picture of perfect, unmoving propriety.
"Umm, aren't you going out now?" I asked, an inflection of embarrassment creeping into my voice. It wasn't the first time she'd seen me, but it didn't make the feeling any less awkward.
Her emerald eyes finally dropped to meet mine, a hint of amusement flickering in their depths. "I still have to clean your room while you bath, young master," she stated flatly, as if I had suggested she abandon her post to go chase butterflies.
"But I'm naked…" The protest felt childish even as I voiced it.
Evelyn's head tilted slightly, an expression of genuine, if slightly mock, confusion on her face. "Why are you acting shy, young master, as if I have never seen you naked before?"
"Right…" The memory settled over me, immediately deflating my attempt at prudishness.
She was the one that had taken care of me when I was still sick and recovering from the shock of my arrival and the body-swapping fever that had nearly killed the original Luca. Since I couldn't wash myself or do anything for a full month, she did everything for me. She was the most intimate caretaker I had ever known. In this world, she had been the first to dress me, feed me, and bathe me.
"Then turn around, Evelyn," I commanded, attempting to assert some small, symbolic control over the situation.
"Nope." The reply was instant, definitive, and delivered without any change in her calm, professional demeanor.
I grinned, my competitive nature kicking in. "You sound like you want to see me naked. Are you a pervert now?" I teased, knowing the accusation would elicit a response.
She covered her mouth with her delicate fingers, her eyes widening slightly in mock horror, a slight tremble in her shoulders betraying her amusement. "Me? A pervert?" she gasped dramatically. "Please, young master, I am not a pedophile. I'm six years older than you." She delivered the age gap with a perfectly timed deadpan that was both a gentle rejection and a witty retort to my immaturity.
"Sure you aren't," I muttered, but the argument was lost. She clearly wasn't going to budge.
Since she did not want to turn around, and since I could not risk the further loss of precious time, I opted for a compromise. I swiftly snatched a large, thick woolen blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapped it tightly around my waist, creating a makeshift, if slightly excessive, kilt, and got out of bed, moving with purpose. I strode across the plush carpet, the thick wool scratching slightly against my skin, heading to the the bath chamber.
"Smart move," Evelyn acknowledged, giving a slight, approving nod to my ingenuity.
I just shook my head at her audacity and her enduring ability to win our petty, morning skirmishes as I closed the door of the bathtub chamber firmly behind me.
The door sealed, I let the blanket drop to the floor. The sight before me was enough to remind me of my strange, elevated status.
My bathtub was lavish.
No matter how many times I see it, I couldn't really call it a bathtub because of how huge and elegant it was. It was, in truth, an architectural marvel. It looked less like a bath and more like a huge personal pool made of fine marble, set into the floor and lined with glowing, soft-blue stones that seemed to warm the water through passive magical infusion. Pillars carved with scenes of mermaids and sea beasts rose around the perimeter, and the air was perpetually humid and scented with natural spring minerals.
A genuine chuckle escaped my lips, a sound of pure, hedonistic appreciation for the ridiculous excess of it all.
"And they say money can't buy happiness."
The water was perfectly tempered, deep enough to submerge my entire body, and I slid into it with a blissful sigh. The heat seeped into my muscles, easing the remaining tension of the night. I quickly performed my ablutions, scrubbing away the last vestiges of sleep and the subtle grime of the palace. The silence, broken only by the slosh of water, was a profound relief.
The ritual was swift. After washing up, I emerged, stepping onto the heated marble floor with a sigh of renewed energy. A fresh, thick linen towel wrapped around my waist, I opened the door and re-entered the main chamber.
It was already immaculate. The heavy sheets had been pulled taut, the pillows fluffed, and the entire room felt aired and tidied. My abandoned night clothes were gone.
Evelyn was not in the room anymore.
"I guess she went to do her other chores," I mused, feeling a pang of slight disappointment. Her presence, while sometimes irritating, was usually a grounding force.
I walked to my bed where a set of clothes were on top of it, left by Evelyn. The clothing lay neatly folded, a masterpiece of complicated, high-fashion tailoring—a silent testament to her careful preparation. I took them and began the complex process of dressing up in front of the mirror.
The mirror was floor-to-ceiling, framed in hammered silver and reflecting the image of the person who was now me: Luca, the adopted Young Master of the Obsidian Dynasty, a youth caught between two worlds.
"Damn, medieval time noble fashion really went crazy with the outfits," I said, as I stared at myself in the mirror, rotating slightly to appreciate the detailing.
The outfit was intimidatingly stylish. I was wearing full black clothes, the preferred color of the Imperial lineage, conveying seriousness, power, and a subtle danger. The core was a black long sleeve shirt with golden embroidery weaving intricate, subtle patterns along the cuffs and collar. The chest was crossed by delicate, shimmering golden chains, decorative pieces that spoke to rank. The shirt tucked into black pants that suit me very well, tailored to allow movement but emphasize the lines of my legs, ending in high, polished black boots to match.
The final piece was the dramatic flourish: On my right shoulder was a black cape with golden lines at its edges. It was heavy and perfectly weighted, designed to flare slightly as I walked. When I put it on, the transformation was complete.
"Damn, I really look like royalty," I whispered, almost against my will, as I ogled myself. The clothes didn't just fit the person; they fit the position. They demanded respect, conveyed authority, and offered a constant, physical reminder of the role I was forced to play.
I turned my attention to my hair. The original Luca had been blessed (or cursed) with a striking mane of long, silvery-white hair that fell to my shoulder blades. I quickly gathered it, tying it into a fine, low ponytail, deliberately allowing some strategically cut bangs to fall in front of my head and showing my handsome features. The reflection staring back was undeniably beautiful—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and those disconcerting, pale-violet eyes of the Obsidian bloodline.
"I can't really get used to this face," I confessed to the mirror, not for the first time. It was a handsome face, an imperial face, but it wasn't mine. It was the face of the dead boy whose place I now occupied, a constant, strange reminder of my transplanted existence.
With the final adjustment of the cape, I was done. The persona was fully donned, the armor of high fashion now protecting me from the cold scrutiny of the court. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the coming encounter with the Empress, and got out of the room.
As I opened the heavy, carved oak door, I was met not with the empty corridor I expected, but with a familiar, waiting presence. I was met with Evelyn waiting for me outside. She stood a polite distance from the door, her hands still clasped behind her back, but the moment I stepped out, her professional reserve cracked.
"I thought you had left?" I asked, genuinely confused, the warmth of my relief mixing with the formality of my voice.
Her teasing smile was immediate and brilliant. It banished the last shadow of the morning's annoyance. "I only came out because my dear young master would be too shy for me to see him naked and dress him," Evelyn said, her voice dripping with playful mockery. She had been waiting, clearly, to observe my reaction to her successful removal.
My lips twitched in a desperate attempt to suppress a full-blown grin at her teasing words. She was impossible. And yet, she was the only one who dared.
I lifted my right hand—the one not currently holding my cape in place—and reached out. I didn't strike her; I never would. Instead, I gently but firmly pinched her cheek, a soft, playful act of dominance that was a part of our morning ritual. It was the only way I could get away with showing her affection without breaking the rigid social rules of the house.
"You are really getting on my nerves," I stated, the threat utterly hollow.
"Owww, Yong muaster," she blabbered, the sound distorted by the pressure on her cheek, the words becoming a string of unintelligible, childish sounds that I couldn't understand. She wasn't resisting, merely enduring the moment until I released her.
With a final, gentle squeeze and a genuine, contented smile, I finally let go of her cheek. It was already turning a faint pink. I turned and started walking down the polished corridor, the thick soles of my boots making almost no sound on the runner.
"Let's go…"
Evelyn just rubbed her cheek that was now red, a slight frown of mock injury on her face, and swiftly fell into step a respectful but familiar distance behind me. The scent of her perfectly starched uniform and faint, clean soap followed me down the long, silent hallway.
We had to hurry. The Obsidian Palace was a place where promptness was not a courtesy but an expectation, and lateness was a sign of disrespect—a transgression the Empress never forgave well except for me of course.
"Before the Empress kills me, for arriving late."