After the officers left, the atmosphere in the villa did not immediately relax.
No one spoke.
The bodyguard let go of Milas at a sign from the Count.
"You wait here. We will be back shortly." With that, he took Ciara out of the room.
Milas sat down on a velvet sofa that probably cost more than he had ever made in his life.
He tried very hard not to slouch.
His clothes were still damp with sweat from the chase, streaked with dust and grime that stood out from the shining stone floors and silk curtains like a sore thumb. He shifted slightly, then froze when the fabric made a faint sound.
Don't.
He kept his posture still.
Then he closed his eyes and waited patiently.
After what felt like an eternity, the two returned and sat on the velvet sofa opposite him.
"So."
Milas crossed one ankle over the other in what he hoped looked like a convincing imitation of relaxed nobility.
"What was that deal about again? Marrying someone in place of the lady?"
He winked at the young woman across from him.
Her father's eyebrows twitched.
The girl, however, choked on air before forcing herself to clear her throat.
"That would be me," she said. "And you may call me Lady Ciara."
She gestured toward the man beside her. "This is my father, Count Isaac."
Milas nodded politely.
The Count studied him the way one might study a stray animal that had somehow made it into one's house.
"…As you may have noticed," Ciara continued, "we have a small issue regarding marriage."
A small issue. Hah.
Milas decided nobles had a very creative definition of that phrase.
"The imperial contest will be held soon," she went on. "His Majesty Emperor Hardin intends to retire."
Milas searched his memory.
Hardin.
Old. Stable. Didn't start wars—but also didn't improve the lives of the lower districts either.
So neither good nor bad.
"Do you know how the contest works?" Ciara asked.
Milas shook his head.
The Count leaned back, folding his hands.
"There are fifteen eligible houses," he said. "Each presents a couple. Only one may ascend."
Ciara jumped in eagerly.
"There are seven rounds. Each round eliminates the two couples who receive the lowest votes from the public."
Milas blinked.
"That sounds exhausting."
"Etiquette trials," Ciara added brightly. "Joint problem-solving. Public appearances. Compatibility games. Political interviews. Nobody ever knows exactly what the tests will be, since they change every time."
"…That sounds lethal."
The Count did not smile.
"And a terrifying amount of observation," Ciara added.
Milas stared.
"…People watch that?"
"The entire empire."
"…Wonderful."
"We intend to register you as a distant nephew of Father," Ciara said. "And then—well. That is that."
Milas stared at the two people opposite him.
Maybe he had made the wrong decision. He should probably call the officers back and let them arrest him. At least then there was still a chance to survive.
"That's… incredibly illegal."
"It is merely… creatively presented," Isaac corrected. "After all, aren't we all related if you go far enough back?"
Milas closed his eyes for half a second.
Fantastic.
"We must hurry," the Count continued. "The Duke arrives in two days. At that time, we will explain everything to him."
"Explain?" Milas repeated weakly.
"Couldn't we just trick him?" Ciara interjected hopefully.
Isaac looked tired.
"Child. Duke Finnian will dig through every record in the empire if he suspects deception."
"…Oh."
"Blood registries," Isaac muttered. "Archives. Starport records."
Milas swallowed.
"So… how are you planning to pull this off?"
"We will tell him you are a distant relative," Isaac said, "and say no more."
"And what if he checks?"
"We delay," he replied, then added almost inaudibly, "and pray."
"Charming."
The Count coughed.
"They must leave immediately for the capital star," Isaac continued. "There will be no time for a thorough investigation into your origins."
He turned toward Milas.
"We will compensate you handsomely."
Milas nodded.
On the inside, he saw nothing but a bleak future.
I am either getting married or buried. And I will probably never see this so-called compensation.
"This young man has to be ready until then, and I will personally make sure of that!" Ciara declared.
She clasped her hands.
"I will teach you everything."
She extended her hand expectantly.
"Milas," he said, shaking it. "Thankfully, I learn very fast."
"Then let's work hard together, Milas."
I am going to die.
---
Ciara's enthusiasm, Milas quickly learned, was the most dangerous thing in the house.
She did not shout, threaten, or even raise her voice. Instead, she smiled brightly, clasped her hands together, and proceeded to schedule every minute of his waking life into lessons.
She circled him as they walked through the corridors, watching like a hawk while continuously adjusting his shoulders, the angle of his chin, and the distance between his feet.
"Stand straighter."
"That is too straight."
"Relax. Nobody is forcing you—but not that relaxed."
Milas complied. It was not as though he had a choice.
And that was only the beginning.
While walking, Ciara recited the names of noble houses and political alliances with alarming cheer.
"House Virel owns Planet Izra, where cold steel for starships is mined. House Resin remains mostly neutral and dominates the entertainment industry. Duke Finnian's family—House Reyes—controls much of the military supply chain and the cryo-fuel trade."
Whenever Milas slowed or angled himself toward a side hallway, one of the bodyguards adjusted their position with impeccable politeness.
After it happened the first time, he tested it again on purpose, drifting toward a window.
The curtain slid closed before he reached it.
So much for slipping away.
By the time night fell, exhaustion weighed on him heavily.
He was escorted to his bedroom—large enough to house an entire underground family block.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling painted with drifting constellations.
The mattress swallowed him whole.
I could disappear in this thing, he thought vaguely.
Sadly, real disappearances were an impossible dream.
His thoughts wandered—unhelpfully—to the people he had left behind. They were used to him vanishing for a while after things went wrong, but this felt different.
Final.
If the Duke rejected this farce, maybe he could leave quietly.
If the Duke did not—
Milas turned onto his side and decided sleep was preferable to finishing that thought.
---
Morning came with a wave of attendants.
They spoke softly but worked with ruthless efficiency, ushering him into a hot bath and scrubbing him until he suspected layers of skin were being removed along with the grime.
When they finally stepped aside, he approached the mirror.
The brown eyes staring back felt unfamiliar.
Straight posture. Dark hair styled into something fashionable. Skin polished by soaps expensive enough to reflect light. The tailored fabric hugged his frame perfectly.
Even people from back home would not recognize him.
"I look dangerously… good," he murmured, winking at himself.
At the door, Ciara laughed before she could stop herself.
Her eyes traveled from his collar to his cuffs, and a faint blush crept up her cheeks.
"I was going to apologize for dragging you into this mess," she said, "but you seem to be enjoying yourself."
Yes. She absolutely should apologize.
Milas turned toward her.
"Well, what can I say? These expensive fabrics suit me. Maybe I was born into the wrong family."
Ciara laughed, though her smile soon faded.
"I'll leave later, so I won't run into the Duke."
She handed him a thin strip of paper, glancing away.
"My light-brain number. In case you need something. Anything."
Her tone sharpened.
"I owe you one, and I do not forget my debts."
Milas took it, memorizing the digits.
"Isn't it improper," he smirked, "to flirt with someone who's about to be married?"
Her ears turned red.
After she left, the room fell silent.
Milas adjusted his cuffs and took a slow breath.
Now all he could do was wait.
---
The Duke arrived without announcement.
One moment the corridor buzzed with attendants making final preparations.
The next, silence swallowed the house whole.
Milas and the Count were already waiting in the reception room when word reached them.
Duke Finnian stepped inside with measured strides.
Dark silver hair framed a face like one of the marble statues in the garden, and his deep blue eyes resembled the sky just before night descended.
His coat bore no excessive ornamentation, yet his presence radiated authority.
Behind him followed an assistant whose expression was nearly as unreadable as his master's.
Milas wondered if that was a job requirement.
"What," Finnian said, "is this supposed to mean."
The Count swallowed audibly.
"Where is Miss Ciara?"
Milas remained motionless, every etiquette lesson suddenly very relevant.
Count Isaac bowed so deeply his coat creased.
"Your Grace, I offer my deepest apologies. That foolish girl—she ran off with her lover. But this is my nephew."
Finnian's gaze slid over Milas.
It did not linger.
Which was somehow worse.
Milas could have sworn the temperature dropped the longer the Duke remained in the room, frost creeping faintly along the edges of the windows.
Please don't let my eyes glow, he thought.
Without sparing him another glance, Finnian spoke.
"…You."
The single word pressed down on the room.
"…Will leave."
Milas bowed, carefully matching the angle Ciara had drilled into him, and followed the assistant out with what he hoped passed for dignified composure.
Only once the doors closed behind him did he inhale properly.
This, he decided, was not going according to the optimistic version of his survival plan.