[ThorenVald Estate—Leif’s Office—Continuation—Leif’s POV]

Alvar’s arm froze around my waist. His blue eyes—calm, terrifying, and impossibly bright—locked onto mine. Somewhere in that gaze, I saw a storm brewing. Or maybe a wildfire. Either way... I was toast. Completely, utterly... toast.

"...Married?" His voice was low, smooth, and dangerous. A growl lurked behind it, subtle but definitely there.

I blinked. Tried to look innocent. "...Y-yes? I mean... if you want to, it’s... totally optional..."

Optional. Ha! Right. Because no one says no to Grand Duke Alvar. Anyone sane, that is.

He tilted his head slowly, watching me like a predator savoring its prey. "You... want to marry me?" There was no question in his tone—more like a verdict being read aloud.

I smiled. "Of course. There’s nothing wrong with that. Everything is legal in this generation— "

Then my brain... imploded.

Wait—hold up.

Wrong word, Leif. Wrong. WORLD. How could I possibly forget—I’m a fully, painfully, 100% only gay man in this world. FUCK! WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO?!

All I wanted was to dump my work, my taxes, my headaches, and probably—oh gods—half my life responsibilities onto him, making him my husband. And what did my stupid, traitorous mouth do? Blurting out "marriage" in front of him. IN FRONT. OF. ALVAR.

And then... those words came back at me, calm, low, and terrifying, like a guillotine:

"...You really want to tie yourself to me, Leif?"

I blinked.

. . .

. . .

I forced a smile that probably looked more like a broken fish. "...Hahaha... gotcha! APRIL FOOL’S—TA-DA!!!"

He stared. Just... stared. A pause so long I swear the universe stopped spinning. Then his voice came, low and very, very dry:

"It’s not April, though."

My brain screeched to a halt. "...It’s not?"

"It’s... November end."

Damn it. Damn it. DAMN IT.

I forced a laugh that cracked halfway through: "...Still... PRANK! Haha... I mean... I was just kidding, Alvar... haha... How... how can we... get married? Haha... It’s not even legal... Haha... right?"

My hands fidgeted like I was auditioning for "Most Panicked Human Alive," my face burning hotter than a forge, every nerve screaming: Run. RUN, LEIF. RUN BEFORE HE REALIZES YOU’RE COMPLETELY INSANE... AND RUN AWAY FROM ME!!

Desperation gripped me like a vice. "NICK!!" I yelled, voice cracking halfway into panic mode.

In a blur that could only be described as Ninja Hattori-level speed, Nick skidded in front of the door, eyes wide. "Yes, my lord?"

"Did you tell the baron to arrange the warehouse for the elves?" I flailed my arms, practically vibrating with urgency.

"Yes, my lord... would you like to see it?" he asked cautiously, clearly aware of the unstable panic radiating off me.

"YES! I NEED to see it!" I practically lunged at him, stretching out my arms. "Hold me! NOW!"

Nick blinked, then carefully scooped me up like I was a very fragile, extremely dramatic bundle of panic. "Does it... still hurt, my lord?"

I groaned, pressing my face into his chest. "Yes... yes... I can feel every sin from last night alive in me! Hell is very much real, and it lives in my legs and my ass!"

Nick was confused and asked, "But why would it hurt your ass, my lord?"

"Let’s just go nick."

And just like that, fueled by pure terror and a desperate need for escape, I walked away; with the help of nick you can say I ran —or worse, a panicked Leif on caffeine and panic steroids.

"L-L-L-EIF!" His voice came after me, low, rumbling, and dangerously amused, but I ignored it entirely. Run. Run. RUN.

By the time I reached down the stairs, arms clutched around Nick like a terrified koala, I felt slightly alive... and maybe, just a little bit victorious.

Alvar’s stunned silence in the office? Bonus. Absolute, priceless bonus.

***

[Alvar’s Pov—Office—Continuation]

I watched him— my Leif —hurriedly darting down the stairs.

"Marriage...?" I muttered under my breath, blue eyes narrowing.

Can it really happen... between two men?

Falling for Leif had been... unique. Different. Beautiful. Entirely unlike anything I’d ever experienced. But marriage? That was a different battlefield entirely. Society wouldn’t approve, laws didn’t permit it... and yet, the thought of him as mine in every possible way stirred something dangerous in me.

I leaned back against the couch, a smirk tugging at my lips, my voice low and smooth, almost amused by my own thoughts. "Not a bad idea... though... If we get married, he will be completely mine. No law, no god, no oath could separate us."

And then it hit me. Mother.

Would she approve? Would she understand? Could she even comprehend the depth of what I felt for Leif?

I shook the thought off, though. I didn’t care what noble society thought. Leif... was mine . But mother....she also matters.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

A knock at the door drew my attention. Haldor entered, his expression formal as ever, crimson packs following silently behind him like shadows.

I scowled slightly. More devoted to those infernal crimson packs than even the loyalty to House Ragulfsson... typical.

"My lord," Haldor said.

"Yes, come in," I replied, voice clipped, eyes still watching the empty space where Leif had disappeared.

He stepped closer, posture stiff. "We... received a letter, my lord."

I furrowed my brow, voice cold and measured. "From whom?"

"From Lady Elowen, my lord."

Ah. Of course. How could I forget her?

But...then I realized something.

I looked at Haldor, my voice sharp, tinged with irritation. "Since when did she become Lady , Haldor? You know—only noble ladies get called ’Lady.’ She isn’t one."

Haldor blinked at me, confused, as if I had just asked him to march naked through the capital. "But... my lord... weren’t you the one who ordered us to call her Lady Elowen?"

I froze.

"...I did?"

"Yes, my lord," he said, steady and unflinching.

...He’s right. I did. I ordered it. Even though she wasn’t noble. But... why? What made me...?

I rubbed at my temple, a faint growl escaping my throat. "Just... don’t do that from now on. Make sure everyone else uses it too. And... pass this message along." My fingers brushed the envelope Haldor handed me, sharp edges cold against my palm.

Haldor inclined his head. "Yes, my lord."

I opened the letter carefully, eyes scanning the words, jaw tightening with each line. A cold spike of frustration dug into me.

"What is it, my lord?" Haldor asked cautiously.

I glanced at him, voice low, dangerous, as my eyes flicked to the ceiling. "...She wants me to bring Leif back to the capital. She wants... him to swear an oath for her."

Haldor’s brow furrowed. "But... Lord Leif doesn’t want to. And... why does Lady Elowen seem so desperate to have him swear the oath?"

Exactly. Why?

We are House Ragulfsson. The strongest house in the land. We are enough for her. We have influence, soldiers, and wealth. Leif—my Leif—he doesn’t need to swear any oath for someone. And yet... she wants him. Wants him specifically. Wants him to swear loyalty to her .

Something was off.

I narrowed my eyes, tension coiling in my chest.

Could it be... the Saint Selection Days? That was coming soon. But still... why Leif? Out of all people? Out of all humans, why him?

A creeping suspicion gnawed at me. Something about her desperation... it felt wrong. Very, very wrong. And yet, I had allowed it. Foolish me.

I recalled the first time I saw her—on that bridge, sun dipping low, painting the world gold. She healed a little boy, faint smile soft... her pink hair caught the light. Almost perfect. Too soft. Like bait laid for the unsuspecting.

Beautiful, yes... but compared to Leif, she was nothing.

I snapped my gaze to the ceiling. Something... off. Something more than coincidence. The way she keeps insisting for Leif to take a Oath, it really doesn’t sit right...and I have to find out.

I would find out. I couldn’t allow a single strand of harm to touch my Leif. Whether it was paranoia or truth, I would uncover it—and I would do it myself. To do that... I would have to return to the capital city, leaving Leif behind. Alone. And the thought of that... only sharpened the edge in my chest.

"Haldor... prepare for us to leave," I ordered, voice low, cold, and deadly, each word leaving no room for argument.