“Aroche, I know you’re there.”

Of course he did. Because nothing gets past Emperor Burn “I-See-Through-Walls” Pendragon. After shooing away Rosberg’s nephew, Aroche and Bella were treated to His Majesty’s voice echoing from inside the hall, casual as a man asking someone to pass the salt.

Still lounging on the cold marble floor, Burn cradled his exhausted wife in his arms. After giving her a kiss and a Force Mana transfer, he called out to the two door-huggers.

One look at Aroche told you he was deeply regretting everything about his life. And Bella was too busy pretending not to notice how these “siblings” had somehow devolved into a royal honeymoon. Burn was now gathering his “wife-sister” like a groom about to cross the threshold and casually strolled toward the door.

“We’ll talk when we’re back at Inkia. You two make yourselves at home. Unwind. We’re leaving tomorrow,” Burn said.

Meanwhile, Morgan was eyeing Bella intensely, like she’d just sprouted antlers. Bella blinked, eyebrows up. Then came the awkward side-glance at Aroche, face lighting up with flustered confusion that screamed: What do I do? How?

But Aroche? He was not here for emotional nuance. He stared straight at his best friend with the intensity of a man trying to laser-eye the truth out of someone.

“Don’t you think we should talk now?” he said, insisted.

Burn looked like he was about to toss out a polite no, but Morgan wasn’t having it. “Sir Aroche, we had plans. Go play with Miss Bella for today, will you?”

Play. Really? Was he six? What was next—juice boxes and coloring books?

Aroche looked like he was choking on his own dignity, but Burn just tilted his chin like an emperor banishing a servant, then casually shooed him away.

“Burn!” Aroche barked.

Aroche’s soul visibly left his body, but before he could throw a proper tantrum, something tugged on his sleeve. And there it was—Bella. With the pink heart-eyes still glowing like cursed mood lighting. The same heart-eyes that had never once switched off ever since they drank that love potion.

“I’m tired, my lord. Please show me my room?” she said, all wide-eyed and syrupy sweet.

Aroche blinked. Hard. His brain did a full system reboot. The sudden surge of innocence, sweetness, and weaponized shyness coming from Bella hit him like a magical concussion grenade.

“Ahem! Look, we’re here for a reason. Let me talk to His Majesty first—I'll send a serv—”

“No! Come with me,” Bella interrupted. She grabbed his hand and dragged him off before he could recover from his confusion-induced stroke.

Frozen and malfunctioning, he stumbled after her like a broken toy soldier. But not before giving Burn one last blazing glare over his shoulder—clearly declaring this conversation was not over.

Once they disappeared around the corridor and were out of sight, Burn’s face broke. He tried to stay composed, but the smugness betrayed him.

Morgan, ever helpful, kissed the corner of his lips and snarked, “Just laugh already. You look stupid.”

Burn’s shoulders shook like a man in love—with his wife and his own perfectly timed sense of comedic genius. He scooped Morgan up, then buried his face in her cleavage to stifle the laugh that was about to burst out of his chest.

Morgan laughed too, silently, before the two of them sauntered off to do whatever smug married people do when they’ve just executed the perfect prank on their best friend.

Meanwhile, Bella was still yanking Aroche’s hand away. And while she did, her brain was doing mental gymnastics worthy of a gold medal, trying to figure out how the hell she was supposed to pass along Morgan’s incredibly casual psychic SOS.

Because the second their eyes met back there, Bella had received The Message. No words, no gestures, just a solid blast of intuitive girl-telepathy that said:

“There’s a clever little spy from the Alliance who’s apparently got the kind of espionage tech that even we couldn’t detect. We don’t know what device he’s using yet, but Caliburn and I agreed we’re gonna gaslight the bastard by pretending we’re clueless. We’re acting right now. Don’t say anything important out loud. Tell Aroche. Somehow.”

That was the gist. Subtle. No pressure.

The problem? Transmitting a message directly to someone’s mind wasn’t exactly plug-and-play. If Bella wanted to use voice transmission, she’d still have to say it out loud. As for true mind-to-mind telepathy? Technically possible, but only if you were some kind of ancient wizard-grandpa-vampire like Vlad. She and Morgan weren’t exactly mind-spell experts.

So now she was down to Plan C: her Vision specialty. Smoke and Mirror. Overly realistic illusions that could bamboozle even the sharpest minds. Sexy, right?

Except this was spycraft, not theatre.

Covert operations weren’t really her scene. Give her a stage, a script, and a powerful illusion to wow the crowd? Sure. But this? Trying to pass secret messages under the nose of a super-spy with god-tier gadgets? Ugh.

Still. She had to try.

She turned to Aroche, mentally preparing for a struggle—and was immediately greeted by a face like thunderclouds.

Aroche was glaring down at her like she’d personally insulted his ancestors.

Bella froze mid-step. Her confident illusionist brain short-circuited. And just like that, her carefully constructed façade of “fearless and fabulous” crumbled into a pink-cheeked, flustered wreck.

Why was this happening?

She was usually bright. Blunt. Cheerful. Unbothered.

So why, in front of this one ridiculously loyal man, did she turn into a stammering bowl of pudding?

“Umm, my lord… I…” Bella began, the very picture of someone trying to sound casual while internally screaming.

“What are you doing?” Aroche snapped, zero chill, all mission. “We’re here to do what we came to do. Didn’t we already hash this out with your father and Lord Isaiah? We have to confront Burn abou—”

“Why are you in such a rush?!” she cut him off sharp. “C-Can’t you see I’m tired? You! You’re in pain all over and it’s transferring to me! And you still refuse to get treated? Hmph!”

And just like that, Bella whipped her head to the side, arms folded like a tiny, adorable revolutionary.

Aroche stood there, dumbstruck. The man had been laser-focused on one goal—Operation Save Burn’s Dignity—and had completely missed the side quest titled “Don’t Let Your Emotional Damage Become Someone Else’s Migraine.”

Because while he could shrug off the phantom pain like an emotionally constipated war general, Bella? She was living in his pain-ridden body like an involuntary guest.

“…Are you in pain right now, Miss Bella?” he asked, suddenly remembering that other people existed and maybe, just maybe, he was the reason one of them looked like she wanted to both cry and throw a shoe.

Sure, he was here on Very Important Political Business—noble causes, best friend’s reputation, fate of the realm, blah blah—but even he couldn’t ignore a girl suffering because of him.

So, with uncharacteristic gentleness, Aroche reached out and tilted her chin up to look at him.

Her face was practically glowing red. Not from magic. From emotions. And Aroche—dead-eyed, no-nonsense Aroche—felt a little jolt somewhere near what might have been his long-abandoned heart.

She pouted up at him. Softly. Grievously. Tragedy incarnate in girl form. “It hurts,” she whispered, equal parts acting mission and truth.

Aroche forgot how to breathe.

Dear gods.

He was doomed.

Well, technically, she wasn’t lying. She was in pain. But it wasn’t like she planned to blow up at him and play the damsel card this hard. Honestly, who told him to start monologuing classified intel when there could be some nosy little spy with a fancy surveillance gadget tucked in the wall sconces?

So now, in this conveniently empty corridor—perfect for both heart-to-hearts and getting bugged by sneaky Alliance tech—she had to flip the switch and go full-on Spoiled Noble Lady™ just to derail the plot before he blurted something they couldn’t un-blurt.

“So…” she batted her lashes, weaponized innocence engaged, “get me somewhere I can rest, okay?”

Aroche, guilt now written all over his morally-upstanding, secretly-soft features, looked like someone had just told him he stepped on a kitten.

“…Okay,” he mumbled, thoroughly humbled. “Follow me.”

Victory. Not elegant, but effective.