Chapter 12: A Butterfly Always Flaps Its Wings

“You—!”

The teacup in Celicia’s hand didn’t just fall; it exploded into a thousand glittering shards of ice. A deep blue frost, radiating an aura of pure murderous intent, erupted from her feet, spreading across the floor with terrifying speed and instantly plunging the room into a deep freeze.

The very real, very tangible presence of Death wrapped its icy fingers around Ewan’s heart. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from dropping to his knees and begging for his pathetic life.

Thankfully, for the first time that night, the universe seemed to throw him a bone.

Celicia suddenly staggered, her body swaying.

The frost, which had been moments away from turning Ewan into a very handsome popsicle, stopped dead in its tracks just inches from his feet, unable to advance any further.

“Despicable,” she hissed, her glacial eyes shooting him a look of pure, undiluted hatred. But before she could unleash whatever frozen hell she had planned, the potion finally took full effect. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap.

“Hoooooly…”

As the killing intent dissipated, Ewan finally let out a long, shuddering breath, the terror of the last few seconds still rattling his soul. “As expected of the great and terrifying Celicia.” If that drug had been just two seconds slower, he had no doubt she would have killed him without a moment’s hesitation.

“But in the end, I still won!”

A tidal wave of post-near-death euphoria flooded his brain, and he threw his head back and let out a triumphant, slightly hysterical laugh. “Do you have any idea how deviously cunning a modern corporate drone can be?! Do you understand the sheer, galaxy-brained genius of this classic bait-and-switch, a technique honed over countless brutal battles at the company drinking table?!”

He had been on the ropes, completely cornered by a Celicia far more cautious than he’d anticipated. But she, in her aristocratic brilliance, had never considered the possibility that both cups of tea had been drugged. He had bet everything on the slim chance that seeing him drink first would lower her guard for just a single, critical moment.

And his gamble had paid off spectacularly.

“I also owe a huge thank you to the shopkeeper for a potion that could knock out a dragon! It really is ‘one touch and you’re down’!” The outrageous price had been worth every last émile. He would definitely have to patronize that fine, criminal establishment again.

“And now,” he said, rubbing his hands together with a villainous glee, “for the main event.”

Looking at the unconscious and completely defenseless princess, Ewan felt a fresh wave of nervousness. But he had come this far. The arrow had been loosed. There was no going back now.

…

The flames in the fireplace crackled merrily, gradually chasing the supernatural chill from the room.

Ewan leaned down and carried Celicia to the sofa. Why not the bed? Because inviting a princess to a private room with a bed was a move so unsubtle that even a brick would find it suspicious. Luckily, the sofas in the ducal estate were as large and comfortable as most commoners’ beds.

“Alright then, what’s next on the agenda?”

“If memory serves, in the novel, the original Ewan was caught red-handed while trying to take off Celicia’s clothes.”

He glanced at the door. That moron hadn’t even thought to lock it. That was how the protagonist, after getting lost, had been able to just waltz in and witness the crime in progress.

“Since that’s how the script goes…” He took a deep breath. “If you’re going to put on a show, you have to commit. Here goes nothing!”

Gazing at the sleeping princess, Ewan felt his mouth go dry. This was, without a doubt, the most vulnerable she would ever be. The icy aura that normally clung to her had vanished, replaced by a faint, sweet fragrance that wafted into his nostrils, playfully teasing at the edges of his wavering sanity. Her simple white dress, which had seemed so elegant before, now only served to accentuate her cold, untouchable beauty.

“Forgive me for looking, forgive me for touching,” he muttered, offering a quick prayer to any gods that might be listening. “This is a necessary evil. My sincerest apologies.”

With a trembling hand, he gently lifted her light frame and fumbled for the zipper on the back of her dress. His fingers felt clumsy and disobedient, and it took several agonizing tries before he finally found it.

Zzzzip—

The crisp sound of the zipper sliding down echoed in the silent room, making his own heart hammer against his ribs. He swallowed a lump of non-existent saliva, his still-shaking hands grasping the delicate straps of her dress on her pale shoulders. Then, slowly, so very slowly, he slid them down her arms. Her skin was as smooth and flawless as white silk ribbons floating on a river of milk. Celicia’s impressive bust now served an entirely new purpose; even with the straps down, the bodice of the dress remained firmly in place, held up by sheer willpower and expert tailoring.

With a sigh of resignation, Ewan had no choice but to hook a finger under the front collar and gently pull it down. A deep, shadowy valley was gradually revealed, the pale, rounded curve of her chest like a rising moon. He pulled until the white, lacy ‘cloud’ covering that moon was halfway visible, before reluctantly, and with great effort, retracting his hand.

“This… this has to be enough, right?”

Her clothes were in disarray, her chest partially exposed. No one walking in now would assume they were just having a civilized chat.

Ewan shot another look at the closed door.

The protagonist had not arrived.

“Is it… still not enough?”

With a grimace, he took off his own twenty-kilogram suit jacket, revealing a reasonably firm and powerful upper body. He then braced his hands on either side of the sofa, positioning himself over her in a classic kabedon pose. Though there was no actual physical contact, the implication was so scandalous it could make a statue blush. In a novel like this, this level of intimacy was a five-alarm fire, a code-red scandal guaranteed to make the readers riot. If the hero didn’t come to the rescue now, it would just be plain rude!

But…

The protagonist still did not appear.

“Is my timing off? Should I wait a little longer?”

Resigned, Ewan held the ridiculously strenuous pose, motionless, as the seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness.

Three minutes… Ten minutes…

Half an entire hour!

“WHAT THE HELL!”

His arms screaming in protest, Ewan was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. “PROTAGONIST, WHERE ARE YOU?! THE MAIN HEROINE IS LYING HELPLESS BENEATH ME, AT MY COMPLETE AND UTTER MERCY! COME AND SAVE HER, DAMN IT! ISN’T THIS MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME FOR… WELL, FOR LITERALLY ANYTHING?!”

But still, Ariel, Celicia’s supposed savior, showed no signs of appearing.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He frantically retraced his steps. Inviting Celicia to the room? Check. Drugging her? Double-check, she was right there. All that was left was for the protagonist to get wine spilled on her by a clumsy maid, get lost looking for a washroom, and stumble in here to save the day.

So where was she? Did she get really, really lost?

Wait a second.

A clumsy maid?

Another bolt of lightning shot through his brain. The maids of this household were trained to be flawless automatons. They could probably walk a tightrope while juggling Fabergé eggs. The word “clumsy” wasn’t in their vocabulary. Spilling wine on a guest was an offense so grave the head maid would probably have to commit ritual suicide!

Unless… the maid wasn’t clumsy at all.

She had spilled the wine because…

She was sick.

Yes! The original plot-device maid must have made that mistake because she was ill!

And where was that particular maid right now?

She was resting comfortably in her quarters.

Resting, on Ewan’s direct orders.

She wasn’t at the banquet. Which means she couldn’t “accidentally” spill wine on the protagonist’s dress.

Which meant…

The protagonist might not be coming at all.