Serving the Night Beside the Demon King

The Demon King’s bedchamber was located in the deepest, most secluded core area of the fortress.

It could only be reached after passing through several heavy doors, each guarded by elite sentinels and inscribed with powerful defensive runes.

Unlike the grand, cold, power-symbolizing style of the outer office areas, the bedchamber’s interior appeared more subdued, intimate, and even carried a faint, peculiar sense of a living space—if one ignored the ever-present, cold, seductively sweet magical residue belonging to Iris herself, and those seemingly casually placed artifacts, each emitting subtle yet potent magical fluctuations.

Furenna stood where she had been instructed.

This was a spacious sitting room, laid with an exceptionally soft dark carpet.

The walls were of warm dark wood, inlaid with magical wall sconces casting a soft, warm glow.

Several sets of wide, comfortable sofas and low tables occupied the main space.

One side held the closed, carved wooden door leading to the main bedroom; the other connected to a small study and a walk-in wardrobe.

Apart from Iris’s aura, the air held a faint scent of incense, reminiscent of cedar and sandalwood, and a… relatively relaxed atmosphere belonging to rest.

But this atmosphere brought Furenna no relaxation whatsoever.

On the contrary, this seemingly comfortable environment, because of this special task, was filled with an indescribable, heart-palpitating tension.

Clad in her pristine white personal maid’s dress, hands clasped before her, she stood in a most standard, yet most rigid posture, in the shadows near the study door.

Her gaze was lowered, fixed on a small patch of dark carpet pattern just before her white shoe tips.

She strove to control her breathing, focusing all her perception on observing her surroundings and listening for any movement from behind the main bedroom door.

The weakness within her, with each heart-pounding beat, felt like a warning bell striking to remind her of her current predicament.

Time flowed in the silence, slow and almost viscous.

Only the steady, soft light of the wall sconces and the never-ceasing, low hum of the fortress’s deep magical pulse.

After an unknowable length of time, the main bedroom door opened soundlessly.

Iris emerged.

She had changed out of the formal robes from the day, now wearing a softer, silk robe of the same deep purple hue.

The belt was tied loosely, revealing the graceful lines of her collarbone and a small expanse of pale chest.

Her silver hair cascaded like a waterfall over her shoulders, the ends still carrying a slight dampness from bathing.

Her face bore no makeup; her crimson eyes, in the soft light, seemed less sharp and profound than usual, taking on a lazy, almost harmless softness—but this softness, in Furenna’s eyes, was more dangerous than any imposing demeanor.

“What are you standing so far away for?”

Iris’s voice carried a trace of post-bath relaxation.

She walked to the sofa in the center of the sitting room and sat down, sinking into the soft cushions, her gaze directed at Furenna in the shadows.

“Come here. There aren’t as many rules here during the night. No need to stand stiff as a board.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Furenna responded, stepping out from the shadows.

She stopped about three paces from the sofa, still maintaining an attentive standing posture, but slightly lifting her eyes, her line of sight landing on the carpet near where Iris’s hands rested in her lap.

Iris did not look at her.

Instead, she reached to the low table beside the sofa, picked up an old-looking book with a leather cover, and began flipping through it casually.

Only the faint, rustling sound of turning pages remained in the room.

“Can you read?” Iris suddenly asked, not looking up.

“Reporting to Your Majesty,” Furenna answered cautiously. “This humble one… can.”

As a former hero, she had received education from the Holy Temple; reading was not difficult, but she was uncertain of Iris’s intent in asking.

“Hmm.” Iris acknowledged, turning a page. “That bookshelf over there, third row from the top, fifth book from the left. The one with the black cover, no title. Bring it here.”

Furenna obeyed, walking to the bookshelf.

The row was high, almost reaching the ceiling.

She needed to stand on a small footstool to barely reach it.

The white skirt hem lifted slightly with the movement.

She tried to maintain balance, reaching for the thick, unmarked black book.

Her fingertips touched the cold leather cover, pulled it out, and then carefully handed it towards Iris.

The entire action was quiet and efficient, except that when she turned, due to weakness and the previous stretch, her vision darkened for an almost imperceptible moment, her footing wavering slightly.

But she steadied herself instantly, walking back before the sofa with an unchanged expression, presenting the book with both hands.

Iris seemed entirely unaware of her slight wavering.

She took the book, placed it casually on her lap, still not looking up, but tapped the empty space on the sofa beside her with a fingertip.

“Sit.”

The command was simple, yet it caused Furenna’s body to stiffen almost imperceptibly for a moment.

Sitting with the Demon King?

This completely exceeded the scope of “maid” and went beyond the boundaries of any previous “lesson” or “service.”

This felt more like a deliberate, boundary-blurring act.

“This humble one dares not overstep.” Furenna lowered her eyes, her voice steady, but the refusal clear.

“Overstep?” Iris finally looked up from the pages, her crimson eyes meeting Furenna’s, a glint of amusement flickering within. “Here, what I say is the rule. If I tell you to sit, you sit. Or do you prefer to stand, and then admire me while swaying unsteadily, like when you fetched the book just now?”

She saw it. That momentary weakness and stumble—she saw it.

Furenna’s heart sank.

Iris was using this method to force her to accept a closer proximity, a more ambiguous status.

Iris’s gaze rested calmly upon her, carrying an undeniable expectation to wait.

Finally, Furenna slowly moved her feet, walked to the sofa, and sat down on the very edge of the seat, in an extremely rigid posture, as if barely touching it.

Her back was ramrod straight, hands tightly clasped in her lap, gaze lowered—her entire being like a drawn bowstring.

Iris seemed somewhat satisfied with her compliance.

She no longer looked at her, returning her gaze to the black book on her lap.

She casually opened it to a page, then began reading the text aloud in that uniquely magnetic voice.

It was an ancient, obscure demonic poem, its content seemingly metaphorical, about the movement of stars and the threads of fate, with ornate language and a strange cadence.

Furenna forced herself to focus on those unfamiliar words and rhythms, attempting to use them to distract from the extreme discomfort and vigilance towards the presence beside her.

She could smell the scent emanating from Iris—a blend of fresh post-bath moisture, faint cold soap, and a unique, indescribable coldness belonging solely to the Demon King.

This scent was so close it almost enveloped her, provoking a physiological urge to flee, which she forcefully suppressed.

Iris read about a dozen lines before stopping.

Silence returned to the room, with only the shallow sound of their breathing.

“Do you understand it?” Iris suddenly turned her head, looking at Furenna.

Her crimson eyes were fixed on Furenna’s pale profile, so close Furenna could even see her long, thick eyelashes and the elusive, shimmering light deep within those scarlet orbs.

“…The phrasing is profound. This humble one is dull-witted and cannot fully comprehend it.” Furenna answered truthfully, her voice slightly dry from tension.

“Oh? Is that so?” Iris’s fingertip lightly traced the words on the page, her tone carrying a hint of playfulness. “I thought, given the hero’s education, you might understand at least a little about metaphors of ‘fate’ and ‘bondage.’ After all, aren’t you currently within such a situation yourself?”

Her words once again deftly pierced the facade of “maid,” touching upon the “hero’s” past and the “prisoner’s” present.

Furenna did not answer, merely pressing her lips tighter.

Iris did not seem to expect an answer.

She closed the book and set it aside casually, then turned her body completely towards Furenna, one arm resting casually on the back of the sofa—this posture brought her seemingly even closer to Furenna.

That cold aura enveloped her more clearly.

“Speaking of which,” Iris’s gaze slid from Furenna’s lowered lashes, over her straight nose, to her slightly pursed, pale lips, as if appreciating the glaze on a piece of porcelain, “you always seem very tense. During the day in the study, and now here as well. Does my presence make you so uneasy?”

Her tone remained languid, even carrying a semblance of concerned curiosity, but each word felt like a carefully calibrated probe.

“Your Majesty is awe-inspiring. This humble one… is in awe.” Furenna gave the most standard answer, attempting to use “awe” to cover all complex emotions.

“Awe?” Iris let out a soft laugh. The sound was particularly clear in the quiet room, carrying a strange, almost pleased quality. “Relaxation is a habit. Like right now, you sitting beside me, wearing the clothes I gave you, listening to the poetry I read… shouldn’t this be a form of… closeness? Why is your body still as taut as a stretched stone?”

As she spoke, she suddenly reached out.

The movement wasn’t fast, even carrying a deliberate elegance, but the target was clear—her fingertips lightly touched the back of Furenna’s hands, clad in white gloves, clasped in her lap.

Cold. Not the coolness of human body temperature, but a deeper, cold touch imbued with a strange energy, transmitting instantly through the thin glove fabric.

Furenna’s body gave a violent tremor, almost recoiling instinctively, but powerful willpower kept her nailed in place.

Only her hands involuntarily twitched, the muscles on the back of her hands instantly tensing.

She could even feel the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

Iris seemed very interested in her reaction.

She did not withdraw her hand.

Instead, with a slow, almost assessing curiosity, her fingertips lightly stroked the raised knuckles and tense muscle lines on the back of Furenna’s hand.

“See, just a touch, and you’re this tense.”

Her voice dropped even lower, like a whisper, her warm breath brushing past Furenna’s ear.

“Your heartbeat must be very fast right now? Your breathing is uneven too.”

“This isn’t the reaction awe should bring, Furenna. This feels more like an instinctive resistance, or perhaps… fear?”

Furenna felt a cold numbness surge from the touched back of her hand up her spine instantly.

She forced herself to keep her gaze lowered, not to acknowledge the shiver-inducing sensation and assessment carried by those cold fingertips.

She had to say something, to break this suffocating, aggressive “observation.”

“Your Majesty… this humble one is of lowly status, unworthy…” Her voice trembled slightly, a mixture of genuine reaction and forced control.

“Unworthy?” Iris interrupted her, her fingertips pausing but not withdrawing. Instead, she pressed slightly more firmly on her tensed hand. “I say you are worthy, so you are. Here, your identity, your value, are defined by me. Just like this attire,” her other hand suddenly lifted, lightly brushing over the silver embroidery on Furenna’s shoulder, a gentle yet undeniably possessive gesture, “when it’s on you, it signifies you are ‘mine.’ Your tension, your resistance, even your… fear—within ‘my’ definition, can all be interesting… qualities.”

Her words were like an invisible net, enveloping all of Furenna’s reactions and assigning them a twisted “meaning” belonging to the Demon King herself.

Furenna felt a profound sense of powerlessness and an even colder anger, but this anger was firmly pressed beneath the layer of pale ice in her eyes, not a trace allowed to leak.

Iris seemed to have enjoyed enough of her stiff, tense reaction and finally withdrew her hand.

The cold touch departed, but an abnormal sensation of being assessed, being marked, seemed to linger on her skin.

“Alright, enough teasing you.” Iris leaned back into the sofa, resuming her previous languid posture, as if that aggressive probing had been merely a whimsical “game.” “Go, over there, in the cabinet under the low table, there’s a silver thermos. It contains herbal tea for calming nerves. Pour a cup. I’m somewhat thirsty.”

The command content returned to the duties of a “maid,” but everything that had just transpired had utterly altered the nature and atmosphere of this “night watch.”

Furenna felt as if pardoned, immediately standing up.

Her movement, due to eagerness, seemed somewhat hasty, but she quickly controlled it, walking steadily to the low table.

She knelt, opened the cabinet door, and retrieved the exquisitely carved silver thermos.

While pouring the tea, her wrist still exhibited subtle, hard-to-suppress tremors, causing the tea to sway slightly in the cup.

She took a deep breath, striving to steady herself, placed the cup, filled to seventy percent, on a small tray, and walked back to the sofa.

This time, she did not sit down again.

Instead, she stood respectfully before Iris, bowed slightly, and presented the tray.

Iris glanced at her, a flicker of an unreadable light, somewhere between satisfaction and deeper exploration, passing through her crimson eyes.

She did not ask her to sit again, merely took the teacup and began sipping it slowly.