The Royal Bar, 3rd Floor

  The air inside The Royal Bar felt dense, as if the oxygen had been sucked out and replaced by alcohol vapor and bloated egos.

  Ellios didn't need to look to know the young bartender behind the counter was suffering a silent panic attack. From the corner of his eye, Ellios could see the kid's hand. He had been wiping the same glass for the last five minutes. The rag trembled violently, vibrating in rhythm with a heartbeat that had likely breached critical levels.

  The bartender's face was deathly pale, eyes staring blankly at the table, praying to whatever god would listen that he might become invisible. He was like a crippled rabbit trapped in a cage with an old wolf and a venomous snake. One wrong move, one breath too loud, and he knew his life would end as a red stain on the marble floor.

  This silence wasn't just quiet. It was the static tension before a lightning storm.

  Ellios shifted his focus back to the monster beside him.

  Rams Ghandarvya had just changed his skin. His shoulders slumped, his jaw dropped.

  "Hic... ugh..."

  The hiccup sounded fake to Ellios’ trained ears. Too contrived. Too theatrical.

  You think I'm stupid, Old Pig? Ellios thought coldly. You're trying to roleplay as a drunken fool so I'll lower my defenses?

  Ellios swirled his crystal glass with his fingertips, a calm, hypnotic motion.

  "Is the wine from the east so intoxicating, Lord?" he asked softly. He tuned his voice perfectly—full of faux sympathy, like a grandson concerned for his senile grandfather.

  Rams grinned crookedly, his swollen eyes blinking slowly like a reptile. The smell of his breath hit Ellios’ face—a rotting mix of expensive brandy, sugar, and malice.

  "You talk too much about me, Boy..." Rams mumbled, still in his drunk character. "What about the back fence of Mount Rhagas? Is it so calm leaving the fields for so long?"

  Ellios felt a nerve in his temple throb. He's threatening the base.

  Rams chuckled wetly. "Your pumpkin farm might be attacked by pests right now... the rats there are vicious..."

  Ellios looked away elegantly, staring at the bar wall as if bored, while his brain mapped the threat. Rats, huh? So you sent spies or assassins to Rhagas?

  With slow movements, Ellios pushed his glass closer to the center of the table.

  "Do not worry, Lord Ghandarvya," he answered calmly, his voice as flat as the surface of a frozen lake. "Our backyard is full of mines now. Pests have to circle far around Mount Rhagas if they want the scent of our pumpkins. They will die of exhaustion before they arrive."

  That answer silenced Rams’ laughter for a moment. However, the reply came in physical form.

  The giant hand moved.

  Ellios watched it in slow motion. The dirty jumbo mug was lifted, tilted over his slender crystal glass.

  Glooorp.

  Thick, murky brown liquid spilled.

  Ellios’ eyes widened slightly—not out of fear, but out of pure disgust. He watched his clear whisky being violated by Rams’ saturated mix of brandy and granulated sugar. Clumps of undissolved sugar fell with a plop to the bottom of his glass, stirring up sediment, clouding the clarity, turning the elegant drink into disgusting sweet sludge.

  It wasn't just pouring a drink. It was a declaration of war. It was Rams’ way of saying: "I can dirty your clean world whenever I want."

  Rams raised his glass again.

  "Let us toast, Boy... To friendship... Ghandarvya and Randar... Desert and Mountain... Eternal..."

  "HAHAHAHA...."

  The laughter exploded, bouncing off the walls, making the bartender shrink further into the corner.

  Ellios looked down. He stared at his crystal glass. The liquid inside was now murky, thick, and thinly foaming. The smell was pungent. His nose wrinkled faintly. It must taste like drinking cough syrup mixed with vomit.

  Rams waited. His cunning eyes stared sharply, challenging Ellios to refuse. If Ellios refused, it was an open insult. If he drank, it was a sign of submission.

  You want me to swallow your trash? Ellios thought sharply.

  Slowly, Ellios’ pale hand extended. He grasped the stem of the crystal glass. He did not tremble. He did not hesitate.

  Ellios raised the glass level with his eyes, then stared at Rams through the murky liquid. The "mask" smile on his face widened, sharper than before.

  "To eternity, Lord Rams," Ellios said smoothly.

  He brought the glass to his lips. The smell of sugar stung his nose. Without breaking eye contact with Rams, Ellios tilted the glass.

  The thick, painfully sweet liquid flowed into his mouth.

  The texture was gritty with sugar granules. It tasted hot and so sweet it made his teeth ache. Ellios fought the upheaval in his stomach. He didn't swallow saliva. He didn't choke. He let the liquid slide down his throat, burning its path.

  Gulp.

  He swallowed it. All of it.

  Ellios lowered the empty glass to the table with a polite click. He didn't wince. He didn't reach for water. Instead, he licked the sugar residue on his lower lip with a provocative movement, then smiled coldly at Rams who now stared at him in silence.

  "Sweet," Ellios said flatly. "Just like the promises of desert merchants."

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  Rams Ghandarvya did not walk out. He rolled.

  The old man spun his rotund body with surprising momentum, then moved toward the double doors without slowing his pace. He didn't bother using his hands to push the door leaves. He used his shoulder and belly as a battering ram.

  CRASHHHHH!

  The sound of splintering wood and surrendering metal rang loud.

  Ellios watched the upper hinge of the mahogany door rip from its frame. The door tilted instantly, swinging pitifully like a broken arm, while the giant "meatball" disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind echoes of sickening laughter.

  As soon as Rams’ shadow vanished, Ellios’ porcelain mask cracked.

  His defense collapsed.

  His cheeks instantly bulged, full from the pressure of a rebelling stomach. His calm face turned panicked. He clapped a hand over his own mouth.

  Ellios ran. His usually light steps now sounded like heavy thuds, crashing into bar stools as he hunted for the sink in the corner of the room.

  He gripped the edge of the marble sink tightly, bowing his head.

  "HURRRK...!"

  Thick brown liquid sprayed from his mouth, slamming roughly against the white ceramic basin.

  "Hurk... hack... hurk!"

  Ellios vomited everything. Expensive brandy, stomach acid, and worst of all—clumps of undissolved sugar. The crystal granules felt rough coming back up, scratching a throat already burned by alcohol.

  The sweet sludge swirled down the drain, smelling pungent and foul.

  Ellios’ breath hunted. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as if he had just run a marathon dodging death.

  He turned on the faucet roughly. Sploosh! Cold water flowed heavily. He washed his mouth, gargling repeatedly, trying to remove that sticky, disgusting sweetness. Sweetness that tasted like humiliation.

  "Crazy trash..." he hissed between gasps. "Damn sugar..."

  Slowly, Ellios looked up.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

  The sight there was pathetic. The youth who had looked elegant and cold was now a mess.

  His usually deathly pale face was now flushed—not a healthy red, but red from blood pressure rushing to his head while vomiting and exploding rage. His eyes were watery. Fine veins bulged at his temples.

  Beads of cold sweat the size of corn kernels appeared on his forehead, flowing down past his sharply arched brows.

  And yet, The Royal Bar was cold. The blast of central AC hit his nape, freezing the sweat, making his body shiver contradictorily. Hot inside, cold outside.

  Ellios wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand, eyes staring sharply at his own shadow in the mirror. That gaze was full of hatred. Not at himself, but at the sweetness still lingering on his tongue.

  "You will pay for this sugar, Old Pig," he whispered to the mirror fogged by his hot breath. "I will make sure you die choking on your own sugar."

  Ellios wiped the corner of his lips once more with a silk handkerchief, ensuring no trace of stain remained. He took a deep breath, expelling the remaining foul air of The Royal Bar, and straightened his back.

  His mask was perfectly reattached.

  His steps in the fourth-floor corridor were once again ghost-light, yet full of grace. No more Ellios running to hold back vomit. There was only Young Master Randar walking as if the floor beneath him were made of clouds.

  He stopped in front of door 402.

  Click.

  The electronic card key beeped softly. Ellios pushed the door, and instantly his world changed.

  No more smell of cheap alcohol or stinging sugar. The air in the room smelled sweet and heavy—the scent of thousands of freshly picked rose petals.

  The lighting was dim. The main lights were off, replaced by amber-yellow bedside lamps and several aromatherapy candles placed strategically in the corners. The warm light bathed the entire room in an intimate golden hue, creating soft shadows dancing on the walls.

  Ellios’ slanted eyes swept the floor.

  The thick carpet was covered by a spread of blood-red rose petals. They were scattered randomly yet artistically, creating a red path leading his eyes straight to the center of the room—toward the king-size bed in the middle.

  And that was where the "cure" lay.

  Ellios sighed in relief. His eyes, previously stained by the sight of Rams Ghandarvya’s fat, were now spoiled by a masterpiece.

  On white silk sheets now sprinkled with rose petals, lay a figure waiting in silence.

  Louis Ferdinand. The Prince of the North.

  The prideful son of Duke Hernan of Porto Royale lay without a single thread.

  His body was the definition of northern contradiction; skin pale white yet glowing under the dim light, smooth as alabaster polished by the finest craftsman. He didn't have excessive muscle bulk like a fighting monster. No, Louis’ body was the lean athletic type.

  His abdominal muscles were etched faintly but firmly, flowing down to his tapered hips. His shoulders were proportionately broad, with elegant collarbones protruding, where a few rose petals clung spoiledly.

  The twenty-year-old youth turned his head upon hearing the door close.

  His face was devastatingly handsome—classic noble beauty with a strong jaw and an arrogant high nose, now softened by desire. His straight, long black hair fell messy on the pillow, framing a face like a painting.

  Louis said nothing. He only stared at Ellios with clear eyes, lips slightly parted, inviting.

  Ellios leaned against the closed door for a moment, enjoying the view. He felt as if he had just climbed out of a filthy sewer and jumped straight into a pool of warm milk.

  "Ah..." Ellios sighed softly, the nausea in his stomach vanishing without a trace.

  "A much better view," he murmured, stepping slowly, crushing rose petals toward the bed. "Sweet Prince of the North... you really know how to welcome a guest."

  Ellios said nothing. Words felt useless right now; he had talked too much with the monster in the bar earlier. Now, he just wanted to feel.

  His slender fingers moved fast yet elegantly, undoing the buttons of his expensive suit jacket. The jacket fell to the floor, landing on rose petals. Followed by his silk tie removed with one rough pull, hissing like a discarded snake.

  His shirt followed. The white fabric shed from his thin shoulders, revealing his milk-white pale skin under the dim amber light.

  Trousers, shoes, socks... one by one his defenses were stripped.

  Until finally, Ellios stood there without a single thread.

  He glanced at his own body—the body he hated earlier for being too light. Yet in this room, before this youth, his nakedness felt not like a weakness, but like an offering.

  On the bed, Louis Ferdinand reacted.

  The Prince of the North rose slowly from his reclining position. His abdominal and chest muscles tensed as he sat up straight, creating sharp contour shadows.

  Louis’ eyes...

  Ellios swallowed. That wasn't the gaze of a gentle lover. It was the gaze of a starving hawk. Sharp, wild, and adoring. Those eyes swept every inch of Ellios’ body, as if wanting to devour him alive, as if Ellios were the only prey in a vast desert.

  There was fire there. Fire Ellios needed to burn away the disgusting memory of Rams’ sugar and fat.

  Ellios didn't wait.

  He stepped forward. His feet kicked rose petals, creating a small red storm with every step. He approached the edge of the bed, breaching the distance between them.

  Louis opened his arms, ready to welcome.

  But Ellios didn't come gently. He lunged.

  He crashed his body into Louis’ aggressively, an embrace urgent and desperate.

  Thud.

  Skin met skin.

  The sensation exploded instantly.

  Louis’ warm, solid body welcomed Ellios’ cold, slender form. Ellios wrapped his arms tightly around Louis’ neck, gripping those sturdy shoulders as if he were a drowning man and Louis was the only driftwood in a stormy sea.

  The scent of roses in the room was utterly defeated by Louis’ body scent—musk, manly sweat, and intoxicating pheromones.

  "Erase..." Ellios whispered into the crook of Louis’ neck, voice trembling, holding back passion and rage. "Erase that old fossil's stench from my memory..."

  Louis didn't answer with words. He answered with action.

  The Prince of the North’s muscular arms wrapped around Ellios’ slender waist, squeezing possessively, pulling him closer until there was no distance, no air, no space for the outside world to enter.

  To Ellios, this rough yet adoring touch was the antidote. Every friction of their skin, every hunting breath, was a purification ritual to banish the shadow of Rams Ghandarvya from his head.

  That night, amidst crushed rose petals, Ellios no longer felt light or helpless. Within the confinement of Louis’ arms, he felt alive, heavy, and real.