The dim light filtering through the single, small window of the cramped village room did little to alleviate the tension that had settled in the air.
Ash, still sprawled on the bed, pushed himself up, his earlier panic replaced by a fresh wave of exasperation. His master, now in human form, sat cross-legged on the bed next to him, a picture of innocent bewilderment despite the obviously manipulative nature of his recent performance.
Tylian, ever the stoic guardian, remained standing by the door, arms still crossed, his gaze a steel-hard judgment.
“Master, what was that?”
Ash finally managed, his voice a strained whisper, half-accusatory, half-despairing.
He gestured vaguely at his master, then at the closed door, as if the entire absurd situation could be blamed on some invisible, malevolent force.
The events of the last few minutes replayed in his mind: the genuine fear that had gripped him, the frantic scramble for the antidote, and then the utterly bewildering revelation that his master had simply been… in the mood for a snack.
A very particular kind of snack, at that.
His master tilted his head, his bird’s nest hair shifting slightly.
“What was what, Ash? I felt unwell. You were very kind to me.”
His large, innocent eyes blinked slowly, completely devoid of shame or self-awareness.
It was a look Ash had seen countless times, a look that usually disarmed him, but not today.
Today, it only fueled his frustration.
“You said you were dying! Your voice was dying! You made me think… you made me think the Count had poisoned you with something untreatable!”
Ash exclaimed, a tremor still in his voice from the memory of the sheer terror.
He could feel the residual stickiness of tears on his cheeks.
The emotional whiplash was dizzying.
His master frowned slightly.
“But my voice was dying. It was a very low-grade drink. It made my tongue feel quite unpleasant, and my head did hurt. I wasn’t lying.”
He said this with such earnestness that Ash almost believed him, almost felt a pang of guilt for doubting.
But then the image of his master’s perfectly timed transformation, his perfectly pitiful plea for “nursing,” flashed through his mind, and the anger returned.
“Nursing?! You wanted to ‘nurse’ on my chest, Master? In front of Tylian?”
Ash’s voice rose, bordering on a squeak.
He shot a desperate glance at Tylian, whose expression remained impassive, betraying nothing. It was almost worse than outright condemnation.
At least condemnation would be a clear reaction.
His master sighed, a theatrical puff of air that seemed to deflate him slightly.
“It’s not just any nursing, Ash. It’s a very specific kind. It helps with the magical imbalance caused by certain low-grade substances. And yes, in front of Tylian. He’s your guard. He’s seen worse.”
Tylian, for the first time, spoke, his voice dry.
“I have indeed seen worse. I have also seen a grown man cry over a bird pretending to be poisoned for a peculiar craving.”
Ash winced, his cheeks flushing.
“Tylian!”
“It’s true, Sir Ash. Your distress was quite… pronounced.”
Tylian’s words were devoid of malice, yet they cut deeper than any insult.
Ash felt a fresh wave of mortification wash over him.
His master, seemingly oblivious to the collateral damage he was inflicting, piped up, “See, Ash? Tylian understands.”
Ash buried his face in his hands.
“No, Master, he clearly does not understand. He thinks you’re manipulating me! Which, you are!”
He lifted his head, his voice still muffled by his hands.
“And what was that about the Count trying to make us ‘stick together’ and then take me? What did you mean by that?”
His master brightened, as if this was a much more palatable topic.
“Ah, yes! Well, it’s quite clear, isn’t it? The Count wants to marry you, Ash. He’s been eyeing your inheritance, your position, your… everything. And if he can’t get you willingly, or if he wants to solidify his claim before anyone else can interfere, a little ‘accident’ resulting in a forced marriage, perhaps with a convenient pregnancy, would be very useful for him. It’s an old trick.”
Ash stared at him.
“But… why would he try to get Tylian and you involved? Why the aphrodisiac for us?”
His master shrugged, a very human gesture that seemed out of place on someone who had just moments ago been a feathered creature.
“To make it look like a general party gone wrong. To make it seem like everyone was affected, not just you. And if Tylian and I were… otherwise occupied, it would be easier for him to get to you without immediate resistance. It’s a very crude plan, but sometimes crude plans work simply because they’re so obvious, people overlook them.”
Tylian let out a low growl.
“A shameless scoundrel trying to ravish the young master he served…”
His voice was terrifyingly low, a menacing rumble that made the hair on Ash’s arms stand on end.
Ash felt a chill, realizing the implications of Tylian’s protective instincts.
The man was absolutely serious.
“What if he really goes and kills the Count?”
The thought, initially a fleeting worry, solidified into a genuine concern.
Ash tried to calm the simmering rage he sensed emanating from Tylian.
“No, Tylian, no. It’s not worth it. I was careless too. Honestly, aren’t those who claim to be hostile to Owen completely transparent about their intentions? They want to marry me and become the Duke themselves. Didn’t they think it would be smooth sailing if they attacked me before marriage and got me pregnant? I should have anticipated that kind of situation. That foolish… no, I didn’t think such a timid count would be so audacious.”
Ash paused, trying to sound reasonable and in control, despite the chaos swirling within him.
He consciously avoided mentioning Tylian’s past transgression, the incident that had strained their relationship, the one where Tylian had acted on his protective instincts in a way that had deeply disturbed Ash.
He knew how to distinguish between what should be said and what shouldn’t.
He prided himself on that newfound maturity.
“Ah, that’s not it,” his master interjected, shattering Ash’s self-congratulatory moment.
“That person is indeed foolish,” Tylian added, echoing his master.
Ash blinked, bewildered.
“What?”
His master leaned closer, his eyes wide and earnest.
“I could see that Ash was so happy and nervous he didn’t know what to do from the moment he asked for help. The Count, that is. He wasn’t plotting some grand scheme. He just saw you, felt an immediate attraction, and panicked. He thought if he got you alone, perhaps with a little help from some ‘medicine,’ you would see him in a different light.”
Tylian nodded in agreement.
“Come to think of it, the reason he disliked Owen Mills seemed to be out of jealousy that Owen would monopolize Sir Ash and the ducal family. Judging by his attitude when the plot was discovered and he tried to make excuses to Sir Ash, he wasn’t an ambitious type. If he were, he would have been more thorough.”
“That’s right. Even I, who only wants to suck Ash’s chest, think more than that.”
His master agreed, completely undermining Ash’s carefully constructed narrative of the Count as a calculated villain, and then, even worse, reaffirming his own bizarre desires.
Ash felt his jaw drop.
He couldn’t believe what this person was saying in front of Tylian, who was, after all, a highly moral and upright individual.
“Such… thoughts, can’t you just not have them? Even if you can’t help thinking them, you should be careful about speaking them aloud. Others will think you’re shameless!”
Ash hastily tried to rein in his master, but his master immediately rendered Ash’s efforts useless. He asked, eyes wide: “So, in Ash’s eyes, I’m not shameless?”
“Well, in my eyes, yes, you are.”
Ash retorted, feeling a fresh wave of heat in his cheeks.
Honestly, it was a bit ambiguous for Ash, who used to go out enjoying nightlife with his lovers, to call others “shameless.”
Ash was a person with a conscience, however flawed it might be.
But Tylian wasn’t, was he?
He was a very moral sort.
Ash risked a glance at Tylian, who remained impassive. He truly was a mystery at times.
“Ash. I helped you two escape. You promised me you’d do anything. It’s time to keep your promise.”
His master’s voice, now devoid of its earlier theatrical weakness, was firm, almost demanding.
That was true.
Ash’s heart sank.
A promise to a mage must be kept.
Ash wasn’t a skilled mana user enough to earn the title of ‘mage,’ but he certainly knew that fact.
He had seen many things by his master’s side, seen the consequences of broken magical vows.
If he broke the promise, something terrible would happen to Ash.
Something he couldn’t handle. Ash was already in a sufficiently complicated situation; what more could he handle…?
“I understand, Master, but at least after Tylian leaves…”
Ash began, pleading.
He couldn’t fathom going through with his master’s peculiar request with Tylian standing right there, watching.
It was already embarrassing enough.
“You’re sending me away? What do you trust about that mage?”
Tylian’s voice cut through Ash’s plea, sharp and incredulous.
His tone implied a deep distrust, almost an accusation. Ash was horrified.
“Trust or not, Tylian, what do you expect to see by staying here?!”
Ash retorted, exasperated. He couldn’t believe Tylian was being so obtuse.
“Hasn’t that mage made you make strange promises time and again by exploiting your difficult situation? Are you telling me to leave a mage who can do ‘anything’ to you, alone with you in one room? I am your guard.”
Tylian looked serious, his eyes unwavering.
Ash was about to go crazy!
The absurdity of the situation was reaching new heights.
He had escaped a potential forced marriage with a creepy Count, only to find himself trapped between his demanding, shamelessly manipulative master and his overly protective, rigid guard.
He just wanted to lie down, perhaps even cry a bit more, but it seemed his personal drama was far from over.
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, punctuated only by Ash’s ragged breathing.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could magically transport himself anywhere else.
This was a nightmare of epic proportions, and he was starring in it without a script.
His master, meanwhile, seemed utterly unperturbed by the storm brewing around him.
He merely watched Ash with those wide, innocent eyes, a hint of something unreadable in their depths – patience?
Expectation?
Or perhaps just a profound lack of understanding of human social conventions.
“Master,” Ash tried again, his voice lower, more desperate.
“This isn’t… appropriate. Not with Tylian here. It’s a matter of… decorum.”
He clutched at the flimsy concept of decorum as if it were a life raft in this sea of awkwardness.
His master tilted his head again, a gesture Ash found both endearing and infuriating.
“Decor…um? Is that a kind of treat? Does it help with low-grade substances too?”
Ash groaned, burying his face in his hands once more.
“No, Master, it’s not a treat! It’s… it’s about what is socially acceptable! What people do and don’t do in front of others, especially people like Tylian who are… well, who are very proper!”
He risked another glance at Tylian, who remained as still and unreadable as a statue.
Ash couldn’t tell if Tylian was genuinely worried, secretly amused, or just utterly baffled by the entire exchange.
Tylian’s unyielding composure was a constant source of frustration and admiration for Ash.
“Proper?”
his master mused, a faint frown creasing his brow.
“But Ash, you promised. A magical promise. Do you understand the implications of breaking such a vow?”
His voice, though still innocent, held an undeniable edge of warning.
It was a sound Ash knew well – the calm before the magical storm.
He had witnessed the consequences of broken magical promises firsthand, and they were never pretty.
Disfigurement, memory loss, profound misfortune, sometimes even death.
The exact nature of the penalty was often tailored to the broken promise, a twisted sort of cosmic justice.
Ash’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew his master wasn’t bluffing.
This was the core of their complicated relationship: his master’s immense magical power, coupled with a bewildering, childlike understanding of the human world, and Ash’s own desperate need for that power to navigate the treacherous political landscape he was forced to inhabit.
He depended on his master for protection, for guidance – albeit often misguided guidance – and for a magical intervention when all else failed.
And in return, he was bound by these inexplicable, often embarrassing, magical vows.
“I know, Master, I know!”
Ash pleaded, his voice rising in desperation.
“But surely there’s a compromise! A way to fulfill the spirit of the promise without… without this public spectacle!”
He gestured wildly between his master and Tylian.
“Tylian, please! Can you just… give us a moment? I promise it’s nothing… nothing untoward!”
The words felt hollow even to his own ears. He knew full well his master’s “nursing” was, in its own way, quite untoward.
Tylian’s expression finally shifted, a subtle tightening around his eyes.
“Sir Ash, my duty is to protect you. And that includes protecting you from… exploitation, however magically disguised. This mage has a history of exploiting your good nature and your difficult circumstances. Forgive me, but I cannot in good conscience leave you alone with him when such a peculiar ‘promise’ is about to be fulfilled.”
His voice was firm, resolute, and completely unyielding.
Ash wanted to scream.
He was trapped between an unbreakable magical vow and an unshakeable, morally upright guardian.
It was a Catch-22 of the highest order, and he was the unfortunate victim caught in the middle.
“Exploitation?” his master piped up, sounding genuinely confused.
“But Ash is my favorite. Why would I exploit him? I just want my… sustenance. It makes me feel better. Like a warm hug from the inside.”
He looked at Ash with an expression of pure, unadulterated longing, completely oblivious to the double entendre.
Ash felt another wave of mortification wash over him.
“Master, please! Just… not now. Not in front of Tylian. He doesn’t understand!”
“He understands enough to know I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Tylian interjected, his voice flat.
“Especially when the ‘sustenance’ involves… certain bodily fluids.”
Ash flushed crimson.
He hadn’t realized Tylian had grasped the full, uncomfortable implications of his master’s “nursing.”
He had assumed Tylian just thought it was some kind of strange, arcane magical ritual.
The realization that Tylian understood the exact nature of the request made the situation infinitely worse.
“Tylian, you… you don’t need to be so explicit!”
Ash stammered, feeling his face burn.
“Perhaps if the circumstances weren’t so explicit, I wouldn’t need to be,” Tylian replied, his gaze unwavering.
“My duty is to ensure your safety and well-being, Sir Ash. That includes preventing situations that might compromise your dignity, even if you, in your usual trusting nature, fail to see the potential for such compromise.”
Ash glared at Tylian.
“My ‘usual trusting nature’ is what gets me into these situations, is it? As if you haven’t put me in precarious positions before with your… well, your overzealousness!”
He immediately regretted the jab, knowing it was an unfair dig at Tylian’s unwavering loyalty.
But the frustration was bubbling over.
His master, seemingly bored with the human squabble, shifted on the bed.
“Ash, my head still hurts a little. And my tongue still feels strange. A promise is a promise.”
His eyes, normally so bright, seemed to dim slightly, and a faint shiver ran through his human form.
It was a subtle but potent display of discomfort, a silent plea that Ash knew was not entirely theatrical this time.
The low-grade substance had affected him, even if his exaggerated reaction was mostly for show.
Ash closed his eyes, torn.
He knew his master was capable of truly debilitating illness if he didn’t receive his peculiar “nursing” when genuinely unwell.
And a truly ill mage was a dangerous, unpredictable force.
He also knew the consequences of breaking a magical vow.
He was well and truly caught.
“Fine!”
Ash practically yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“Fine, Master! But you owe me! A big one! And Tylian, you… you just look away! Or go stand outside! Just… don’t watch!”
Tylian remained impassive.
“I cannot leave you alone, Sir Ash. And I cannot, in good conscience, pretend not to witness something that is clearly happening in front of me. My eyes are open, and my duty is clear.”
Ash let out a frustrated growl, a sound that was more animal than human.
He was trapped.
Utterly, completely trapped.
He couldn’t force Tylian to leave, and he couldn’t break a magical vow.
He was going to have to endure this, with his stoic, unmoving guard as a witness.
The thought made him want to crawl under the bed and disappear.
His master, sensing victory, brightened immediately.
“Oh, thank you, Ash! You’re always so kind!”
He scooted closer, his large, innocent eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Ash squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for oblivion.
This was going to be the longest, most humiliating few minutes of his life.
He could already feel the blush creeping up his neck.
He was Duke Ash, a man of standing, a powerful figure in his own right, and yet here he was, about to fulfill the bizarre craving of his manipulative bird-mage master in front of his impossibly proper, unyielding guard.
The universe, it seemed, had a truly twisted sense of humor.
He just hoped this was the last of the day’s absurdities.
But with his master, he knew, it never truly was.
His personal drama, far from over, had just begun a new, even more mortifying act.
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