Arthur's True Feelings
The suffocatingly packed schedule of the second day of the social season had finally drawn to a close.
By my own reckoning, I'd successfully embedded myself at the heart of the Imperial social scene.
The Second Prince had even come over acting all chummy, and the Empire's top power broker—the Emperor himself—had shown me favor right in front of all the nobles. No major headaches for a while, at least.
As long as I didn't get outed as a fake prince, screw up big time, or get mixed up with shady types like the Northern Archduchess... yeah, smooth sailing.
"Haaah... I'm seriously gonna drop dead from exhaustion."
The brutal hangover from chugging that 40% proof rotgut last night hadn't even faded, and I'd spent the whole day tense as a wire, mingling at the party. My body felt like a waterlogged sponge—heavy, sodden, every step sinking into the carpet like quicksand.
Today, I'm crashing without even showering. Screw everything...
Clutching that ironclad certainty that my head would hit the pillow and I'd be out in one second flat, I gripped the doorknob to my quarters and flung the door open.
The room was pitch black, lights off.
But just as I shut the door and dragged my leaden feet inside—
"Ian Sterling-!!"
"Hiiik?!"
A thick, booming voice exploded from the darkness like thunder.
At the same instant, click—the magic crystal lamps flickered on, flooding the room with daylight brightness.
And the sight before me? One of the most horrifying, nightmarish scenes I could ever imagine facing in this life.
"P-Prince?!"
The Empire's Second Prince, Arthur, was sitting on my bed.
Not in his social season finery, either—just a thin running shirt.
"Y-Your Highness? What brings you to my room at this hour...?"
"Ian, you. Seems like you forgot something very important today, doesn't it?"
"...Pardon? F-Forgot what, Your Highness?"
I stumbled back in panic, sputtering, and Arthur clicked his tongue, leaping to his feet.
As his massive frame loomed closer, the air in the room thickened, oxygen vanishing under the crushing pressure.
"You skipped training today, didn't you?"
"W-Well, it's the social season..."
"Yesterday too."
"N-No, Your Highness! Even so, it's the Imperial social season..."
"Think the social season stops muscle atrophy? Guaranteeing your gains personally, is the great Uzarat the Magnificent?"
"Festivals are a time for a rest period..."
"No excuses! Tonight, I'm giving you a special pre-bed workout that'll wreck you. Be grateful."
Arthur clamped his hulking, lid-like hand on my shoulder, grinning wickedly.
"But since it's festival time, I'll be merciful—bodyweight only. Strip off that fancy coat and hit the deck!"
"Y-Your Highness... it's the middle of the night..."
"Perfect timing—crash right after and sleep like a baby, no?"
"W-Well, true..."
"Keeping it light tonight, just a warm-up. Push-ups: 15 reps, 5 sets! Squats: 15 reps, 5 sets! Finish with planks: 2 minutes, 5 sets! Perfect form only. Slack even a little, and that set restarts. Got it?!"
Under Arthur's merciless bellow, eyes stinging with tears, I shrugged off my banquet jacket and dropped to the floor.
"Go! Down on my count, up on yours! One!"
"O-One!"
"Two!"
"T-Two...!"
"Three!"
"Th-Three!"
After 15 push-ups, he jumped straight to squats and planks.
I kept up for the first three sets, but then my body started rebelling.
"Nngh...! Urgh...!"
"Elbow angle's off! Restart! One!"
"Hic...! Aaaah! Your Highness, that one touched perfectly! It touched! Please!"
Scream or not, any form slip and Arthur skipped the count, resetting.
"Knees past toes! Tuck that ass back! That one's invalid!"
"Kuuugh! Huff, Your Highness, m-my thighs are gonna explode! Please, mercy...!"
"They won't! That's growth! No whining—deeper!"
"Kaaaaah-!!"
Finally, the last plank—3 minutes.
"Core tight! Push up from abs! Arching like that strains your back! Drop that ass!"
"Uwaaaah!"
"Hey, one more arch and I'll sit on you!"
"...Pardon?!"
"I'm 265 pounds—no, 120kg! Heavier than your max bench. You don't want that."
So there I was, fluffy bed within arm's reach, but pinned by this tiger of a Second Prince, forced through muscle torture, howling in agony.
"Whew, that'll do for tonight. Good work, Ian. Muscles are pumped nice and tasty. Sweet dreams await."
"Th-Thank you, Your Highness...!"
"Now wash up and crash. Social season tomorrow too."
"...Yes, sir."
"Oh, tomorrow my brother's doing something in the main hall—sounds boring, skip it. I'm heading out too. How about checking that table you used to sit at? They gather all the hostages there, I hear."
"...The hostage table?"
"Yeah. Might be other workout buddies like you. Bring any promising ones, we could train together—fun times."
Arthur grinned, then his face hardened slightly.
"—Well, hanging with me might improve a hostage's treatment. Gotta snag a couple under 'training' pretense."
"...You knew?"
"That the Empire treats hostages like crap? Yeah. Told you before—before you came, I trained with this hostage Jason. Guy was neglected hard, but after we hung out, his treatment improved. Felt good."
"...!"
"I'm not into politics, and Father and brother handle hostages, so I usually let it slide... but sometimes it's excessive. So I get close under workout excuses. Most run when given the chance, so I drop it—but the rare ones who grit it out? I look out for 'em."
"......"
Never expected that from royalty—left me speechless.
As I fumbled for careful words, Arthur sighed.
"The Empire's tradition since great Uzarat: favor the able, regardless of birth. That's why talents flocked here, building the great Empire. But lately, it's twisted—'useless? Worthless life.'"
"......"
"Good thing it hasn't hit the common folk yet. But blue-bloods? Always ruthless. Strict is fine, but abusing hostages? No clue how that fits meritocracy."
"......"
"Honestly, wish we'd stop the endless wars. South's done—only Northern Archduke and Loran Kingdom left, both tough nuts. Empire's got the edge, could compromise... but Father, brother, and big sis Victoria? War-obsessed."
"......"
"Whatever—I'm no throne contender, brother's next Emperor anyway. Pointless for a nomadic Empire prince to say, awkward for a hostage like you. Good night."
"Good night, Your Highness."
Arthur rose, looking faintly wistful, heading for the door.
His footsteps thud-thud paused suddenly. I'd been prepping to wash up, but turned, wondering if he had more to say.
"Your Highness?"
His head whipped back unnaturally. I gasped.
His eyes—usually purple—glowed silver.
Arthur's voice wasn't his usual gravel—cool, feminine. Fleeting, but unforgettable.
"......!"