Eirin's Nightmare of Ruin and Jealousy
Eirin's dream was far more chaotic than the last time I'd entered it.
The background wasn't the mansion. I, in the form of a crow, carefully alighted atop a castle wall. Armed soldiers were pouring inside the wall, the battle raging fiercely.
It was a one-sided slaughter. The castle guards were falling helplessly to the enemy raid.
Could it be... from when Eirin was young?
My guess was spot on. Guided by the dream demon's instincts, I located the dream's owner. The royal palace within the castle walls. I perched before the window of one of its rooms.
Fitting for a chamber in the palace, the interior was opulent. It looked like a princess's quarters. And indeed, it was a princess's room.
Eirin Gloria. The princess of the now-fallen Gloria Kingdom. That had been her status before coming to live in the margrave's mansion.
Inside sat a little Eirin in a darling princess dress. A beautiful girl with long black hair, appearing about ten years old. Back then, her hair had been long, not the short bob she wore now.
Blissfully unaware of the assault outside, Eirin hummed a tune as she drew on a sheet of paper.
Unlike her current impassive demeanor, her face brimmed with vivid expressions, making her all the cuter. Her room was strewn with sketches.
They were far too advanced for a ten-year-old's work. Precise enough to pass for oil paintings at a glance—figures and landscapes rendered with exquisite detail. The sight stirred memories of the Gloria Kingdom's lore.
Gloria Kingdom. A minor realm in the Kingdom Alliance, a coalition of mid-sized and small states on the continent's west. Now extinct, wiped from the map.
And it enshrined the god of arts, Hesos, as its patron deity.
In Demon King Slayer, the royal family's artistic gifts were deemed a divine blessing. Eirin's backstory, exactly.
Little Eirin clearly adored drawing; she sketched without pause. Absorbed in her art, her face glowed with unbridled joy and happiness.
Compared to the icy Eirin of today, she seemed an entirely different person.
But the peace shattered. The door flew open as a knight burst in.
"Princess Eirin! Disaster! We can't stay here!"
The dreamscape warped. Savage soldiers had overrun the palace entirely. The calamity reached Eirin's room, her precious drawings consumed in flames, reduced to ash.
Fleeing the invaders, Eirin dashed through the palace corridors with her knight escort.
Just before slipping into the secret escape passage, she met her parents—the king and queen of Gloria—for the last time.
"They'll leave no royal bloodline alive. Our grudge with House Gloria runs too deep! Eirin, you must survive. Flee to Essemont..."
Eirin nodded solemnly.
Her whole world crumbled in that instant. Any child might wail in such despair. Yet the little girl swallowed her tears.
Just ten, but sharp-minded and steely-willed. No doubt thinking of parents she'd never see again. With her knight, she fled the palace.
Then came the nightmare's climax. Raging inferno swallowed the Gloria palace whole.
Agonized screams echoed ceaselessly from the blaze. Little Eirin glanced back, her eyes dulling to lifeless voids. That blank mask matched the Eirin I knew.
The dream shifted anew.
Now it was adult Eirin again, in her maid outfit, at the Pantheon.
She conversed with several people.
"Then, Eirin. I'll head to the Roia Hall training grounds."
"Yes. Understood, Sir Uriel. Have a good day today as well."
Uriel bowed crisply to Eirin and strode off energetically. Coachman Hans made for the Pantheon drivers' lounge.
"Eirin. You rest easy too."
"Yes, Young Master."
"The atelier's fine if you like."
"...Understood."
My own image flickered briefly nearby.
As I'd said in the dream, during my classes or training, I granted Eirin free time. Same for Uriel and Hans.
Yet Eirin lingered in the carriage parked at Medica Hall, never straying.
Her maid attire drew eyes at the Pantheon. Not a student, she had nowhere else to go. Reluctantly, she slipped inside and sat primly.
She looked somehow forlorn, adrift.
That's why I told her the atelier was okay.
A pang of guilt hit just then. From within came Eirin's murmur.
"...And I hate being far from Young Master."
Her true heart laid bare.
Medica Hall and my atelier in Hesos Hall lay some distance apart. A quick carriage ride, but a solid trek on foot.
Eirin never slept without my return to the mansion. I'd suspected as much.
She suffered severe separation anxiety.
Ever since Gloria's fall, she's clung to my side.
Fittingly, the scene was Medica Hall. The timeline: this very week.
When my blocked mana roads kept me glued to Lilia for days.
"Right now... Young Master must be with that princess... That irritating cow-chested princess..."
Eirin's gaze dipped. Glancing at her own chest, no doubt.
"Sigh..."
Her face fell dejected. She clambered fully onto the seat, hugging her knees with a heavy exhale.
"Annoying..."
From her apron pocket came a small paper bundle and pencil. She began sketching a face.
Lilia, suddenly?
The features sharpened into Lilia unmistakably. Eirin's work was impeccably precise.
I'd never caught her practicing at the mansion. But talent made it effortless.
As refined and lovely as the oil portrait Lilia had passed me before.
I figured she harbored ill will toward Lilia.
She could've caricatured her spitefully. Instead, the drawing flattered—capturing an allure only art could evoke.
Portrait complete, Eirin pinned it high on the facing seat.
In reality, it'd flop down. But dream logic fixed it firm, like a dartboard on the carriage wall.
What now?
As I peered through the window. Another item from the pocket: darts.
Classic style—small arrowheads, not modern ones. Eirin hurled them wildly at the portrait.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Dreams being dreams, darts poured endlessly from her apron. She vented furiously, rapid-firing.
"Fox bitch! Cow bitch! She-cat bitch!"
Crude barbs alien to Eirin's lips. So shocking, my crow form nearly bolted.
"Why!! Why!! Won't they hit!!"
Her aim was abysmal. A Pantheon cadet could've nailed it blind. Lilia's face stared back untouched.
Darts riddled the carriage instead. Eirin: a hopeless klutz.
Darts spent, she curled up again, deflated.
"...Right. The princess is Young Master's fiancée. Of course I can't win..."
The dream darkened further, spiraling into negativity.
Next: the mansion laundry. Eirin inspected my clothes and undergarments. The morning after my overnight stay, like before.
Yellow, white, pink strands. Hairs of various shades.
She found them tangled in the fabric. Her eyes shadowed deeper.
She was seriously stressed.
Dreams mirror the subconscious. Lately, her poise had cracked. Me, the culprit—obvious.
If she recalled this on waking, ill portent indeed.
Using dream demon powers now might harm her.
I debated overlaying an erotic haze to siphon her essence—when the dream world crumbled. Real Eirin awoke.
***
Eirin stirred, head foggy. Hadn't slept long. Yet dreams aplenty.
And... all so grim.
Nightmares, ill omens. That childhood one especially—she'd scarcely dreamed it since gaining her place in the margrave's home.
Recent unrest had stirred it unbidden. Yulian glued to Princess Lilia at Pantheon those past days.
Golden hairs on his clothes ignited fury beyond words, beyond her control.
That princess... flaunting deliberately...
Yet Lilia met her gaze without a hint of disdain. Terrifying. Eirin had countered with her rarest, brightest smile.
Still, she was human. Alone in the carriage, she'd bottled the rage.
The dream unleashed it: childish dart-tossing at Lilia's portrait. Reality? High treason, dragged to the palace.
Shame burned her. Real Eirin wouldn't stoop so low.
But missing every shot? Pathetic.
Hitting that smug face or udders—even in dream—would've soothed her.
Not a one. Clumsy in waking life, and asleep. Salt in the wound.
Drawing again after ages had been fun, at least. Lilia or no.
The afterglow lingered too thick. Time to steel herself anew.
I rely on Young Master too much.
Such jealousy, obsession—he might sense her heart. She'd masked it behind stoicism always. No crumbling now.
And toward his official fiancée, no less. Absurd for a maid.
Bitter dream, fitful sleep—eyelids drooped. She forced them wide.
Eirin jolted.
"Why... am I under Young Master's covers?!"
Memory hit. His order: onto the bed before sleep. She'd dozed off there.
Night duty? Fine. But daylight streamed through the window. Duties shirked for slumber.
She scrambled to leap free—till arms pinned her.
"Eirin. Lie back down. Rest today."
Their eyes met. Blonde locks, blue gaze—noble perfection smiling down.
Young Master Yulian.