"Welcome," William declared with a sweeping gesture and a theatrical glint in his eye, "to the side of the most beautiful Duchess in the world. Henceforth, you shall live in luxury and enjoy the fruits of your talent. No more hiding, no more hunger. So long as you put your hearts into it, you shall never want for anything again."
His voice was silk over steel—pleasant, enticing, but with the unmistakable ring of a man accustomed to getting his way. He smiled, all charm and polish, though the glint in his eyes seemed to sharpen whenever they flicked toward Shirou.
Achilles stepped forward then—golden-haired, easy-smiling, the kind of man who looked born in armor and who still managed to make it seem casual.
"From now on," he said, placing a firm hand on each of their shoulders, "you're family. Don't hesitate to ask for help."
Kurono gave a shallow nod, managing a faint smile that barely reached his eyes. Outwardly, he appeared collected, but inside, his chest was tight, knotted like a rope under strain. The word family echoed in his head like a bitter joke.
Family? He'd had one once, before the White Sacrament stripped it from him. He'd known what it meant to belong—until it had turned into chains and blind obedience.
Even now, amidst talk of luxury and freedom, he could feel the invisible leash. He hadn't escaped servitude. He'd just traded one collar for another—this one gilded in gold.
No, he told himself firmly. This is just a temporary stage. I won't let myself fall into that again. I need an exit plan of my own. I can't rely on Shirou alone...
Kurono's thoughts raced, calculating, even as he gave polite thanks and let himself be led. Somewhere in this grand mansion, beyond the contracts and flattery, there had to be a way out.
Shirou, meanwhile, offered a courteous bow. His expression was the perfect picture of gratitude and composure, but inwardly, he allowed himself a sigh of relief.
The contract they'd signed had glowed impressively, yes—but Shirou had felt the enchantment. It was strong, binding, but not perfect. Not the kind of ancient, blood-forged contract that couldn't be touched. That meant it could be broken.
Gae Dearg. Rule Breaker.
He had forged both, not as perfect replicas, but enough to act when it mattered.
Gae Dearg—the crimson spear that tore through all forms of magical protection.
Gae Buidhe—the cursed twin that left wounds unhealable.
And Rule Breaker—the dagger once wielded by the Witch of Betrayal, capable of severing contracts, magical or otherwise.
They were his insurance. Weapons, yes, but more than that—tools of survival. If worst came to worst, he could snap the magical bond binding them to the duchy. Or at least try.
Luckily, no one here seemed to know of his Tracing ability. Had they known, they might have woven countermeasures into the contract's very fabric.
"Thank you," Shirou said, his voice steady but heavy with weariness. "I hope we can work well together. But if it's possible… we'd like somewhere to rest. It's been a long journey."
William opened his mouth to reply, but Achilles beat him to it.
"Of course!" he said with a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry, forgot how long you two must've been traveling. I'll—"
He paused suddenly, his posture straightening.
"Oh," he murmured. "Wait. Mistress is coming. Act properly."
The air shifted—tension creeping in like a silent fog. Even William adjusted the fall of his coat and smoothed the edge of a paper on his desk. Achilles stepped to the side, subtly pulling his shoulders back.
Then came the sound.
Heels. Clicking against marble in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each step seemed to echo longer than it should, as though the floor itself held its breath.
The door opened not with a knock, but as if compelled by an invisible hand.
-----------------
Shirou didn't need to be told who they were. The moment they stepped through the threshold, the air itself whispered their names to him—Semiramis and Salome.
It was the grace that came with power, with legend. The kind that didn't need an introduction because it had already etched itself into the bones of history.
Semiramis, the Queen of Assyria—assassin, alchemist, poisoner of kings and seductress of empires. She was beauty laced with venom, her elegance as much a weapon as her poisons. Shirou could feel it—her presence curling like smoke through the room, sweet and suffocating.
And Salome, the dancing berserker. A woman whose love was fatal, whose obsession was a blade in the back. Stories of her madness flooded his mind like a warning bell. She had once offered her master's head on a platter—not in betrayal, but in love. The kind of love that carves you into pieces and displays them like art.
Shirou stiffened as she neared. Her eyes gleamed with twisted delight—wide, adoring, and entirely unhinged.
Kurono, too, felt the chill in the room, though his body betrayed him for a moment. His eyes lingered on the two women longer than they should have. Their beauty was staggering, the kind that rooted men to the floor and unraveled thoughts with a glance.
But instinct prevailed. He remembered where he was—and what these women truly were. He dropped his gaze, as though it might shield him from their gaze and the vulnerability it unearthed.
Shirou looked away as well, though too late. He'd already stared too long.
Semiramis smiled like a queen pleased by her effect. Salome, on the other hand, saw his discomfort and seemed to relish it.
"Who are these two?" Salome asked, her voice a lilt of silk with barbed hooks beneath.
She stepped toward Shirou, her eyes devouring him like a cat sizing up a new toy.
"They are new servants under my employ—Gilgamesh and Enkidu," Semiramis answered with a calm tone that masked her irritation. She had been given the names in advance—aliases meant to mislead. But even she hadn't expected this level of misfortune.
To attract Salome's attention was never good news. Not for a servant, and certainly not for someone like Shirou.
"A king and a wild immortal, how fitting." Salome smiled, but it was not warm. It was a slow, dangerous curling of the lips, like the first flicker of a flame. "You are blessed, my dear friend. Truly."
She circled Shirou now, inspecting him from every angle with the curiosity of a collector admiring a newly acquired piece. Her fingers almost twitched at her sides, as if restraining the desire to touch.
"I wonder," she said thoughtfully, "would you share your luck with me?"
Semiramis tilted her head, feigning innocence. "My luck?"
"I have taken a liking to this one," Salome said, her gaze never leaving Shirou. "Would you mind lending him to me?"
Shirou stood perfectly still. Inside, his mind raced.
He already knew why they were drawn to him—not just his face or his aura, but the system of magic he brought with him. His world's magecraft operated differently, and to a world bound by rules and limits, his knowledge represented opportunity. A shortcut to power. A gateway to revolution.
It was the same reason he had come. To adapt and rise—to become strong enough that not even servants could threaten him anymore.
But for that to happen, he needed time—not to be dissected and studied by Salome's warped affections.
"I don't mind lending my servant," Semiramis replied at last, her voice sugar-sweet. "But at the moment, he needs time to adjust. The poor thing's just arrived."
Salome gave her a long look, as though weighing her words for lies.
"Hmm," she hummed, lips pouting slightly. "Then how about he simply accompanies me while I'm here? Just for conversation, of course."
Semiramis smiled wider. Too wide. The kind of smile that said I see through you, darling, but we're both playing this game, aren't we?
Inside, her thoughts turned sharp.
You want to drain him of knowledge before I can even begin. I can't allow you to unwrap the treasure before I've even removed the ribbon.
But she had no way to say no outright. Not without fracturing their delicate political alliance.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "But do go easy on him, Salome. He's new to our ways. It would be a shame to frighten him off before he blooms."
She turned her eyes to Shirou, softening her gaze—her version of warmth. A warning, too.
Don't let the witch claim you.
Shirou bowed slightly, keeping his face neutral. But his thoughts were like fire behind his calm.
I'll play along. For now. But I won't be anyone's tool—not hers, not yours.
----------------
"I am always gentle and kind towards people, so no worries. I'll just have you converse with me—and who knows? I might even teach you a thing or two," Salome purred, her fingers ghosting along Shirou's cheek.
He didn't flinch. He didn't lean into it either.
Their eyes locked—equal in height, but not in madness. Her expression was sweet, but her pupils danced with obsession. Shirou didn't miss it. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to stay still. To not provoke her.
Semiramis, towering slightly over both of them, took a poised step forward. She smiled, but her voice was firm. "I know, dear. And you can get to know him better—tomorrow. They've had a long journey, and rest is necessary."
Her words weren't a request. They were a carefully veiled command. Even Salome recognized that much, though her eyes lingered on Shirou just a moment longer.
She tilted her head, lips curled like a prayer with a dagger in its folds.
"Well, you are dismissed then," she said, brushing his hair away from his eyes with her fingertips. "Have a good night's sleep—and sweet dreams, my dear."
To anyone else, her voice would have been a lullaby. A siren's call. But to Shirou, it was a threat with perfume on its breath.
He bowed slightly, not in submission, but in acknowledgment. A silent gesture of, I understand what this game is.
William motioned to a nearby maid, who stepped forward without a word and gestured for Shirou and Kurono to follow.
As they left, Shirou caught a glimpse of Sigurd and Brynhildr standing like statues outside the room—ever still, ever vigilant.
His chest tightened.
We would've been dead before the second spell left our lips, he thought grimly. Not from Salome or Semiramis alone—but from the titanic might of those two lovers forged in tragedy and fate. Sigurd and Brynhildr were not the kind of foes one survived against unless the immortals themselves were on your side.
Behind him, Salome's presence receded like a chilling breeze leaving the room.
"Would you like to see more or is this enough?" Semiramis asked her, eyes half-lidded, voice pleasant but disinterested.
"I'm satisfied," Salome replied, her tone deceptively warm. She leaned in and gave Semiramis a hug—fleeting, affectionate, and altogether calculated. "Let us meet again tomorrow. I wouldn't want to disturb you more tonight."
With a slight wave, she turned and left, her servants trailing behind her like loyal shadows. One of them turned back briefly, casting Shirou a final, unreadable look.
Achilles folded his arms, eyes averted. He said nothing.
William gave a helpless shrug and a knowing smile, silently saying what everyone else already knew—We dodged a spear today, but not for long.
Semiramis turned to her trusted inner circle, her voice as soft as falling ash. "Good work. Keep it up. This might turn into something quite advantageous."
Her eyes lingered on the hallway where Shirou had disappeared.
"But let them rest for now. Bring them to me tomorrow afternoon."
Both men nodded.
They were different from her—men of honor, principle, and unshakable conviction. Achilles would never allow outright evil, and William would abandon her in an instant if she played the villain too far.
Semiramis knew this.
And she didn't mind.
Loyalty bought by fear is fleeting. But loyalty earned through mutual respect—that stays.
She turned and walked toward her chambers, her robes trailing like a royal stream behind her. The maids followed, heads bowed, ears open for orders.