The rhythmic click of heels against stone silenced Selene mid-huff. Anwir straightened. Instinct. Reflex. Reverence.
She arrived like dusk on winter marble — composed, gliding, untouched by the warmth of those around her.
Selvaria Rosenthal.
The Mistress of the House.
Her gown tonight was indeed dark violet, as Selene had hoped — a shade that deepened the contrast of her pale skin and ice-silver hair, cascading down in elegant waves over her shoulder. The sapphire embroidery shimmered with every step, delicate as frost catching candlelight. Every movement of hers spoke of control. Of cold, lethal poise. A presence honed sharper than any blade.
She approached the carriage, gaze cool and unreadable — until it landed on Anwir.
A single, faintly raised brow.
"Hmm," she said, voice smooth as glass. "So you're not ogling me today?"
Selene snorted with glee. "He just learned that we both found out his perverted side."
Anwir remained motionless, eyes steady, expression serene.
That wasn't me.That was the previous Anwir.The lecherous courtier wrapped in a blade's grace and velvet gloves.I'm just a guy trying not to die in a mansion full of political landmines and fashionably lethal women.
He let out a faint sigh, stepped forward, and extended a gloved hand toward Selvaria with a practiced bow, offering her support as she ascended the carriage.
"If I stare, I'm condemned. If I don't, I'm questioned," he murmured with a dry, almost conspiratorial smirk. "It seems your beauty leaves me damned either way, Mistress."
Selvaria regarded him for a beat longer than necessary — something glinting in those glacial eyes.
Then she took his hand.
"Flatterer," she said, boarding with the grace of a queen accepting tribute.
'It seems this villainess isn't too bad.
Well, at least to me, she isn't treating me too badly.'
From behind, Selene whispered with mock offense, "He never calls me beautiful."
Anwir didn't respond.
But the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth?
That said plenty.
As the carriage rocked gently forward, cobblestone passing beneath, Selene finally settled into her seat across from him. Clipboard stashed. Legs crossed. Smirk very much intact.
Anwir, sitting beside the Mistress in perfect posture, adjusted his gloves — more for the sake of distraction than necessity.
"…Duke Kallenhart's daughter," he said after a pause, voice low. "What's her name again?"
Selene arched a brow, her glasses catching a glint of carriage light. "Why? Planning to ogle her too?"
He gave her a flat look.
She snickered, then shrugged. "Aurianne Elodie Kallenhart. Third daughter. Spoiled, violent, terrifyingly competitive. She punched a debutante last spring for calling her hair 'commoner blood.'"
Anwir blinked. "Commoner blood isn't even—"
"—a thing," Selene finished with a grin. "I know. Try telling her that."
The name hit him like a slap from fate.
Aurianne Kallenhart.
Fuck.
Here comes the death flag.
He stared out the window, watching the estate walls blur by.
That name—he knew it. Too well.
Not from this world.Not from this body.But from the game.This one is one of the characters that he worked on before waking up in Anwir's skin.
"Oaths of Ruin."That stupid, beautiful, hellishly complex strategy-RPG hybrid that I made with my teams.
Players could choose from multiple characters, and depending on your route, the story branched like an overgrown tree drunk on prophecy. Five core protagonists stood at the center of it all, blessed with overpowered stats and broken skills:
The Holy Five.The Hero. The Saintess. The Sword Saint. The Magic Queen. The Alchemist King.
Everyone played them first. They were easy. Designed to carry you through the early arcs, molded to stomp chaos underfoot with divine privilege and plot armor.
But once you beat those routes?
The game opened up multiple other routes.
A whole mess of other playable characters unlocked. Knights, mercenaries, cursed bloodlines, assassins, beastfolk rebels, ancient witches locked in sarcophagi… dozens of them, each with brutal learning curves and no guarantee of survival.
These routes weren't tightly woven into the main story of the Holy Five — they branched out like wild vines, tangential, often triggered by random in-game events or obscure choices. Some of these characters only appeared if you happened to be in the right place at the right time… or disastrously, the wrong one. Like the so-called "Mercenary King." In one playthrough, he was a towering juggernaut clad in golden armor, leading his warband with ruthless charisma. In another? A scrawny, rat-faced opportunist who'd stumbled his way up the ranks through dumb luck, shady deals, and suspiciously good RNG. Same title. Vastly different threat level. The game treated roles like masks — interchangeable, unpredictable, and often hiding something dangerous beneath. And yes, even that pathetic version of the Mercenary King could become playable later on, if you had the patience (and masochism) to drag him through his branching side route.
And among them?
Aurianne.
An S-rank route. Technically optional.
But no one who ever played her forgot her.
Because she wasn't just strong.
She was unhinged.
The kind of noblewoman who could deliver a perfectly poised curtsy in one moment and slam her knee into someone's stomach in the next. Every inch of her oozed arrogance—not the detached, cold kind, but the fiery, sharp-tongued, I'm-going-to-win-no-matter-what kind. Her golden hair was always slightly tousled in cutscenes, usually from battle, strands sticking to her face like sweat-kissed war paint.
She fought like her blood was made of fire and dare.
And her combat style?
Chaos.
She was skilled, no question — enough to go toe-to-toe with the Sword Saint's earlier forms — but her real strength lay in turning disasters into victories. She'd slip mid-lunge, crash into her opponent, and somehow disarm them on accident. She'd parry wrong, lose footing, and spin it into an unpredictable strike. It was like the universe hated her, but she just kept winning anyway.
And that made her dangerous.
Because if she's here…If she's here in this timeline…
And with that route?
Was a bloodbath.
Not just for enemies — but for allies.
Even her good endings were soaked in red. Knights died. Heirs perished. And servants—specifically her enemies' servants—were notorious killed for no reason. The forums used to joke about it:
"Aurianne: where loyalty gets to die and butlers go to heaven."
Anwir exhaled slowly, staring up at the velvet carriage ceiling as if it might offer mercy.
Who thought this was fair?
A villainous house.A blade that danced.A cold mistress who saw too much, though she tolerated him.And now Aurianne, the firebomb dressed as a noblewoman, entering the arena?
Fate wasn't just aiming for death flags.It was building a damn fortress out of them.
Still, he kept his face serene.
Selvaria turned her head slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye.
"Something wrong, Anwir?"
"…Just preparing for the storm ahead, Mistress," he said.
Selene leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Aw, is that fear I hear in your voice?"
He didn't answer.
Because yes.
It was.
And fear was the smartest thing to feel.
Because Aurianne Elodie Kallenhart — fiery prodigy of House Kallenhart, and playable death-goddess in heels — was about to arrive at the same party as Silveria Rosenthal.
Two dynasties.Two terrifying heirs.And him, stuck in the middle with perfect posture and a metaphorical target pinned to his back.
He adjusted his cuffs.
"I really hate this game sometimes," he muttered under his breath.
Selene blinked. "What game?"
"…Nothing."