Chapter 4: Tea with Princess Claribel
...
The next morning arrived too early.
A dull ache pulsed along my ribs, a gentle reminder that sparring with overpowered heroines was not a sustainable life choice. I rolled out of bed with a groan and a muttered curse, tugging on the embroidered tunic that marked me as His Highness Prince Lucien D'Arvell, Third Son of the Imperial Throne—also known as The Final Boss Bastard.
I still didn't recognize the man in the mirror.
Not entirely.
Same long silver hair. Same sharp jawline and cold blue eyes. But something in the way he stood… it was less rigid now. Less arrogant. The Lucien of the game was a cold-blooded perfectionist. The kind who saw people as chess pieces.
I didn't have that luxury. Not if I wanted to survive the story.
"Tea with Princess Claribel at nine," murmured my attendant, Roland, as he brushed lint off my shoulder. "Followed by a strategy meeting with your brothers at ten. Then your fencing instructor wishes to schedule a rematch—"
"Cancel the rematch," I said, buttoning the final clasp on my coat. "I value the integrity of my internal organs."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Princess Claribel.
The main heroine.
The girl everyone loved.
The reason the Hero of the dating sim was summoned in the first place.
And I was about to have tea with her.
Normally, that would be suicide. Lucien, in the original game, met Claribel twice. Once to try and publicly humiliate her. The second time… to duel the Hero who defended her honor.
I had no intention of repeating either mistake.
Claribel sat in the eastern sunroom, surrounded by white roses and morning light. She wore a soft peach dress, her copper-blonde hair braided with delicate ribbons. Her every movement was calm, elegant, practiced.
And her eyes? Sharp as razors.
She wasn't just a pretty face. In lore terms, she was the hidden reincarnated soul of the Warrior Saintess. A divine spirit housed in mortal flesh. If I made a wrong move, she wouldn't blush.
She'd obliterate me.
"Prince Lucien," she greeted, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "How… unexpected."
"I specialize in unexpected," I said, easing into the chair across from her. "It's a growing hobby."
The teapot between us steamed gently. Her maid poured two cups without a word, then retreated to a corner with all the subtlety of a ghost.
"I understand you've been... adjusting your reputation," Claribel said, tilting her head. "Training with Lady Mirelle. Apologizing to staff. Helping an injured stable boy, even."
Ah. So the rumor mill had been working overtime.
"I'm attempting to... re-evaluate my role in this world," I replied diplomatically.
She raised a brow. "Re-evaluate. Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
She tapped one delicate finger against the porcelain rim of her cup. "Either a very clumsy redemption arc... or the setup to an even more elaborate trap."
I laughed. "Why not both?"
[Ding!]
[Claribel Affection +1 — Status: Cautiously Observant]
[You have avoided the "Immediate Judgment" route.]
Progress.
Small, suspicious, potentially lethal progress.
She sipped her tea.
I watched her for a moment. How many players in the game had dismissed her as "the boring default route"? I always hated that. Just because Claribel wore kindness like armor didn't mean she was naive.
Kindness required strength. Especially in this palace.
"I'm not trying to deceive you," I said at last. "I just... don't want to be who I was written to be."
Her gaze sharpened. "Written?"
Crap. Too meta.
"I mean, expected," I corrected. "I don't want to be the villain in your story."
Another sip. Then, softly: "What if I told you it isn't my story?"
Now that was interesting.
"You don't think the world revolves around you?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Her lips curved into a smile. Not a fake royal one. A real one. "No. But I know how to pull the strings when others think it does."
Ah. So the Saintess had claws.
This girl was dangerous.
And I liked her already.
We spoke for another twenty minutes. Politics. Poetry. Horse breeding—which I knew nothing about but nodded through convincingly.
Then her voice dropped.
"You should be careful, Your Highness," she said, gaze flicking toward the hallway. "Your brothers are... not pleased with your sudden popularity."
"Which ones?"
She stirred her tea gently. "All of them."
Well, that was bad.
Especially since Prince Hadrian—the Crown Prince—was the true route antagonist if the Hero chose Claribel. In the original plot, Hadrian secretly tried to frame Lucien as a traitor, resulting in Lucien's exile and eventual fall into villainy.
But now? I was ahead of schedule.
"If they try anything," I said, "I'll be ready."
She smiled, too sweet. "You won't be. But at least you'll be entertaining."
[Ding!]
[Claribel Affection +3 — Status: Mild Interest]
[New Event Unlocked: "Garden Duel: Her Highness's Test" (Available if Trust > 10)]
Later that day, I made my way toward the strategy chamber. Or as I liked to call it:
The Viper Pit.
Prince Hadrian was already seated when I entered, surrounded by scrolls and advisors. His smile was pure formality, but his eyes held the warmth of a glacier.
"Brother," he said, "how wonderful of you to grace us."
"I bring sunshine wherever I go," I said lightly, sitting down at the far end.
Prince Rael, the second-born, gave me a smirk. "We've noticed. Even the palace maids are gossiping."
Hadrian leaned forward. "Your... newfound attempts at humility have attracted attention. Perhaps too much."
"Oh no," I gasped. "People noticing I'm not a monster? How terrible."
Rael chuckled.
Hadrian didn't.
"There are... rumors," he said. "That you've been consorting with certain knights. Nobles. Even the Saintess herself."
"Consorting?" I asked. "That's quite the word."
Hadrian steepled his fingers. "Are you planning something, Lucien?"
I met his gaze. "If I were, would I tell you?"
The air chilled.
Tension filled the chamber.
Then Hadrian smiled again, all teeth and venom.
"No," he said. "I suppose you wouldn't."
[Ding!]
[Danger Flag Triggered: "Brotherly Suspicion"]
[You have entered the Subplot: Game of Thrones, Minor Arc]
[New Objective: Survive the next three court assemblies without being accused of sedition.]
Oh. Great.
As I returned to my quarters that evening, I found a sealed letter waiting on my desk.
No name.
No wax seal.
Just four words, scrawled in red ink:
"You die next week."
I stared at the letter for a long moment.
Then I poured myself a glass of wine.
This dating sim just got personal.
...