Let us now speak of moments that shimmer between reality and pretense—of meals served warm, of smiles hiding daggers, and of a man who knows he is hated but chooses to sit at the table regardless. Because sometimes, knowing is not enough. You must play along.
He turned around to gaze at the young woman standing in front of him.
She was, to put it simply, breathtaking. A silhouette sculpted with such maddening precision that it bordered on the divine—perhaps one of the most beautiful women he'd ever laid eyes on in both this world and the previous one. Certainly leagues beyond the women of his past life. Her straight black hair glistened faintly, a quiet river of obsidian under the morning sun. Her skin was a warm bronze, perfectly complementing her golden eyes, which shimmered with a deceptive softness.
And yes—she was small. Not just short. Small. The kind of small that makes you double-take. In another context, one might call it endearing, or dismiss it as typical for women.
But here? In this world?
She was a dwarf.
Yes. A genuine dwarf.
In this strange land riddled with fantasy races, dwarves, elves, and humans had once allied during the Second Era to form what came to be known as the Unified Domain. This woman, Winter Illya, belonged to that legacy.
In my memories, she was my wife. Apparently, in this world, one could marry at the age of fourteen. It's not morally right, of course—not by any stretch of modern human ethics—but it was common here.
And apparently, the body he now inhabited—Daves Frojas—had married her. Though 'marriage' might be too generous a word.
More accurately? She was bought.
Ah yes, such is the nobility of noblemen fallen from grace. The Daves family, once proud barons, had collapsed into poverty. With barely enough wealth to keep dignity afloat, they handed their only child a sum—enough to purchase a wife. Not out of generosity, mind you. It was more of a strategic decision.
After all, emotions were not Frojas' strong suit. He was, by all accounts, a walking void of warmth.
So he did the only thing that made sense to a boy raised on loveless logic: he bought himself a woman.
Charming, isn't it? Truly the pinnacle of romance.
Was it disturbing? Of course. But then again, he—the soul now inside Frojas—had done worse in his original world. How could he judge?
Still, he knew this much: Winter Illya hadn't walked into that deal naïvely.
"The meal is ready..., if you'd like to come." she said, smiling.
Such a sweet smile. The kind of smile that begged to be protected. The kind that could sway the judgment of gods and men.
I see.
Yes. She was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
He could feel it. It wasn't just instinct. It was experience—the kind that's carved into your bones when you've spent your life dancing with serpents in human skin. Her voice was just a little too gentle. Her gaze, too polished. Her demeanor? A touch too practiced.
She had secrets. And Daves Frojas, for all his narcissism and occasional idiocy, had already understood this.
"I see. Thank you for informing me, Winter. Let's eat."
He returned her smile—flashing a grin that never touched his eyes.
The food is poisoned. Probably.
***
In this world, adventurers lived a fragile life. And when they died, their loved ones were compensated by the Adventurers Guild. Depending on their rank, risk, and achievements, a death payout would be issued in Gold Union—GU for short.
But Daves? He was only a rank F adventurer. If he died, his wife or family would receive a mere 50 GU.
Peanuts. Barely enough to survive. Not even worth a good investigation.
Which, of course, was the point.
Because Frojas lived in the Outer Ring of the Unified Domain—otherwise known as the slums. The faubourgs. The place where the poor, the broken, and the unwanted were thrown like refuse.
Sure, there was an organization here called The Order. Meant to maintain peace, they kept this hellhole from collapsing into pure chaos. But their leader? Oh, he despised adventurers.
So even if Frojas were to die right now—choked by some invisible toxin, his throat swollen and blue—no one would lift a finger. His wife could stroll to the Guild the next day and collect her payout. Easy. Clean.
It's a good plan. Really good, even.
Too good for Frojas, which was why it didn't originate from him.
Winter Illya had manipulated her way into his heart—or what passed for one. She had lured him with softness, with sweetness, with the kind of vulnerability that makes men feel powerful.
She seduced him. Tricked him. Slowly. Skillfully.
Now she bore his name instead of his parents'. The paperwork had been filed. The inheritance secured. All she needed was for the fool to die.
But I am not Frojas. Not truly.
He could see through her with a clarity that only came from living among monsters.
She's clever. Maybe even more than me. But she made one mistake.
She underestimated just how shameless he could be.
He could've slapped her across the face, interrogated her, or simply walked away. But he didn't.
No.
Instead, he smirked.
Because for all her cunning, she was still playing checkers while he was building the board.
She's far too beautiful to harm. I mean, really. Would you punch that face? I'm a bastard, not a blind one.
And besides—she'll be useful later. For... plans.
He descended the creaky staircase, following the scent of a suspiciously well-cooked meal. The aroma was exquisite, almost holy. How had she managed to cook something this divine on such a pathetic budget?
A new thought popped up.
Another reason to keep her. I mean, who the hell would abandon a woman who can cook like this?
"Please, eat your fill, dear husband," she said, bowing slightly. "Your wife shall eat after you."
Another perfect smile.
He smiled back, something darker behind his eyes.
What's poisoned? The rice? The broth? The vegetables?
Frojas loved vegetables. Past and present. His old self, his new self—it didn't matter. He still liked greens.
He stared at her for a long, awkward moment. Her smile twitched ever so slightly.
"Did you poison the food?" he asked, grinning.
A single question—thrown casually, almost playfully.
She blinked. Just once. Then she frowned, confused, and shook her head with feigned innocence.
"No, of course not, dear husband. Why would you say that? I owe you so much."
Nice performance. 8 out of 10.
"Huh huh."
He chuckled softly and turned away, heading for the door.
Just before stepping out, he looked back—mocking grin still in place.
"When I return, make sure the table's cleared. And don't think you can trap me."
And with that, he left, vanishing into the street like smoke.
Leaving behind only silence.
***
That bastard. That dog. That... how?!
Inside the dim house, Winter Illya paced furiously.
How had he seen through her? She had been careful. Too careful. Every gesture rehearsed. Every word polished. There was no slip-up.
No mistake.
Yet he knew.
He knew.
And worst of all, he smiled about it.
He was probably at the Guild now, changing the beneficiary on his death contract. Maybe even planning to reclassify her as a slave. Or worse—punish her.
Her hands trembled.
Her heart pounded.
Her plan had failed.
Again.
Why?
Why did the heavens mock her so?
Was it so wrong to want freedom? To crave a life that didn't involve chains and orders and cages? Could she not be allowed one skill, one advantage to claw her way out of misery?
She had gambled everything on this. Her charm. Her food. Her lies.
And now?
Now, she had nothing but the echo of that smile.