Chapter 208: Lord Fluffington!

But the true tragedy, the violation of his human rights, was happening to his hair.

Seraphina had completely dismantled his elegant, low ponytail.

She had spent the last forty-five minutes sectioning his brilliant blonde hair, sing a dizzying array of neon-pink, lime-green, and bright-orange silk ribbons to tie his flowing locks into a series of tiny, gravity-defying pigtails.

"My hair," Alistair whimpered softly, a single, tragic tear escaping his right eye, carefully avoiding the holographic unicorn. "My hair is a symbol of my academic devotion. It has never known the indignity of a scrunchie. I am losing my dignity. I look like a flamboyant porcupine!"

Behind his mahogany desk, sitting perfectly straight in his high-backed leather chair, Duke Kaelus von Nacht was holding a highly classified military dispatch.

He lowered the parchment slightly, his glowing violet eyes shifting over the edge of the paper to observe the horrific, pastel torture occurring in the corner of his study.

Kaelus did not intervene.

He did not offer his Chief Aide a lifeline.

In fact, the terrifying Reaper of the North looked maliciously entertained. ’

A dark, wicked smirk pulled at the corner of his pale lips.

"Do not complain, Alistair," Kaelus rumbled, his deep baritone echoing with amusement. "The mushroom is merely exercising her fine motor skills. Your little follicular sacrifice is contributing to the development of the Northern Heir. You should be honored."

"I am being held hostage by a feral, glitter-obsessed little gremlin, Your Grace!" Alistair hissed, terrified to move his head lest Seraphina accidentally yank a chunk of his hair out. "I came in here to deliver the quarterly budget reports! I did not sign up to be a human canvas! I have degrees! I have a doctorate in geopolitical economics!"

"And now you have a pink unicorn on your face," Kaelus countered smoothly, turning a page of his dispatch with an infuriating crackle. "I find it softens your usual, insufferable scowl. It makes you look remarkably approachable. Perhaps I should have you negotiate the next trade treaty looking exactly like that."

Alistair let out a sound that resembled a dying teakettle.

He closed his eyes, praying for the sweet release of a sudden meteor strike.

Seraphina’s soul, nestled safely within her six-year-old body, was internally cackling with absolute, maniacal glee.

’I almost feel bad for him,’ Seraphina thought, humming a happy little tune as she tied off the twelfth, neon-orange pigtail. ’Almost. But he glared at me yesterday because my origami ducks were "cluttering his filing system." You do not insult the Duck Service Squad. This is retribution. And honestly, his bone structure is practically begging for some glitter. I am doing him a favor!’

"Okay, the hair is done!" Seraphina announced proudly, clapping her small hands together. "You look beautiful, Auntie Alistair! Like a very shiny, very angry fairy princess!"

"I am not an Auntie," Alistair gritted out through his teeth. "I am a man. I am a masculine, educated scholar of the Empire."

"Yes, yes," Seraphina waved a dismissive hand, unbothered by his protests. She stood up, waddling over to her massive toy trunk. "Now that you are beautiful, it is time for the tea party. You are going to be Madam Sparkles."

Alistair’s emerald eyes snapped open in absolute horror. "I am going to be what?"

Seraphina returned, carrying a miniature, ornate plastic tea set that Kaelus had undoubtedly purchased for an exorbitant sum, along with two slightly battered, deeply unfortunate-looking stuffed dolls.

She dumped the tea set onto the plush rug between them.

She handed Alistair a tiny, bright pink plastic teacup.

The teacup was so small that Alistair had to hold it pinched between his thumb and forefinger, his pinky jutting out awkwardly.

"You are Madam Sparkles," Seraphina dictated, her childish voice taking on the absolute, uncompromising authority of a film director.

She picked up a stuffed bear wearing a top hat. "And this is Lord Fluffington. Lord Fluffington is very sad because he lost his investments in the stock market. You are his mother, Madam Sparkles. You have to comfort him and pour him some imaginary tea."

Alistair stared at the tiny pink plastic cup in his large, elegant hand.

He stared at the stuffed bear.

He looked up at Kaelus, desperate pleading written across his glitter-covered face.

"Your Grace," Alistair begged, his voice trembling. "Please. I will audit the entire Southern territory by candlelight. I will manually count the reserves. Just... relieve me from this psychological torment. I cannot play Madam Sparkles. It is a violation of my core identity."

Kaelus slowly set his military dispatch down on the desk.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled, black-gloved fingers.

The amusement vanished from his eyes, instantly replaced by the terrifying, chilling violet glow of the Reaper.

The temperature in the study plummeted by fifteen degrees.

A thin layer of frost instantly materialized across the surface of Alistair’s budget reports.

"Alistair," Kaelus whispered, his voice being one that promised immediate dismemberment. "My daughter has requested that you pour the tea for Lord Fluffington. Do you intend to deny the Sovereign of the North her beverage?"

Alistair swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple practically bruised his throat.

He looked at the frost on his reports.

He looked at the Archduke’s glowing eyes.

"N-No, Your Grace," Alistair squeaked.

"Excellent," Kaelus leaned back, the terrifying aura returning to his smug, infuriatingly relaxed posture. "Then proceed. And Alistair? Try to put some emotion into it. Madam Sparkles is a mother comforting her financially ruined child. Your current expression resembles a man waiting for the guillotine. Show some maternal warmth."

Alistair’s soul shattered into a million, glittery pieces.

He slowly, agonizingly turned his head back to Seraphina.

He raised the tiny pink plastic teacup, pantomiming a pouring motion with all the enthusiasm of a corpse.

"There, there... Lord Fluffington," Alistair droned in a flat, deadpan monotone, his emerald eyes entirely devoid of life. "Do not weep over your diversified portfolio. The... the market will recover. Have some... Earl Grey."