Beast Gacha System: All Mine

The place Bessa had called home for the past few years was the kind of rural paradise that poets wrote about and then immediately left to go back to the city.

It sat at the end of a dirt road that turned to mud in the spring and dust in the summer, which meant it was only accessible comfortably about two months out of the year.

The cottage itself was small, crooked, and so thoroughly patched with mismatched wood that it looked less like a house and more like a quilt that had given up.

The garden, however, was magnificent. A riot of vegetables and herbs and flowers that grew furiously, of plants that knew they were the only thing standing between their caretaker and starvation.

Bessa had loved it. She had loved the leaky roof and the way the front door only locked if you lifted it just so. She had loved the way the winter wind rattled through the walls too.

It was hers, every crooked inch of it, and now she was supposed to pack it up and move it to the palace grounds, where nothing leaked and nothing creaked.

The imperial carriage arrived. It wasn’t the gilded monstrosity the Emperor used for public appearances since Damon wasn’t an idiot, but it was still far too fine for the snow-mud mixed road, which seemed personally offended by the weight of it.

The wheels sank and the horses snorted. By the time it rolled to a stop in front of Bessa’s cottage, it looked like it had been through a small war.

Damon stepped out first, looking so absurdly clean and elegant against the backdrop of rural squalor that he might as well have been a mirage.

Yadriel followed, already gawking in disbelief. His polished boots sank into the snow-mud mix with a sound like a sigh, and he looked at the cottage as though it had personally insulted his bloodline.

And Bessa just stared at her crooked little house and felt something very much like grief. So much so that she didn’t realize the Emperor’s eyes hadn’t left her face for quite a while.

"There’s an empty courtyard in the palace grounds as vast as this area, from that treeline to the end of that road," Damon suddenly said, unprovoked.

What?

Was he trying to boast that he possessed something better than this humble thing because it was in his palace, and it was luxurious, and vast, and more tasteful?

Even Yadriel thought the same thing, judging by the incredulous look that flickered across his face.

If Damon had spoken to show off, to remind his bride-to-be that she was marrying a man of enormous wealth and property, Bessa would have been offended.

Yadriel too, for that matter. Bessa was already his daughter now, after all, and a Marquis did not take kindly to his new child being condescended to.

But then Damon spoke again.

"If you want to uproot every single tree in those treelines to replicate what’s here in that courtyard, it will be nicer for the atmosphere. We can also disassemble the cottage and rebuild it there," he contemplated, as if he was already considering the logistics of moving a forest.

...

...what?

The Emperor paused when he caught the look on their faces. As though something important had just occurred to him, he suddenly apologized. "Of course, I’m sorry. I forgot. The soil too should be brought along."

He missed the dumbfounded expressions of the other two as he walked past them, inspecting the space quietly. "You’re a farmer and a gardener. You must have cultivated the soil here to your plants’ requirements for years. I should have been more thoughtful when speaking. Forgive me, my Lady."

Bessa was beyond speechless.

She had been prepared for arrogance or subtle condescension from a man who viewed her home as a quaint little hovel to be abandoned and forgotten. She had not been prepared for this.

For an Emperor who offered to move her dirt.

And so was Yadriel. His jaw hung slack, his carefully cultivated courtier’s mask shattered beyond repair.

What the Emperor had just said was simply... insane!

Uproot trees? Relocate soil? Rebuild a crooked cottage on imperial grounds, wooden plank by wooden plank?

It was the kind of thing a lovesick madman would do, not a ruler of an empire!

"How deep should we take the soil...?" Damon muttered as he walked further and further away from them, seriously ruminating on the practicalities of transplanting an entire ecosystem.

He disappeared around the side of the cottage, still talking to himself about drainage and root systems, leaving Bessa and Yadriel standing in the mud, united in their mutual, staggering bewilderment.

After Damon finished his lap of inspection, which had included, to Bessa’s eternal bewilderment, a serious evaluation of the angle of her front step and a murmured comment about the structural integrity of her empty chicken coop, the two men found themselves squeezed into her cottage’s living room.

Yup, her living room... which was also her dining room. And her crafting room. Which also tripled as her bedroom, with her bed tucked into the far corner.

It was humble, yes. But it was neat, and there was character in it, one that couldn’t be bought.

Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their faint fragrance mixing with the smell of old wood and beeswax. Jars of preserved seeds lined the windowsill, each labeled in her careful handwriting.

A patchwork quilt, clearly handmade and slightly crooked, covered the bed, while a single shelf held an eclectic collection of books, stones, and a small carved bird that looked like it had been whittled by someone who was either very skilled or very determined.

Every object seemed to have a story, and the stories seemed to lean against each other like old friends.

Bessa served them tea in mismatched cups, her movements careful but not nervous. She had done this a hundred times, for herself, for passing neighbors, for the occasional traveling merchant who needed directions...

She had just never done it for an Emperor and a Marquis.

When the two men tasted the tea, their eyes widened in unison.

"What tea is this? I’ve never..." Yadriel trailed off, taking another sip.

But Damon answered on her behalf. "Mushroom and root tea? This is delightful."

"Yes," Bessa smiled, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. "I recently got my hands on these rare ingredients thanks to an exalted person."

"Then you should have enjoyed it with this exalted person," Damon said gently.

"He must have been someone with an esteemed palate. I didn’t dare," Bessa admitted.

"But you served it to me?" Damon’s smile turned lopsided.

Bessa blinked, and immediately realized the trap she had walked into. "I-I didn’t mean that you’re not exalted or esteemed or anything! I-I’m just... Just..."

She floundered, but Damon said nothing more. His smile simply softened back into that gentle version, and Bessa, realizing the change, blushed even redder. She had been teased!

Seeing their interaction, Yadriel, a happily married forty-year-old man, and generally unflappable, narrowed his eyes and took a long sip of his tea, a subtle blush coloring his own cheeks.

This air... it was too pink for his liking.

He suddenly felt like he was intruding on something that should have required a chaperone with a much stronger constitution.

But just as the atmosphere had turned warmer, suddenly, they heard knocking on the door.

Knock-knock—

"Miss Bessa, it’s me."

A man’s voice.

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