My Femboy System

I have often been accused of having an unhealthy fascination with drama. This is, of course, slander, because the truth is far worse.

I don't merely enjoy drama—I live for it, breathe it, savor it like a fine vintage. Which meant that when the white-haired zealot finally turned his gaze toward Rodrick, and my knightly companion looked like he'd just swallowed a live eel, I was positively vibrating with anticipation.

My heart did a peculiar little flip, equal parts terror and thrill, as though the gods themselves had decided to serve me fresh scandal on a silver platter.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, and then—like a blade cutting through taut flesh—the man spoke. His voice was deep, edged with contempt sharp enough to shave granite, and it landed with all the grace of a slap across the face.

"So this is what you've become, Rodrick?" he sneered. "No wonder they cast you out. You're an enigma, a parasite. I used to revere you for your strength even after you left. But look at you now. You look pathetic."

Rodrick froze as if the words themselves had struck him. His shoulders trembled, his breath stuttered, and before I could decide whether to lunge at the man for daring such insolence or laugh myself into an early grave, Rodrick collapsed.

Not gracefully. Not like a knight kneeling in reverence. He simply buckled at the knees and sank to the ground, staring wide-eyed at the stranger before whispering a single word, raw and broken. "Selwyn."

The name dropped like an anvil into my skull. Selwyn. A brother, perhaps? An enemy, surely. And saints save me, but the man confirmed my suspicion without so much as a dramatic pause.

His lips curled into that permanent scowl, and with deliberate slowness he raised a hand. The hood slipped back, fabric whispering against his shoulders, and for the first time I saw his face in full.

Deep red eyes glared out, sharp as a hawk's talons, burning with the kind of hatred that leaves no room for warmth. His features were cut like stone—cheekbones severe, jaw sharp, every line of his face sculpted into disdain.

He leaned forward just enough to make those eyes blaze brighter in the torchlight, and then he said it, soft but venomous.

"Hello, little brother."

At that, my composure—what little of it remained—shattered into shards. I gasped, I choked, and then I did the only reasonable thing in such circumstances: I burst into laughter.

Saints above, I laughed so hard I thought my ribs might pierce through my lungs. "Oh, splendid!" I wheezed, clutching at my side. "Absolutely splendid. I spend months listening to Rodrick moan about honor and valor and here it turns out he's been sitting on the juiciest soap opera subplot imaginable. I'm beginning to suspect I've been traveling with a discount romance novel all along."

Rodrick did not look amused. His face had gone pale, his lips thin, his eyes glistening with humiliation.

Selwyn, on the other hand, looked at me as though I were a fly buzzing around his ear, an insect too bothersome to swat but too irritating to ignore. "You're even more insufferable than I expected," he snarled.

"Thank you," I said brightly, bowing with a flourish. "I do strive for consistency."

The High Priest of the Southern Sun chuckled behind him, a soft, grating sound, clearly entertained by this little family melodrama. Saints curse him and his golden teeth.

Rodrick dragged in a breath and rose unsteadily to his feet, his eyes never leaving Selwyn's face. His voice was hoarse, trembling, yet stubbornly clinging to control. "You… shouldn't be here."

"Shouldn't I?" Selwyn asked, his scowl deepening. "You thought you could crawl into the dirt, play the thug, the brute, the failure, and the family would simply forget you? That we wouldn't come to collect what you stole from us—our name, our dignity, our bloodline?"

My jaw nearly hit the stone floor. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Rodrick, my Rodrick, the former oaf who once drank an entire barrel of ale and tried to wrestle a cow because it "looked at him funny," was from a noble family?

A noble family. I wanted to clap. I wanted to kiss the man's forehead for keeping this a secret so long. It explained so much and absolutely nothing at the same time.

"You ran away," Selwyn spat, his words dripping like venom. "You abandoned your post, your title, your duty. You thought cavorting with thieves, dressing yourself in rags, and calling yourself 'commander' of an alley gang made you free? No. It only made you pitiful. You traded legacy for filth. And for what? To end up here, a dog chained to some witless fool's pen."

At this, I cleared my throat loudly. "Excuse you. I am not witless. I am at least partially witted. Ask anyone."

Selwyn ignored me, which I thought unspeakably rude considering how excellent my interruption had been. His eyes stayed locked on Rodrick, who looked ready to crack open from the pressure.

"I changed," Rodrick muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. "I left because I had to. Because I couldn't breathe in that house without suffocating."

"You left because you were weak," Selwyn snapped. "Because you couldn't stomach being what you were meant to be. You were too busy smashing your fists into peasants and drowning in ale to realize what it meant to be a man of our blood. And now look at you. Clinging to the skirts of this… clown." He gestured vaguely at me with undisguised disgust.

I put a hand over my heart and gasped dramatically. "Oh, skirts! How dare you. If I were in skirts, they would be silk, tailored, and far too fine for you to so much as breathe near."

Rodrick's fists clenched. His jaw tightened. And for the first time since I'd met him, I saw something raw burning in his eyes—not anger exactly, but a mix of shame and defiance, tangled together like two animals gnawing each other's throats.

"You don't know what I've done," Rodrick said finally, his voice steadier now. "You don't know what I've become. I was a brute, yes. I was a gang leader, a drunk, a disgrace. But I changed. I rebuilt myself. I chose honor. I chose something greater than the emptiness you call duty."

Selwyn tilted his head, his scowl deepening. "Honor? You think this is honor? Serving as the lackey of some conniving scribbler? Scraping your knees in sand for nobles' amusement? This is not honor. It is shame given flesh."

And oh, saints, the puzzle pieces were snapping into place in my mind with the speed of a choir on fire. When I first met Rodrick, he had indeed been little more than a hulking brute with fists the size of pumpkins and the charisma of a ugly ox.

He had led a band of misfits, snarling about debts and territory as though he were king of the gutter. I had assumed, as one does, that this was the sum total of his existence.

To learn now that he had walked away from nobility, from some illustrious family name, only to rot in back alleys and then climb back toward some warped version of honor—it was absurd. It was insane. It was brilliant.

Rodrick's voice shook again, but now with something closer to anger than fear. "Are they here? Mother and Father."

Selwyn's lips twisted. He crouched low, his eyes gleaming, his voice dropping to a hiss. "They are. And they're disgusted by you," He leaned closer, the torchlight throwing his scowl into harsh relief. "For the sake of our family's pride, Rodrick, I will kill you myself."

Rodrick's face transformed then. Gone was the trembling, the shame. In its place settled a grimace carved from steel, a bitter anger simmering just beneath the skin, his fists clenched tight enough to draw blood. He said nothing. He simply stood, glaring back at his brother with a fury that spoke louder than words.

Selwyn straightened, his scowl still fixed, before stepping back beside the High Priest. The two of them exchanged some quiet look, some silent accord, and then, without another word, they turned and began to retreat down the corridor.

I exhaled loudly, my shoulders finally relaxing. "Well," I said, my voice far too high-pitched for comfort, "that was deeply uncomfortable. Next time, Rodrick, do warn me before your family melodrama shows up uninvited. I might have brought popcorn."

Before Rodrick could respond, I felt it. A tap on my shoulder.

I shrieked. Yes, shrieked. Leaping about a foot in the air, I spun around, clutching my pen like a dagger. "Saints preserve me! I swear, if one more stranger sneaks up on me tonight, I'm going to start charging admission."

The figure standing behind me was not a zealot, nor a priest, nor even one of Rodrick's long-lost cousins. It was an attendant of the Northern Cathedral, hood drawn, posture rigid, hands folded neatly. And when he spoke, his voice was calm, smooth, utterly unshaken by my dramatics.

"The High Priest of the Northern Cathedral would like to see you."

My jaw dropped. My stomach lurched. My inner monologue began scribbling eulogies at lightning speed.

And with all the dignity of a man clinging desperately to a sinking raft, I muttered, "Oh. Lovely. Because what I really needed after this evening's family reunion was an appointment with an even bigger nightmare."