The bathroom was meant to be his sanctuary. In a house that pulsed with her chaotic, cloying energy, this small, tiled room was the one place he could occasionally lock the door and pretend he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere clean. A forgotten crypt in the Carpathian mountains, perhaps, or a silent, velvet-lined chamber in a long-dead monarch's palace. Anywhere but here.

He'd been submerged in the claw-foot tub for what felt like an eternity, the water a disturbingly cheerful shade of lavender that smelled faintly of regret and burnt sugar. Steam, thick as graveyard fog, clung to the peeling floral wallpaper and beaded on the tarnished mirror, obscuring his reflection. It was for the best. He was certain the sight of his own face, twisted in a mask of supreme aggravation, would only make things worse.

The war had begun subtly. First, the water temperature had refused to settle, fluctuating from scalding to ice-cold with no warning. Then, the bar of soap—a simple, unscented block he'd insisted on—kept launching itself from the dish, skittering across the floor like a frightened mouse. He'd gritted his teeth and endured. He was a creature of immense patience, a being who had waited decades for revenge, who had survived sieges and famines. He could handle a rebellious bath.

But then the water had developed a personality. A truly malevolent one.

It started with the bubbles. They weren't the soft, ephemeral things of a normal bath. These were cohesive, almost solid, with a strange, oily sheen. They gathered on the surface, trembled, and then, with a series of wet, mocking pops, began to form shapes. First, a crude, grinning face that winked at him before dissolving. He'd dismissed it as a trick of the light. Then came a series of letters, spelling out what he could only assume was an insult in some demonic, bubbly script. He'd scowled and swirled the water into a vortex, destroying the message.

The final insult, however, was a masterpiece of passive-aggressive sorcery. A cluster of bubbles coalesced with deliberate slowness into the unmistakable shape of a hand. A hand with one finger raised in a gesture of profound disrespect. It floated on the lavender surface, bobbing gently, an effervescent insult in the heart of his would-be sanctuary.

A low, dangerous sound escaped his throat, something between a hiss and a growl. For a full minute, he simply stared at it. This was the culmination of his current existence: a two-hundred-year-old predator, a being who had once commanded legions and brought empires to their knees, being taunted by soap scum. The sheer, pathetic indignity of it was a physical blow.

With a roar of pure frustration that rattled the small window in its frame, he slammed his fist into the water. A tidal wave of lavender liquid erupted, splashing against the walls and soaking the bathmat. A portion of it, as if guided by a spiteful intelligence, arched through the air and struck him squarely in the face with the force of a thrown drink.

Sputtering, blinded, he wiped the water from his eyes with a shaking hand. That was it. The last shred of his aristocratic composure, already worn thin from weeks of forced cohabitation, disintegrated.

"WITCH!" The name was torn from his lungs, a raw, furious sound that echoed through the small cottage. "I know you can hear me! Get in here and face your crimes!"

He heard the faint, tell-tale creak of a floorboard in the hall, the whisper of movement. She was taking her time, naturally. Relishing it. When he felt the shift in the air that signaled her presence in the doorway, he rose from the water like a vengeful sea god, heedless of his state of undress. Water streamed from his hair, tracing cold paths over the pale skin of his chest and back. The faint, silvery lines of old scars seemed to gleam in the dim, steamy light. He braced his hands on the rim of the tub, his knuckles white.

"Behold," he began, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm as he gestured grandly to the tub. "Your handiwork. This is not water. This is a sentient puddle of spite you have somehow conjured in my bath."

He fixed his glare on the empty space of the doorway where he knew she stood. "Do you find this amusing? Corrupting the one corner of this hovel where I might find a moment's peace? I have been in here for an hour, tormented by fluctuating temperatures, projectile soap, and... and vulgar bubble-art!" His voice cracked on the last word, the absurdity of it fueling his rage. "This house is actively trying to kill me with annoyance, and I can smell your chaotic, undisciplined magic all over it. So tell me," he finished, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that cut through the steam, "what fresh hell have you decided to unleash upon the plumbing today?"