Eloise had only been conscripted from academy staff as Rosalinde’s personal maid some time ago, but they had gotten to… know one another rather quickly. And closely. It was what clued her in that something was definitively off about the scene happening before her- one that she had seen happen with a number of different names and faces at this point. It was nearing the end of the day- the sun had begun to reach the point of setting, twilight hours overtaking them.

  “P-Prince Lucien, surely you must realize there is no need to have the duel now, yes?”

  “Of course, dear Rosalinde. But surely- we gain nothing by waiting?” The second prince’s voice was loud and clear. His white hair and- admittedly, bedraggled look would have seemed improper if not for his reputation for spending most of his time in the library. All of his imperfections seemed to be less due to lack of care and more due to an intense focus maintained towards the numerous responsibilities put upon him.

  “A-ah. I see your point. But if I may, Casian tends to prefer having this time of day clear of any impositions-”

  “Then, surely, we can duel and if he finds himself at a loss, his schedule will be free of any future impediments, yes? A win-win scenario.”

  Eloise was only certain it was her consistent close contact with Rosalinde that let her notice the increasing amount of nervousness in her disposition. At that final- rather inarguable line, she let out a wince as if a woman struck.

  Rosalinde’s smile remained practiced and polite, but Eloise could almost feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched against the fabric of her sleeve. She was steadily and slowly running out of ways to attempt to divert the conversation.

  Rosalinde had many talents, but lying wasn’t much of one of them– bending the truth, perhaps, but there was always a vein of truth to every fabrication that Rosalinde spun. For all the lady’s occasional recklessness, she was still quite adept at putting up a social face and directing a conversation.

  The time a professor had almost walked in on them in an abandoned classroom was proof of that.

  Eloise coughed to clear her thoughts.

  Rosalinde, still doing her best, gave another careful smile. “Ah, but you see, my brother does so hate having to stop taking time for tea-”

  Prince Lucien was the picture of unimpressed, merely lifting a brow.

  Rosalinde’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments. She was losing ground fast, and Eloise knew it. Which, of course, meant someone would need to fetch the young Sir Everstead. Or Sir Casian- Rosalinde had mentioned that he loathes being referred to by his last name. It would perhaps behoove her to seek to remain on the good side of the rather…

  Off-putting. Yes, off-putting, brother of the lady currently… courting her. The scandal of it all and the thrill sent a trill of electricity up her spine, that she did not show. It would be exceptionally wise to remain on the good side of the young man who spent a good third of his waking time beating noble-born children into the dirt, and the other two performing the basic human functions and working in other manners, deadfaced and serious. Eloise had not managed to get from a born-in-the-dirt commoner’s position to a respected member of academy staff by making poor choices for her future.

  Still, there was definitely a real reluctance at the idea of actually going to fetch him. She had only had to do it a few times now– typically the suitors would contact academy staff, and she had technically ceased being such, but she could and would be expected to field requests at times that would be inconvenient or sudden now that she was Lady Rosalinde’s personal maid.

  Eloise didn’t know much about Sir Casian Everstead beyond what Rosalinde had offhandedly said- whether or not she was complaining or not when she said them, Eloise was honestly unsure. She had gathered that he was fiercely protective– unsurprising, she could have divined that within the first ten minutes of meeting him– and that he was both particular and peculiar about a great many things, and that he had yet to lose a duel.

  Rosalinde’s words, he always does loathe being referred to by his last name, with the accompanying pained grimace with the recollection of the information, flashed through her mind.

  It was not particularly much to go off of, and yet, Eloise could practically feel that she was going to be walking into dangerous territory.

  Rosalinde had once called her brother ‘an ornery cat who hates getting wet’–predictable, in a great many ways, possessing a constant irritation at his surroundings, but possessing a much deeper well of discomfort when actually disrupted.

  Eloise had been selected by virtue of there being none other to put upon the altar, as the one who would have the job of dumping the metaphorical bucket of water on his head. It did make her briefly hesitate.

  But as she glanced at Rosalinde, still valiantly attempting to maneuver around the Second Prince’s insistence, Eloise let out a slow breath.

  Gods, she did foolish things for the people she loved.

  Squaring her shoulders, she interjected into the conversation, dipping into a deeper curtsy to attempt to excuse the minor disrespect and otherwise trusting in Rosalinde to distract or guard from any repercussion, she spoke out of turn.

  “If you would excuse us for a moment, Prince Lucien, I could discuss with Lady Rosalinde how to appropriately go about gathering her brother posthaste?” The words were quiet, and polite, and everything expected of a servant acting to try and shield their master from potentially causing strife with someone above them on the social ladder.

  Prince Lucien beamed and pushed his glasses further up his face. “That- That would be excellent, thank you. Miss…?”

  “Miss Eloise, Lady Rosalinde’s personal maid.”

  “Ah, that makes sense. Yes, thank you very much.”

  Eloise ignored the sharp look Rosalinde sent her from the corner of her eye. Rosalinde was many things, but achieving anything but failure in that conversation she was not.

  Rosalinde barely waited until they were out of earshot before hissing under her breath, “Traitor.”

  Eloise only offered a demure smile. “Merely saving you from a losing argument, Mistress.”

  Rosalinde scoffed, but she did not deny it. Eloise took that as a point in her favor.

  Still, her shoulders remained tense, fingers drumming an endless rhythm on her arm. Now, away from prying ears, Elosie noted how Rosalinde’s frustration began to give way to concern.

  Eloise sighed. “Is it truly that bad to interrupt him?”

  Surely- it was only tea time? She knew Casian was a queer sort- well, no, she didn’t think he was that sort of queer sort- but it was ultimately of little consequence.

  Rosalinde grimaced, deeply and with feeling. That was a poor sign.

  “You’re interrupting his tea time, Eloise.”

  “Yes, I do understand that much–”

  “No, you don’t.” Rosalinde turned to her, expression more serious than the face she’d had moments before talking to a professor through a half open doorway, lower half unclothed. That… That was a far, far worse sign. She may have erred.

  “He has… a way of doing things. A rhythm. If you throw him off, he gets– he gets–” She visibly searched for an appropriate word. “Difficult.”

  Eloise arched her brow. “Difficult, how?”

  Rosalinde pressed her lips together in a cute pout, visibly debating whether– or how– to elaborate. In the end, she let out a soulful sigh and waved a hand vaguely through the air. “Just… do not make any sudden movements. Don’t call him by his last name, and do not imply I sent you just to test him. He gets snippy about that.”

  “I would never suggest such a thing,” Eloise said solemnly, resisting a small urge to smirk. Part of her wanted to throw Rosalinde under the bus, but ultimately- well– Rosalinde would make it up to her. Still, it did little to make her comfortable with her paramour being the target of a great many men’s lusts. Any sort of thrill at the thought of it was overshadowed by the dread it invoked.

  Rosalinde paused and took a breath before continuing. “Place all blame firmly at the foot of the second prince– don’t bother giving Lucien’s name, Casian won’t recognize it, just tell him it’s the second prince and he’ll understand we couldn’t do anything more to defer him.”

  Eloise raised a brow and was unable to stop herself. “Does he truly pay so little attention to social order?”

  “He pays just enough attention to know what he can get away with,” Rosalinde muttered. “And only that much.”

  That was… exasperating and interesting. Eloise could think of a handful of individuals she had met like that in her life– sharp enough to navigate social expectations but stubborn enough to refuse to follow them. She thought of a chef back in her hometown who ran a restaurant with food good enough for noblemen, but who swore like a sailor, as well as a handful of the more eccentric academy staff. They had a tendency to be equally interesting and frustrating to deal with or work around. Typically both at once.

  They also tended to be the same type to be consumed by a calling. One did not both understand and eschew social law unless they felt they had priorities significantly more important, or felt that the rules were entirely senseless.

  Eloise nodded.

  “He will be in his private room– you know where it is by now, I’m sure. Don’t worry about getting keys, he leaves the door unlocked during tea time.”

  That seemed like an absurdly trusting habit for someone who was known for being peculiar and whom she had just been told to avoid any sudden movements with, but Eloise supposed that everybody was entitled to their contradictions.

  She inclined her head, “Understood, Mistress.”

  Rosalinde gave her a pained smile, as though a woman offering her final respect and condolences, dismissed her, then turned back to the metaphorical ballroom, ready to continue navigating the social space she had left behind.

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  Eloise, meanwhile, turned on her heel and made her way towards the private dormitories.

  The academy was a grand place, filled with intricate halls and corridors designed to impress and awe as a function alongside being walkable. Despite the elegance, Eloise moved through it with practiced steps, cutting through servant’s passages occasionally to save time, but ultimately spending most of her time in the actual halls themselves. She had a feeling this was a task better served with some urgency, and her position as a personal maid allowed her to traverse the main halls if it was for the sake of saving time on an assigned task.

  When she arrived at the young man’s door, she hesitated only briefly before reaching out and testing the handle.

  It turned easily, so Eloise took the opportunity to perform a single knock– Sir Casian, not Everstead, she reminded herself– likely noticed the door handle turning, but additional warning could not hurt.

  A breath later, and the door opened without a sound, revealing a space that was both meticulously organized and strangely bare in the same breath. To the side, a low table was set off to the side with a– rather expensive, she noted– enchanted platform with a kettle atop it. There was no wasted space, or clutter, or mess. Frankly- as a woman who had cleaned a number of the better kept noble-ladies room, and had seen the pigsty that Rosalinde’s room tended towards, and heard many of the boys were worse- there was almost something disturbing about the defiance of expectation.

  Living in a space typically requires one to dirty it.

  Casian himself was seated quietly at a simple, unadorned wooden chair– the one that the dormitories came with– back hunched, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He had not looked up.

  Eloise cleared her throat lightly.

  No reaction.

  She took a single step inside, crossing the threshold and daring no further.

  Still nothing.

  “...Sir Casian?”

  At last, he turned a page in his book.

  It was, Eloise mused, the single slowest page turn that she had ever witnessed.

  Then, finally, with the same excruciating lack of urgency, he set the book aside, stared into the waters of his teacup for a stretch of a fair number of seconds, before setting it aside as well with a small clink, and lifted his gaze to her.

  Sir E- Casian, she noted, could possibly pass for his sister if not for the entire difference of their demeanours. Sir Casian’s short black hair certainly set him apart from the bright red of his sister, but he had the same dark brown eyes that looked like endless pits in low light. The same facial structure, seeming gentle and calm. Even remarkably similar frowns, although they tended to wear opposing expressions. That was where a great many similarities started to end, however.

  Sir Casian’s eyes were surrounded by a perpetual set of deeply inlaid eye bags. He stared half lidded, almost always in the set middle distance, seeing without seeing. Where Rosalinde’s eyes seemed like the midnight sky reflected across a calm lake, his felt like something else entirely- his gaze reminded her of when she had once seen her father in the process of trying to domesticate a wolf. She had watched the beasts’ beady eyes track the meat in her father’s hands in the low twilight, and flick between their campfire and her with an endless wariness and patience, but a deeper hunger. Empty flames had reflected clearly through the black orbs. It took her a moment to pin down what exactly his gaze evoked.

  Sir Casian looked at everything like a haunch of meat. Not- lecherously, like older men would look at young women, but like a beast. An animal hungry enough to be eying up everything in front of it as both a threat and an opportunity. He stood with a stillness that was easy to interpret as grace, but the longer you stood within arms reach, the more it felt less like grace and more like the same stillness a mantis had before they would lunge to bite a prey’s head off.

  Eloise suppressed a shiver.

  She had met many sorts of different noblemen and nobility, the academy ensured you either learned how to deal with them quickly or found yourself out of a job– the brash, arrogant, foolish, cunning and cruel, they came in all sorts. Casian wasn’t alike to any of them- not in the traditional, expected sense. He was something else entirely. Something that did not fit in an indescribable way in the marble halls of the academy for the refined.

  Yet, there he sat before her, posture still, every movement deliberate, as though he had been born into etiquette and grace– an illusion often shattered the moment he opened his mouth to speak. Eloise had met a handful of truly dangerous men by her judgement in her time, from two men who were summarily executed amongst staff when their wrongdoings were discovered to a handful of conversations held with a few humble royal knights who requested to stay with servants when visiting to announce the first prince’s arrival as members of the delegation.

  Casian was dangerous in the way of someone that was unreasonably aware of the way humans could be hunted like animals– him included.

  She cleared her throat, forcing herself to stand slightly straighter. “I have been sent to inform you that the Prince has requested a duel.”

  She did not say it was his sister that sent her.

  Casian blinked once, slow and measured.

  Then, with the same unhurried air, he tilted his head slightly, dark eyes settling on her with a quiet weight.

  “Has he.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Eloise clasped her hands behind her back, resisting the urge to shift under his scrutiny. “Yes.”

  Casian let the word hang in the air between them, his eyes shifting to that almost imperceptible difference- no longer looking at her despite being aimed straight at her- she noticed. With a drawn-out exhale from his nose, lips pressed together in a plain line, he reached for his teacup again, bringing it up to his lips and taking a slow sip.

  Eloise watched, biting back the urge to hurry him, to request an answer. She had been provided specific instructions to minimize her interruptions to him, and from what she could tell, asking him to move at a speed that would mean he did not spend an exorbitant amount of time doing absolutely nothing would risk violating that request.

  At last, he set the cup down. “Which one?”

  Eloise frowned– she should have clarified, given that the only prince currently attempting for Rosalinde’s hand was the third. What did it say that he felt like he had to clarify instead of assuming it was the third?

  “The second.”

  Casian made a quiet hum.

  “That’s the one who botched his last duel, yes?”

  Eloise frowned. “Pardon?”

  Casian exhaled softly, tilting his head ever-so-slightly in thought- the rest of his body almost inhumanly still except for the rising and falling of his chest. If she did not see him breathing, she could mistake him for a corpse.

  “The second prince. He challenged someone– something about a historical dispute. A…” He pursed his lips in thought. “While ago? Tripped over his over feet. Sloppy. Messy.”

  Eloise searched her memory and could remember an event vaguely along those lines- a scholar’s disagreement that escalated. Most official accounts omitted those details. She also noted that he said the words sloppy and messy with the same vehement dislike that bigots reserved for their more hateful language.

  “I believe that was dismissed as an unfortunate misstep.”

  Casian stood, stock still and soundless.

  “And as per my dear sister’s conditions,” he murmured, fingers stretching out against the tabletop and curling back in, “I am obligated to accept.”

  Eloise did not say anything.

  “...Tomorrow. We will duel at sunset.”

  Eloise frowned. “I apologize, Sir Casian, but the second prince has demanded that the duel occur as soon as possible.”

  Casian’s body once again broke into the stillness reserved for death, but she saw his fingers seize. Like someone’s fingers pressing against a cat’s cradle. They trembled. Eloise did not believe they trembled from weakness.

  He did not speak immediately. His fingers relaxed, curled, relaxed again, before he finally exhaled through his nose.

  “As soon as possible.” he echoed, his voice quiet, an unmistakable edge beneath it.

  Eloise straightened her posture. “Yes.”

  Casian’s head tilted slightly. Like a bird’s. It would seem like a human gesture if not for the fact that she understood he eschewed almost every other communicative gesture. It was blatantly preformative. His dark eyes, always half-lidded and near unreadable sharpened and really looked at her for the first time in this conversation. It wasn’t suspicion, or irritation, not really.

  It was an assessment. Judging.

  Eloise held firm. She was here on meaningful orders and the situation was such that this was an unfortunate reality and nothing else.

  Then, at last, Casian straightened. The tension in his fingers did not dissipate, but it no longer threatened to snap taut. His posture grew more precise, movements measured as he pushed his chair back soundlessly.

  “Now, then,” he said, voice quiet and firm. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  Eloise blinked, she had been expecting some further protest, some demanded explanation. Casian did not ask for one. He did not request time to prepare, did not request the prince’s reasoning. He simply started walking, and she had to quickly step to follow.

  She noted he was ever so slightly taller than his sister. Likely not worth noting if you weren’t looking for it. His feet stepped with an exact, constant precision that she imagined would give the drill instructor from her hometown tears of joy if he witnessed it.

  “Sir Casian,” she began, trying to gauge if he truly understood the urgency– or if he was about to make a point of completely disregarding it.

  “Eloise,” he interrupted, not unkindly. “You do not need to explain the particulars.”

  She hesitated. “But–”

  “If I did not understand them,” he continued, tone as level as ever, “I would not have interrupted you.”

  There was no frustration in his voice. It was more off putting than if there was- a nobleman who felt something about you cared about you, at least a little. Casian discussed with other people like they were inanimate objects. She swallowed back whatever words had been forming to explain the specifics, to try and shield Rosalinde from any potential discomfort with her brother.

  Then he spoke, unprompted.

  “Eloise,” he began, with the faintest tinges of curiosity. A mildly alarming development. “How has Rosalinde treated you?”

  Eloise nearly faltered in her step. She hadn’t been expecting him to ask her anything– much less that!

  Casian did not turn his head to look at her as he spoke. His attention never left being firmly fixed ahead, but there was something in how he phrased it– calm, even almost idle– that paradoxically made it seem like a far less casual question.

  “She has treated me well,” Eloise answered carefully.

  Casian continued stepping in silence, turning the words over in his head.

  “Rosalinde has not selected a personal maid before. She typically does not have many…”

  He slowed down his speech, obviously searching for the phrasing. Eloise felt like she was standing on unstable ground.

  “...companions, who stay. You are antithetical to her patterns.”

  Eloise wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, warning, or accusation.

  Casian’s tone didn’t shift– there wasn’t warmth, or malice. Regardless, the weight of what he had just said sat heavy in the air between them. Not friends, not female companions. Companions who stay. Careful phrasing- very, very careful phrasing, just particular and ambiguous enough to remain deniable. Just deliberate enough to have implications.

  Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her gloves, but she forced herself to remain still. This was dangerous territory, and she did not know if Casian had spoken thoughtlessly– if he ever spoke thoughtlessly– or if this was something else entirely. A test? Warning? It was a statement of fact, bland, but brimming with awareness.

  “...I do not presume to understand Rosalinde’s mind,” she said, “But it is my understanding that she is happy to have me as a maid for as long as I will be happy to work for her.”

  Casian hummed, for the first time in the conversation. A quiet, absent sound. His fingers curled once at his side, barely perceptible, before smoothing out again.

  “I see.”

  Then, just like that, he let it drop.

  Eloise's heart thundered in her chest.

  His words were calm, but the pause between them felt rife with meaning. His eyes never wavered, but Eloise couldn’t break the feeling that he was watching her- that he saw every inch of her. Couldn’t break the feeling that he was slowly dismantling the conversation they had just had, the same way she watched him dismantle angry men with swords like he was solving a puzzle instead of having fire thrown at him or electricity blasted his way. It felt like he was calculating something deeper than she had intended to answer- like he was seeing deeper than she would have expected him– or truthfully, wanted– him to.

  “I see.” he repeated, voice maddeningly neutral, avoiding any attribution. There was a finality in it, and he seemed to believe their conversation was done. He had come to some sort of conclusion, and Eloise was left to wonder if her answer would be found wanting.

  They continued walking in silence, but the air felt heavier. Eloise could swear she could feel the weight of his gaze despite the fact that she was entirely out of his line of sight, and he never once turned his head to look at her.

  Her mind raced. She was quick-witted, and clever– but she felt like she had misstepped. She couldn’t figure out how. She couldn’t figure out if this was bad. What had she revealed with that answer? She felt like she had just skirted past the edge of something dangerous in a way she couldn’t quite understand, and she hadn’t yet learned if it had merely grazed her or swallowed her whole.

  As they neared the dueling grounds, the second prince’s figure came into view. Tall, rigid, eyes flashing with a faint impatience and a number of books laid out around him. Thankfully, Eloise could count as an impartial party for the sake of the duel. She felt tension in her chest– she never understood how Rosalinde could remain so calm with the duels. All the violence.

  The prince noticed their arrival, and straightened and stepped forwards. Sir Casian didn’t acknowledge him immediately. His attention– seemingly, a part of her notes– remained elsewhere, fixed ahead.

  Stone pooled up from the ground and Casian was swallowed in that– frankly, in her opinion, dreadful– armor. Slatted openings granted the young mister sight, and she could hear each of his deep, slow breaths rattle through stone vents. It was with a small amount of shame that she noticed that she felt more comfortable around him when he was adorned in his armaments.

  He seemed to belong in them.

  The armor didn’t stop moving, either. It was seemingly always moving in small manners, from the weapons changing to slats of armor shifting to-and-fro. It gave the unnerving impression that it was almost alive. To her it brought to mind a hunter checking their tools, ensuring everything where it ought to be. A bird of prey flexing its wings before flight. Each adjustment felt more deliberate than the last.

  The second prince’s gaze flickered to Casian, posture still rigid, but now with an imperceptible tightening around the eyes. He didn’t like the silence either. The way Casian made everything feel so still, so controlled. There is a power in that, Eloise thought, and it unsettles me. Casian moved like someone performing a task they had long since mastered, a job they had done for hundreds of hours. There was a hollow, almost mechanical quality to his actions– every movement feeling like a mere formality, no matter its actual significance.

  It reminded her of when Lady Rosalinde would sometimes tutor her in math. The answer was decided; they already knew it, but she just hadn’t been shown how to get there yet. It was a certainty that would be impressive if it wasn’t for the fact that more often than not, his opponents came with newly developed tricks, desperate to catch him by surprise. The reality of it made it instead, simply unsettling. She resolved to ask Rosalinde about him– he was dangerous, and she didn’t understand him.

  Eloise couldn’t help but wonder if winning against Sir Casian was a matter of winning at all. Royal knights, she knew, spent a great deal of time training with their companions, working in tandem. Working with beasts, learning letters and stewardship. Sir Casian didn’t seem to occupy himself. Royal knights, she knew, were often considered the peak of martial skill.

  Sir Casian didn’t feel like a knight, he didn’t seem to fight like one. It was like watching a desperate animal tear someone apart– but the desperation was so strange. He didn’t have a reason to be desperate. He hadn’t ever even lost. But still- every time she saw him fight, it was with the same ferocity that a cornered animal did.

  Could you ever win a fight against someone– when their entire life was them fighting like a cornered rat? What hope did a normal person have against something that lived like a willful, disciplined animal?