Casian barely had any time to begin his workout routine before Rosalinde found him.
“You had the perfect excuse to skip training today,” she lamented, shaking her head ruefully in exaggerated disappointment. “And you wasted it. I’m honestly a little offended.”
Casian gave her a flat stare. “What excuse?”
She gestured vaguely in the air. “Tea. A nice, slow afternoon with a warm drink. A moment of peace– one I paid quite a bit for, I’ll have you know! And yet, and yet. Here you are, still being you.”
Casian arched his brow. “Are you suggesting I shirk my responsibilities?”
“I’m suggesting you consider the idea of pretending to relax, sometimes?” She plopped down into the small chair next to a table in the small courtyard he had privately made his training grounds. “For the sake of variety, you understand? Throw people off, keep them guessing. I’m sure you could cause a conniption in one of your opponents by seemingly taking a day easy for once.”
Casian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I have a pressing need to convince someone I’m lazy.”
Rosalinde snorted. “Oh, like anyone would ever believe that. But, at least I would appreciate the effort, dear brother.”
Casian exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he stood up from where he’d been preparing to do pushups and taking the seat across from her. He could visibly see the signs of Rosalinde switching gears, less teasing and more observant.
“...Alright,” she said after a beat, her head tilting. “Jokes aside– what happened? I didn’t actually expect you to stop working– I’m not upset! Just surprised– but I doubt it was just to placate me.”
Casian hesitated.
“It’s nothing,” he said after a moment.
Rosalinde hummed, unconvinced.
“Uh-huh,” She said, resting her chin in her palm as she eyed him. “But here you are, looking particularly broody today. Even for you.”
Casian rolled his eyes, but she just smirked, waiting.
He knew from personal experience that if he said nothing, she’d eventually just start throwing theories into the air to get a reaction. Given how irritatingly on-the-mark she could tend to be, it was usually better to take the chance to steer the topic himself, as annoying as it could be.
“Ran into someone at the tea shop,” he admitted.
Rosalinde’s eyes sparked with interest, immediately. “Oh? A new suitor? A noblewoman eager to steal you away into a side room and have her way? Or– wait, no, don't tell me. Someone challenged you to a duel over strong feelings about tea strains. That’d be a first.”
Casian gave her a dry look. “Not everything in my life is a duel.”
She blinked like she very much doubted that claim.
He exhaled, shaking his head minutely. “No. Just– someone. A Noblewoman. Talked with them.”
Rosalinde leaned forward slightly, visibly intrigued. “And you actually had a conversation with them? Not a polite nod and excuse to leave? You spoke with them?” Rosalinde mimed mouths talking with her hands. “Like– exchanging words, conversation? Like this?”
Casian frowned and took the high road. “I don’t make excuses.”
“You absolutely make excuses.” She grinned, pleased with herself. “I still remember the excuse about having a spar to attend to before you challenged Robert to a spar in the middle of that ballroom.”
Casian scowled, cheeks warming slightly at the memory. “I was not making an excuse. I was simply being prudent.”
“Prudent? Is that what you’re calling it now?” Rosalinde laughed, shaking her head. “You could’ve just said you didn’t want to dance with poor Lady Ethel. But no, you had to escalate things into a duel. Robert hadn’t even done anything.”
“Robert was asking for it.” Casian shot back, crossing his arms.
“Regardless of who was asking for what– we need to return to this.” She reoriented herself. “You held a conversation? What did she do? Hold you hostage? Threaten you– no, threaten me? Blackmail you into exchanging words?”
Casian sighed. “She asked questions.”
Rosalindes expression took on a teasing tilt to it. “And you answered them? Gods above, who was this woman? A grand evil sorceress? A goddess descended? Some sort of trickster spirit?”
Casian huffed, adjusting his sleeves with unnecessary focus.
“I wouldn’t call her any of those things,” he said. “She was just… inquisitive. And a little antagonistic.”
“A little antagonistic?” Rosalinde repeated, eyes wide in mock surprise. “That’s a new twist! You’re usually the antagonizer- he-who-antagonizes, never the antagonee– what in goodness name did she do to earn the title–”
“And Inquisitive? Inquisitive? That’s all? You, Casian, having a relatively civil conversation with another woman is practically a minor miracle!” Rosalinde leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know you like to banter, tell me– did you enjoy it? Even a little?”
Casian detested the heat that rose to his cheeks at her prodding. Traitorous body. “I didn’t say I enjoyed it,” he muttered defensively. He wasn’t going to be saying that anytime soon. “It was just– different.”
“Different how?” she pressed, a bloodhound on the scent, leaning in, drinking in his discomfort. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and not expect me to be curious, come on! Was she witty? Sharp? Did she have that sort of irresistible charm that left you wanting to leave it all behind? Please tell me she wasn’t bland, at least. Give me some details!”
Casian shifted in his seat, uncomfortably aware of how invested Rosalinde had gotten into the conversation. “She was… confident.” he said slowly, taking time to carefully choose his words to reduce potential teasing. “And she had a way of looking at things that made me think.”
“A conversation where you actually participated? Oh, Casian– I’m so proud of you!” Rosalinde placed a hand over her heart as if he had accomplished some monumental feat. He couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not. “I feel like I should throw you a party, or something!”
“Don’t you dare.” She would throw him a party, too. Just for the joke.
“But- confident? Look at you, talking about a woman and bringing adjectives into the conversation. You must’ve been struck.”
“I was not struck.” He protested, though he felt a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. This break from duels had done good for him. “It was just… unusual to engage with someone who actually tried to challenge my perspective.”
“She challenged you? Someone managed to speak with my brother without things coming down to blows– she actually got you to open up with your thoughts? And–” She gasped, as if mentioning something unspeakable ”--Maybe even feelings?”
Casian put his head in his hands. “Can we not make this about feelings, please? We talked, it wasn’t an apothecary’s visit.”
Rosalinde laughed. “Fine– fine! But I’ve got to know who the woman who got my brother to think twice is! It’s downright romantic!”
Casian rubbed his temples, faintly exasperated. “It was a conversation, Rosalinde. Not a courtship. Not everything happens like those cheap novels you so adore.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t it be such a good story?” she teased, eyes sparkling with excitement. “A dark and brooding knight– undefeated! Meets a mysterious woman who challenges his worldview within minutes of meeting him. It almost writes itself!”
Casian rolled his eyes. Honestly, Rosalinde was ridiculous sometimes. “Yes, and I’m sure that the conversation in that story ends with the woman storming off after saying the knight is infuriating.”
“Exactly!” Rosalinde exclaimed, like he had somehow taken the words right out of her mouth. “But- I must know, what’s the name of this mysterious woman? I simply have to talk to her myself.”
Casian grimaced. “I… did not get it.”
Rosalinde boggled. “Brother.”
“It- it didn’t come up! And when I asked she was already upset and on her way out and just decided to leave.”
Rosalinde continued to boggled. “Brother!”
Casian threw his hands up in defeat. This was ridiculous.
Rosalinde recovered, pulling back at his clear upset.
Casian throwing his hands up was likely synonymous with a shout from anyone else, after all.
“I- you didn’t get her name.” Rosalinde continued. “That’s… fine. Completely fine.”
“Okay. Okay.” Rosalinde was hyping herself up. “Let’s think intelligently for a moment- what did she look like? There are only so many noblewomen in our age group– actually, she was in our age group, correct? This wasn't a conversation you had with some woman in her thirties?” She seemed to find the thought to be something that made her feel ill, given the face she pulled. Which… was unusual, given how she usually lusted after mothers as well as sisters, but perhaps this was where she drew the line for him, as strange as that might be.
Casian narrowed his eyes, trying to recall the details of the brief interaction he’d had with them. “Yes, she looked about our age. Maybe a bit older? Not by much. Slightly taller than me, I believe.” Casian tapped his fingers to the table. “Dark hair, I think. I want to say black– but it's equally as likely my memory is failing me. It was styled loosely, not tied up, but it’s equally possible that it was just because it was the weekend at a tea shop. Her eyes…” He hesitated, searching his memory for the right words.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
“They were striking, intense, almost. She looked through me– or it about felt as such.”
“Dark hair and intense eyes,” Rosalinde muttered to herself, likely mentally cataloguing every one of their acquaintances. “That narrows it down a fair amount– we at least know it’s not Lady Ethel.” Casian resisted the urge to perform a rude gesture. “...Was she wearing a gown, or something more practical?”
“Definitely a gown.” Casian replied, nodding to himself, being careful not to prod his memory too hard lest he trick himself. “It wasn’t as if she was in dress I would’ve found practical– it held no proper defensive measure. It was elegant. I don’t remember the colors, but I remember thinking that it was expensive, and that she carried a necklace.”
“Any sort of identifying crests or insignia?” Rosalinde prodded.
“No. Not that I can recall- if she had one, I did not see it, or I do not remember it.”
Rosalinde clicked her tongue. “That does not narrow it down as much as I would like it. You could likely see any crest that isn’t royal and dismiss it as unimportant.”
Casian sighed, and the smallest hint of frustration crept into his voice. “I know! I know. But there was something about her beyond details that stood out…” Casian resisted the urge to say the words she got it– it being his mildly draconian mindset that had been instilled into him by his uncle– and searched for an alternative. “...She was canny. Maybe not as focused as I can get, but she got somewhere close. She was also fairly composed– she only got visibly out of sorts twice in our conversation.” Rosalinde nodded.
For a stranger speaking to Casian, only being put out of sorts twice in a conversation was impressive.
“Exactly,” Casian continued, seeing Rosalinde’s agreement with him. “Her composure was impressive, especially considering the topic we were discussing. I…” He faltered briefly. “...I may have been slightly more intense than typical of polite conversation.”
“It’s alright, Casian. From what I’ve heard, I doubt they were the kind to be scared off.” Rosalinde added in, kindly.
Casian shrugged, the tension in his shoulders easing ever-so-slightly. “Still. I’d rather not make a poor impression. I don’t try to intimidate people when I speak.”
“I know, Casian,” Rosalinde murmured, soft, like she was making sure not to interrupt him.
“I- I really don’t mean to frighten people so. What I did with the second prince was-” Casian grimaced, deeply and with feeling. “-it was not appropriate. I was upset, yes- but that doesn’t justify it.” Casian made to continue speaking-
“It’s alright. We both know you have good reason to get upset, even if other people don’t know that.” Rosalinde– gently– stopped his self-recrimination.
Casian stopped, paused, and took a deep, shuddering breath, hands pressing against the tabletop infront of him. Rosalinde took up one of his hands and rubbed circles on the back of it with her thumb, silently.
After a moment, without a word, when the tension had begun to leave his hands, she let her hand stop, before returning to her side of the table like nothing had happened.
“I… It’s just…” Casian started. Words flashed through his head. Too many things to say. So much that it felt like his throat was a vice, like it was a pipe that would burst under the pressure.
Rosalinde watched him, closely, silent.
I feel trapped. I would kill to feel like I had a choice in any of this. I would kill to give you a choice you could bear. I think that the only meaningful choice I ever make is to hurt people.
“...Nevermind.” Casian stopped.
He let out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“...I’m always here if you need me, Casian.” Rosalinde’s face was painfully soft. Concerned. “You know that, right?”
Casian grunted. He sat, and he thought. Time passed– he wasn’t sure how much, but Rosalinde didn’t move an inch.
“...Do you think I should seek her out?” The woman from the tea shop.
Rosalinde bit her lip.
“I think you should do whatever you feel like you’d want to do, Casian. You don’t need to ask me what you should do here.”
Casian nodded. He’d look for her later.
Rosalinde looked up, and grimaced.
“I… I have an appointment with Eloise. It’s not quite yet– I do have time, but…”
“It’s fine.” Casian’s voice was soft.
“...Love you, brother.”
Rosalinde left. Casian waited until she rounded the corner to clutch the table.
—-—
Lady Marcy Montclair sat alone in the academy library, preparing herself to write yet another essay for their foreign affairs class. This time it was on Drakonis’s trade practices with them, and the potential long-term effects of the current ramping trade-war.
She sighed, the sound dissolving into the stillness of the library. Not that anyone was around to hear it.
Her classmates had all scampered off to forge connections, gossip, and cozy up to the right people. They’d likely just fail the course.
Failure, however, was not an option for Marcy. Not unless she wanted to receive a particularly scathing letter from her mother.
With a resigned huff, Marcy dipped her quill into the inkwell, letting the rhythmic scratching of the quill on parchment fill the otherwise silent library. The second prince was likely off on another floor– which suited her just fine. She had no desire to see any of the princes at the moment.
The topic was tedious, but unavoidable– tensions rising between Drakonis and Calveria weren’t trivial matters, anyone with ambitions beyond frivolous court gossip needed to understand the economic reality between the two nations.
Still, her mind refused to settle.
It drifted back– against her better judgement– to the conversation she’d had earlier that day.
Casian Everstead.
Almost by rote, near automatic, she found herself recalling the family’s history. Etiquette lessons had been drilled into her bones. Gods above knew she wouldn’t be able to forget a family tree before she died. Martially elevated, young noble family– Great grandfather served as an exceptional member of the Royal Guard, same with his son– Octavius Everstead. Family crest was a drawn sword, motto was Ever Steady. Motto developed after Octavius was elevated to nobility and when asked what he would do with the power– responded that he would ‘serve the crown as he always had, ever steady’. It was… almost commendable, but there was something off-putting about that kind of conviction. Blind loyalty was dangerous– that little she knew, even if it was useful to be on the receiving end of. How did people like that live? To give yourself so completely to a cause, to exist as nothing but a blade in someone else’s hand?
…Ah, right. The current family head was Dominic Everstead.
They were the only current noble family allowed to enlist in the Royal Guard– small as their ‘family’ was. It was a blatant statement of trust between them and the crown, their poorer status and new-age doing little to besmirch what was basically a royal endorsement. It was practically a slap in the face to the older houses. Dominic Everstead’s brother, Xerxes, had taken advantage of that, taking a Royally guided marriage through the guard– which was the crown’s way of saying they would spit on the institution of marriage in the pursuit of having a swordsman who was just that bit stronger– before some… 9? 10? Years ago– she needed to recheck records, if she was forgetting details like that– he was found dead in his estate by his brother.
That part had always sat wrong with her. It was an event that lingered in the background of her childhood, surfacing only in whispered, furious conversation between her parents when they were both home. The investigation was done in private by the crown, and Dominic Everstead had taken up a role in the Royal Guard to fill his place.
Her quill hovered over the parchment, fingers tightening over the shaft. That was the story everyone knew. The Everstead family, a house built on duty and service, locked in to unwavering loyalty to the crown. The sort who tended to wield steel before they engaged in politics, which was perhaps why they always remained in such a precarious position. She could almost respect it, if it wasn’t so foolish. They didn’t play the game of court intrigue well. But even then- she had met Dominic Everstead before, at balls and galas.
He had been glued to his wife’s side, a gargantuan woman– the opposite of almost every noble beauty standard, and radiated an almost otherworldly calmness. She found herself staring, unabashedly, as a child, struck not by scandal, but by certainty.
She had thought, with a strange moment of clarity, that their family name must have been saying they were as steady as mountains.
But–
Something was deeply wrong with Casian Everstead.
Was this how the Everstead family had truly grown into noble power? By moulding their children into something brittle and barely human? Barely functioning, neurotic combatants? Part of her wanted to dismiss it as being a mark left on the family by serving in the Royal Guard, but– the Royal Guard were somehow more relaxed than Casian was. Even what little she had interacted with them from her betrothal could show her that much clearly. The realization unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Was that how Dominic saw the world, as well? Was it how Xerxes had?
She tapped the quill against the rim of her inkwell, watching the droplets of ink fall back into the blackened pool. Writing essays like this was always easy, near automatic. They didn’t demand much attention– just time. All the while, her mind moved, threading together observations, impressions, conclusions.
Casian Everstead was not the product of discipline. She had seen discipline. Discipline had shape, structure– an underlying steadiness, even in its harshness. She was raised with discipline, sharpened by it, and expected to uphold it. Sons and daughters of noble houses carried obligations in different ways, and coped differently, certainly, but at the end of the day, the training they underwent was to ensure stability. Reliability. A foundation- a path forward.
Casian Everstead felt like a man without one. Despite his proven track record, despite the outward composure, there was something fundamentally unsound about him. It itched at her. The dissonance between what she felt and what she knew.
There was something tightly wound about him, something with nothing to do with decorum or with drilled etiquette. It wasn’t the refinement of a nobleman or the discipline of a soldier. It wasn’t the steel of a man who had been honed to duty, like the Royal Guard. It was sharp, but not in the way she imagined a sword was. It was sharp in a way that brought to mind shattered glass– still functional, still dangerous, but wrong.
She had intended to poke and prod him, to let her displeasure be known about the behaviors of his sister– about having her betrothal contract made into a joke– she did not expect, or want to leave the conversation she had with him feeling pity, of all things.
It was unbearable.
Marcy relaxed her grip on her quill before she snapped it.
Pity wasn’t an emotion Lady Marcy Montclair often entertained. It was not a luxury afforded to her station. She could not pity the fools who inevitably would get in the way of the Montclair family. She was not allowed to. Even less often did she feel pity for those who did not need it.
Casian Everstead did not seem the sort that would appreciate it– even the sort that would acknowledge that it existed. And yet, despite that, despite everything she knew about him, it lingered. Festered. Maybe, she supposed, it was everything that she now knew about him that made her pity him. It sat on her mind like a stone, a bitter taste she could not spit out.
Beyond that– there was something other about it that irked her. Drew her attention in a manner she couldn’t quite describe. It wasn’t just pity. It was the way he talked with her– entirely focused on her, as if nothing else existed. No considerations for the world, for the circumstances around them.
Have I ever had a conversation with someone that was not influenced by my position?
The thought was unwelcome. Deeply, profoundly unwelcome.
Marcy felt herself frown, quill going back to scribbling on parchment.
She had not expected sincerity. Nor the sheer, unrelenting intensity of it all. And this was from a conversation that she had opened with accusing him of Incest! Who simply accepted that and moved on? Who sat there, unmoved, unbothered, like it was a passing remark?
Truthfully– Marcy doubted that Casian Everstead had ever done any such improper things with his family, despite how scandalous him knowing their disciplines was. Frankly, she doubted he had ever relaxed enough to maintain any level of intimacy with anyone, taboo or not.
His responses had been measured, yes. Too measured. Calculated, even. He didn’t give away anything he did not want to. Yet, he hadn’t hidden behind polished deflections, not really. No polite excuses, not one. He had blocked with something thinner, something almost absurdist– offhand remarks that should have meant nothing, but somehow still felt deliberate.
Casian Everstead did not play games for advantage. Not one she could see, at least. That conversation had served no purpose– not even one of dominance, not even of simple social maneuvering. It had gone from an attempted put-down into an honest exchange of ideas on his behalf. Not a court game, but something else. Something deeper than that.
Had he always been like that?
By all accounts- he should have been, he had a reputation as a duelist before even entering the academy, if one that was typically assumed to be overblown. She did not believe it to be overblown, anymore.
Marcy scowled, and her quill moved faster. Her penmanship remained excellent.
Casian Everstead did not behave as she expected him to, nor did he seem particularly concerned with what she expected of him at all. There was no posturing, no attempt to manipulate her opinion of him, no subtle plays in an attempt to shift her favor. Instead– he moved with a different understanding.
He spoke like he had considered the ways she would react– or as if they were inconsequential. As if he existed outside the world rather than within it. He recognized disdain aimed at him with a detached, factual indifference, discarding it as beneath notice. She suspected– after the fact– that he was likely more amused by her attempts to rattle him than affected in the slightest.
Marcy pressed her lips together, frustration prickling at her.
She had meant to make him uncomfortable. Had wanted to force a reaction, make him stumble, remind him of his place. Instead, it was if she prodded him for weakness and he had begun dissecting himself alive in front of her– calm, clinical, unflinching. Not unaffected, no. He cared. His response to her calling him an animal had proven that, but he had not been offended. He had simply… agreed.
That was what unsettled her most.
He had not been trying to defend himself. He had not been trying to argue his worth. He had simply answered her, as though she had posed him an idle philosophical question rather than an insult. He had spoken like someone who had long-since internalized and accepted the premise she accused him of, of being subhuman, barely alive.
And that– despite her, warranted, dislike of Rosalinde Everstead– was just wrong.
People in their station fought for dignity– they did it even if they had none, fighting for the illusion of it. The second prince had challenged another noble to a duel over how many foreign dignitaries a dead empire had, for goodness sake! They clawed and bared teeth, anything to reclaim image, face, they lashed out. Casian Everstead had listened to what was quite possibly the most extreme rebuke she could think of– one meant to strip him of claim of standing, to personhood– and he had not disagreed.
It wasn’t that he lacked pride. She’d seen pride before, in all its brittle desperation, its honed sharpness, and its puffed-up fragility. This was something else entirely.
There was no desperation in it, no concern for the concept of life having value at all.
Even the slimest men she had met valued their own lives. Snakes in the grass who would spend lives like coin– never their own. Casian Everstead was different. He gave the impression he spent his own life like currency, and did so without even thinking about it.
Marcy shot a breath out of her mouth, slipping between the gaps in her teeth. She redipped her quill and flicked the excess off back into the inkwell.
…And then there was the matter of him asking for her name.
Had it been a calculated snipe? A declaration that she was lacking basic decorum coming from someone who presumably lived like an ‘animal’? Infuriating. Unbelievable.
…The alternative was almost worse.
That Everstead had seen a stranger sit down across the table from him and proceed to insult him and chose to engage with them like it was commenting on the weather. That he had been willing to say those things to anyone who would listen.
She felt like rubbing her head. Court intrigue, whether you were good at it or not, was always a headache.
Her eyes flicked downward to the final line of the essay she had just finished, barely processing words as she read them back.
…and thus, the only true conclusion to come to is that the tension between Drakonis and Calveria will inevitably result in war.
She scowled.
She could not turn this in. It would be like handing a crate of blasting powder to a professor and calling it an assignment. There would be no way they could grade it fairly, it was a political stance, not an answer.
Setting the paper aside, she picked up a fresh sheet and began to rewrite the essay– lifting entire sections from her original work but being careful to reword her conclusion. She could not, in good conscience, outright state that war was inevitable.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
No sane person writes their own downfall into ink.
So we depart ways for another two days, what horrible sorrow. Thank you for reading, genuinely.
I have a ko-fi,
ko-fi.com/kataracts
Read the next chapter early with Patreon,