Summer Q&A — Part 2

• Rafael reacts to Romanus surprising him with a handmade gift in the crushing stage? I’m thinking something that’s not necessarily the best quality, but it’s clear that Romanus put a lot of time and thought and effort into it, and maybe Romanus is a bit shy/nervous about giving it to him. 

He wasn't staring. 

His eyes simply... moved on their own accord. One moment, he's focused on the crackling logs on the fire, the next, he's watching the orange glow bathe your profile. It creates shadows on your furrowed brows and the tense lines around your mouth. His gaze then shifts to your restless hands, trying to peer into—

A prickling at the back of his neck tells him he's being watched. 

Rafael Borja snaps his head up and meets the gaze of the bard. Lance’s eyes glint with the flames, the light reflecting on his pathetic golden tooth. Rafael feels his cheeks burning at the man's knowing smile, but he scoffs and turns back to the fire. 

God damn spy. 

God damn you, too. What the hell are you doing, anyway? The past five evenings, you've secluded yourself in a corner of the campfire, hunched over something. He's tried to come closer, but you hide it away from him. 

A pang of unease coils in his stomach. Are you afraid he'll steal it away? Do you think so little of him, still?

With a second scoff, more bitter than the first, Rafael throws another log into the fire. Not like he cares. He's gotten used to you driving the silence away after supper, is all. Just a way to waste time.

Yeah. It ain't you he misses. He just misses not feelin' so goddamn alone. 

He isn't staring, but not quite knowing how, Rafael finds himself looking at you once more. He can't see what's in your hands, so he settles for the arch of your brow and the line of your nose. The dip of your chin, the roundness of your lips… and never before has Rafael felt more like a creep than when, for the second time tonight, he's caught in the act. 

By you. 

"Shit." Rafael turns his head so fast that he almost breaks his neck. His hands start sweating as he feels your eyes on him. "God's bloody hemorrhoids," he curses, then quickly apologizes. He needs Him on his side right now. 

But God must have taken offense because, from the corner of his eye, Rafael sees you getting up and walking in his direction. 

Swallowing another curse, the thief grabs the waterskin off the ground and brings it to his lips. His brows furrow.

Of course, it's empty. 

He's contemplating throwing it into the fire when, with quiet footsteps, you stop in front of him. "Hey, Raf," you say in that soft, gentle tone you use to speak with the brat and your horse. And him, too, for whatever reason. 

Rafael lowers the waterskin. "Ya still around?" he asks, giving you a glance over. "Thought you went to sleep."

You blink. "You didn't see me just now?"

"No," Rafael says, feeling like an idiot. 

"You were looking at me."

Perhaps God hasn't completely abandoned him yet because it's too dark to see his flush. "You watchin' what I'm watchin' now?" 

Confusion makes a home in your face, but Rafael sees the exact moment you decide to let it go. You take another step closer, and only now does Rafael realize you're holding something behind your back. "Do you have a moment?" you ask him. 

I got the whole night. "I s'pose."

You give him a thankful smile. "Good."

Rafael digs his nails into his arm. Pretty smile. He fiddles with the waterskin, not saying anything, but neither are you. An odd, anticipatory silence falls between you, the kind that has his knee bouncing. 

Your eyes are on your feet, your teeth slightly biting into your lower lip. 

Rafael bounces his legs up and down, up again... "Ya moment's almost up," he murmurs, meaning it as a joke, but you flinch all the same. He feels a pang of guilt, but you give him no time to apologize when you sit beside him. 

"I know," you say, turning to him so that your knees almost touch his. "I have something for you."

Borja frowns on instinct. "What?"

You bite your lip harder. Rafael almost reaches out to stop you, hating seeing you hurting yourself, but he refrains himself. "D'ya need help with something?" he asks.

You shake your head. 

It then dawns on him. "Don't tell me it's another one of those damn texts." Rafael sighs. "I'm too sober to hear about the mosaics of a dead city—"

With a melodious laugh, you shake your head again. "It's not a translated text!" you say, then pretend to pout. "And you like listening to me talk about them."

He does. A lot. Rafael isn't about to admit, though. "That's wishful thinkin', softie."

You break eye contact, hiding your face from him. You've been doing that more lately. Rafael assumes it's because of the sight of his missing tooth. Shame has him looking down as well, but suddenly, his vision is filled with black. 

"It's a gift," you say, holding a bundle of cloth to his face. 

With a mixture of incredibility and suspicion, Rafael takes it and holds it out before him. It's a cape, not black but grey, with a deep hood and—

His eyes bug out of their sockets. 

He knows this cape. It's his cape. Rafael's mouth hangs open when he stares from it to you, then back to it. "What—" He snaps his mouth closed. "I threw this out."

It was torn beyond mending. The scuffle leaving the city left his old cape in shreds. It hurt more than Rafael would ever admit, but he left it on the side of some unnamed road. He sweeps his hand along the seams. He can see the areas where it's been restored, but the stitches are well-hidden, and even if the lines are crooked, the cape is patched to its original shape.

He can't wrap his head around it. "It's the same one?"

"Yes," you confirm. You're smiling at him. A soft, pretty smile that has your eyes crinkling. "I picked it up when you weren't looking." Your smile dims when you add in a quieter voice. "I know how much it means to you."

He told you, he remembers, on one of these lonely nights, while slightly drunk. He told you this cape belonged to his late father. 

"Ya fixed it?" Rafael hears himself asking. His voice is rough with an unnamed emotion. He clutches the cape, his fingers making indentations on the thick cloth. 

You lower your eyes when you nod. "I did my best," you whisper. "Hadrian helped a little."

A million thoughts rush through Rafael’s head, but only one word comes out. "Why?" 

You don't answer.

Rafael tears his eyes away from the cape to look at you. You shrug, but avoid his gaze when you whisper, "Because it's important to you."

He should scoff, should ask you what exactly you want in return. Rafael should doubt the sincerity dripping from your tone and remind himself that you're a Company mercenary. That you're one of his captors.

He should do it all. But he can't. 

Because Rafael Borja believes you. Against his whole being, he believes you. 

His index finger feels a bump in the fabric. Dazed, he looks down at the inner collar. There's something stitched there. Turning it towards the light, he sees letters woven in gold. The lines are shaky in place and disheveled, but he's never seen anything more imperfectly perfect. 

'Thomas Borja' is sewn in the cape. His father's name. 

Rafael's eyes sting. "Ya didn't."

He feels your hand resting on top of his. "I hope I didn't overstep."

He almost barks a laugh at that, but the lump in his throat doesn't let him. Overstep? This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him. He can't face you, so Rafael forces himself to croak out, "I owe you."

Your fingers tighten on his wrist, and with your other hand, you softly turn his chin up. Rafael meets the steely, borderline stern glint in your eyes. "You don't owe me anything," you say fiercely, bearing no room for argument.

So, Rafael doesn't argue, not in this, and not with himself either. As he bares himself before you, he finally accepts it.

He's in love with you.

• Terminally oblivious Romanus is being flirted with in several small snippets by Ysabella.

She holds out a gloved hand for you to take, fingers elegantly curled, like a soft claw, or a gilded shackle.  

You look down at it, hesitate, then promptly shake it. "My lady," you greet.

Ysabella blinks. "No, darling, you're meant to take it."

"Take your hand?"

The noblewoman's lips twitch in what looks suspiciously like a smile, but she leans in instead. "Would you like to take something else?" Ysabella asks, her eyes gleaming with a playful light.

You're stoned-faced as you look from the top of her head, where diamonds hang from her hair, down to the tips of her shoes, where gems are encrusted in the heels. "A ring, maybe?" you admit.

When you look up, you catch the odd look on the noble's face. She quickly hides it, however, and curls her palm around your arm. "Dance with me," Ysabella says with a brilliant smile, already stepping onto the ballroom.

-

The plums are ripe with juice.

You eat your second of the night, and don't notice the trail of juice trickling down your chin until, with an infinitely gentle finger, someone catches it before it stains your immaculate gown/suit. "Careful," Ysabella says, her round, brown eyes close to your own. "In high society, a stained garment is a cardinal sin."

You glance around, but no one seems to catch your indiscretion. "Thank you," you say, wiping your cheek with a napkin. "I don't think I've ever eaten a plum so ripe as these," you say, hoping it serves as an excuse.

Ysabella looks at the tray filled with the dark blue fruit. She keeps herself close to you, her hand resting on your shoulder. To ensure you're hidden from view, you're certain. She's cleverly subtle, you'll give her that. "I don't think I've tried these yet. Are they that tasty?"

You nod. "You should try one."

Ysabella looks up at you through her lashes. The painted lines of gold above her eyelids are symmetrically drawn, like twins. "Help me," she says, "I can't spoil these gloves."

She parts her lips.

You stare at her mouth. Then at the plum. With a shrug, you pick the fruit and unceremoniously plop it into her mouth.

Ysabella coughs, nearly spitting the whole thing out. "You—" She aggressively chews, hand covering her mouth, as her eyes gloss over.

You suddenly feel uncertain. Were you... not meant to do this? "Are you alright?" you ask.

Ysabella lifts a finger, then finally, swallows. "I meant for you to feed me a bite," she says, her voice shaky. "Not the whole thing, dearest."

"Oh."

Ysabella takes a step back and stares at you.

You stare back. "... I apologize."

Her eyebrows furrow, but then, Ysabella shakes her head. "This was my fault," she says. Her smile is just as dazzling, but somehow, it looks slightly strained.

She must want to cough still, you think.

-

"Well, if it isn't the two love birds."

Alain waltzes from the crowd of minor nobles, a glass of wine in hand and his hair tossed at the front. He gives you a grin, and you nod in return.

"Alain," Ysabella says, regarding her brother with a critical eye. "I see you've been having fun."

Her gaze is drawn to a bruise on his neck, just below his jaw. You narrow your eyes at his collar and see another bruise near his collarbone. Was he in a scuffle?

Instinctively, your hand drops to your belt, but there's no scabbard there.

"Just making the most of this farce," Alain says, his voice light and airy, but his smile takes on a bitter twist. "Just like you, no, sister?" he says, eyes darting to you.

You straighten your shoulders. "We haven't been in any fights."

Alain pauses and then barks a laugh. "Is that what you call it?"

Before you can ask him what's so amusing, Ysabella closes in on her brother. "People are watching, Alain," she whispers, dazzling smile plastered.

Her brother shrugs. "People are always watching." He reaches over and loops his arm around your shoulders. "Don't mind them, you hear?" He shakes you, then steps away. "You two have fun. Fights and all.”

Alain drifts off, and you see Ysabella frowning at his back before she shakes it off and turns to you. "Don't mind him," she says.

"Why would I mind him?" you ask.

Ysabella's eye actually twitches. "... the banquet is starting," she says, guiding you forward. "We should head to the grand hall."

-

Your name rings out.

You turn, hiding the key in your sleeve, and see Ysabella stepping towards you. Her gown soaks in the candlelight, stealing their spark to embed it within its own. The beaded veil adorning her hair frames her face like a painting, and for the first time tonight, you realize how beautiful she looks.

"My uncle requested an audience," Ysabella says. Your face drops, and she laughs. "Don't worry, it's for close family only."

"Oh."

Ysabella taps a finger on your chest. "You will be well, I take it? For the rest of the night?"

"You won't be back?" you ask and are surprised by the disappointment you suddenly feel.

Ysabella smiles. "Perhaps, but I can't make promises. It's best if we say our goodbyes now."

She holds out her hand, and now you know what to do. "Goodnight, my lady," you say, taking it, your fingers curling over the delicate palm. "I... enjoyed myself."

She tugs on your hand, bringing you closer. "So did I, darling," Ysabella whispers, and softly kisses your cheek.

She steps back, smiling as bright as the midday sun. "Farewell. Whatever you're seeking, in this city and beyond, I hope you find it."

With that, she turns her back and walks away.

You watch her disappear in the crowd, in the same way she came. And you can't explain, then, the pang in your chest.

• Alain's scenario in which he was sick and Romanus was at his bedside.

His head is pounding as if a tiny goblin is in there picking an axe against his skull. Alain wants to reach inside his ear and strangle the creature, but all he manages is a weak groan.

This is even worse than his worst hangover. At least, he could treat that with more wine.

The thought of any alcohol right now has his stomach turning, and a wave of nausea makes his body break out in a cold sweat. "God fucking limp-dicked whore," he rasps feverishly. His throat feels like sandpaper, and his lungs are wet and heavy, as if he's been held underwater.

"That doesn't even make any sense." A voice cuts through the waves of agony assaulting his body. "A whore would be vigorous, no?"

With the last-ditch efforts of a dying man, Alain cracks one eye open. The curtains are shut, but the little bit of sunlight that manages to slip through is enough to have his head slipping open once more. But he doesn't close his eyes because there is you.

Sitting on his bedside, with a smile on your face and a towel between your hands. Alain's eye narrows. You don't look worried at all. "I can tell you know nothing about whores," he croaks.

Your smile widens. "And you do? That's not something to boast about, Alain."

He groans, putting his arm over his eyes. "Took you long enough," he says, hoping you can hear the hurt in his tone.

You don't answer with words. Instead, a gentle hand holds his wrist and takes his arm away from his face. Your face pops into view. The surroundings are wrapped and unfocused, but even his feverish eyes can't help but see you whole, as nitid as possible. Alain almost smiles. He scowls instead.

With a low laugh, you put the towel against his forehead. The moment it meets his heated skin, Alain lets out a deep groan. It's cool and damp and feels like heaven. "Hmm."

"Better?" you ask, your hand drifting down to cup his cheek. Alain is too weak to care about dignity; he nuzzles against your palm.

"Better," he confirms. The bed dips when you sit on the mattress, your legs curled against his side. If Alain had the strength, he'd loop his arm around you and bring you close, but he can't.

Your fingers caress the skin underneath his right eye. "I came as soon as I heard," you murmur.

Alain turns his head, so his lips graze your bare palm. "I'm dying."

A puff of air hits his eyelids when you laugh. "You're hardly dying. I spoke with the physician, he said—"

Alain pops an eye open. "Who cares what he said?"

"And you have the best healers taking care of you," you continue as if he hasn't spoken. Your fingers brush against his lips, next, and Alain sees you frowning when you feel how they're burning.

"They're not you," he says in a weak, pathetic voice.

Your face softens. "I'm here now," you say, settling beside him. Your gloved hand massages his left shoulder as you keep caressing his face. "How can I help?"

He wets his dry lips and realizes he doesn’t have enough saliva to do that. "Water."

You quickly bring a glass of cool water to his lips and help him drink with a hand on the back of his head. "Thanks, sparrow," Alain sighs when he lies back down.

"Are you hungry?" you ask him.

Alain shakes his head.

Your fingers dance across his jawline. "Can I make you feel any better?"

"I read something, long ago." Alain closes his eyes, fighting off sleep. "A rare cure. It's supposed to help with illness. I can't ask anyone else for it, though.”

There's a pause. "You can't?" you ask, and were he feeling any better, Alain would have grinned at the suspicious tone of your voice.

"Unfortunately, not."

Another pause.

"Go on, then," you say, nails tapping his chin.

Alain feels like he won something. He's not sure what, though. "The tome theorized that a kiss from a grieving lover could chase away the most aggressive of illnesses. It has to be a true grief-stricken, worried lover, or it won't work."

The fingers halt on his cheek.

Alain peeks at you and sees the driest look on your face. He rasps a laugh and immediately regrets it when his chest explodes in pain. "Shit."

You press down on his bare chest, and he may be hallucinating, but Alain swears it immediately eases the ache. "Don't strain yourself," you say, then lean down and drop a chaste kiss on his cheekbone.

A different kind of heat blooms on Alain's skin. "You ask me not to strain," he says, his voice dragging slightly. Sleep calls to him. "And then you go and do that."

He doesn't see your smile, but he feels it when, at last, you press your lips against his. Alain breathes out, "sweet," he says, "little sparrow."

His eyes drift closed for the last time, but he can't go yet. "Need one more thing."

"What is it?" Your voice comes from far away.

"Don't leave."

Alain doesn't hear it, but the four walls of his bedroom do. You lean down again and kiss his brow. "Never," you promise your bedridden nobleman.

• Romanus, believing Alessa is killed, goes absolutely berserk and on a rampage out of grief, then finds out that she survived somehow.

Alessa falls.

And the world goes red.

The mark isn't in your palm any longer. You feel it in every inch of your skin, in every ragged breath you take, in the sclera of your eyes, in the depths of your gut, in your nails too, when you tear flesh apart.

You don't carry it. You become it.

Your axe drips with bright-red blood, the white remains of bones, and the fleshy substance that hides inside people's skulls. You have a throat in your palm, crushing the windpipe of someone whose gasps never make it to your ears.

Alessa's voice fills them. 'Darling one. I adore you.'

The body falls to your feet. You step on it, hoisting your war axe over your shoulder. It still isn't enough.

A flash of movement in the corner of your eyes has your head snapping like a snake. It hid behind the far wall. Your boots sink into muddy ground, but it's not water that soaks it. It's blood.

Squelch. Squelch.

One footstep, then another. You stalk closer, your vision tunneling until the peripheries are pitch black.

'You are a fool. But... so am I.'

'Do you want to be fools together, Alessa?'

''Tis the only way I know how.'

Your hand tightens on the handle.

Squelch. Squelch.

"Mommy,” calls a weak voice from the other side of the wall.

Your lips curl in a smile too wide to be natural. You hit your axe against the wall, and it trembles whole. A screams in tears from the other side. You slam your axe again and laugh when it shrieks.

Tired of the play, you walk around the wall and spot your next kill. It's smaller than the rest, curled in on itself. Distantly, you can still hear yourself laughing.

'Darling one.'

You step closer. The thing trembles.

'Stop!'

The creature lifts its face. Tear-stained cheeks and—

Eyes as blue as Alessa's.

"Cease this!"

Your name rings out, and the axe stops midair. Your hair is soaked, and in front of your eyes, as you turn and see an apparition before you.

Alessa, bloodied and torn, limps forward. Her lips move in the shape of your name. "Stop," she says. You have never heard Alessa beg before, but this one does. "Please, stop."

The child darts past you and clings to Alessa's back. Both sets of wide blue eyes are fixed on you, and they are both afraid.

Your arm loses strength. You don't hear your axe falling to the ground.

"Alessa?" you rasp out.

"Darling one," Alessa says, taking a tentative step closer. Blood pours from a wound in her temple. "Are you yourself?"

You blink.

And the world goes dark.

-

The first thing you feel is a dull pain in your palm. The second is a metallic taste on your tongue.

You go to wipe your mouth, but your arm is pulled right back down. Frowning, you tug your arm again and feel the bed rattle.

Opening your eyes, you crane your neck and realize you're tied to the bedframe. "What the—"

You jerk your arms hard, but the ropes are tied tight. Panic begins to set in, but you don't trash around yet. Digging your heels into the mattress, you pull with all your strength. The frame creaks, so you clench your teeth and try again.

The door to the room slides open.

You lift yourself to see who walks inside, a snarl on the back of your throat, but you are dumbstruck when you see Alessa. She's wearing a loose tunic with her hair tied back and grey socks on her feet. She also has a wrap around her head and a purple bruise on the side of her neck.

She stops in her tracks when she sees you. You pull on the ropes. "What the hell is this?" you ask.

Alessa stays where she is. "What is your name?"

"What?"

"Your name."

She's actually serious. You tell her. "Who hurt you?" you ask, your anger dying out at the look on Alessa's face.

Alessa slides closer, the candle in her hand casting a long shadow behind her. "And my name?" she whispers.

"Alessa, what's going on?"

Alessa's calm facade cracks, then it drops. She takes a shaky breath and comes forward, the circles under her eyes as dark as her bruises. You want to cradle her face, but the bloody ropes stop you. "Do not harm yourself," Alessa says, resting the candle on the bedside before leaning in. "I will set you free."

"Did you bind me?" you ask. Alessa cuts the right rope with a sharp knife and walks around the bed for the left one.

"I did," she admits as she frees you at last.

Your wrists are raw, but before you can massage them, Alessa grabs your arm and does it for you. Cool, sly fingers dig into the chafed flesh. "Do you require anything?" Alessa asks in a low tone.

She's not looking at you, keeping her head down.

You're so confused, you don't know where to start. "What happened to you?" you ask, sitting up against the bed.

"I was hurt in combat," Alessa says, carefully lowering your left arm to grab your other wrist. She massages it.

You furrow your brows and put your hand on top of hers to stop her. "Please, look at me."

She doesn't.

You gently grab her chin and lift her head up, and your heart shatters when you see her crying. "’Lessa."

She falls forward, and suddenly, you're enveloped in her arms. Alessa's hands cling to you as if she's drowning and you're the only rock in miles. "Say my name once more," she asks, her voice muffled as she presses her face to your chest.

With shaking hands, you hug her back. "Alessa," you whisper, and, as you hold her, so the memories finally flood in.

They're not whole. You see scattered fragments, like broken glass shards. You holding her unconscious body, blood in your hands, blood on your axe, blood pouring out of the Templars, and blood too on—

A wave of nausea rises up your stomach. "What have I done?" you ask, your voice ruined. 

Alessa hugs you so tightly, you can barely breathe. "I feared I had lost you."

You lift your hand from Alessa's back and see it entirely black. Despair rings within your ears. "What have I done?"

Alessa pulls back, and now she's grabbing your face. Her blue eyes filled your vision, and you ground yourself in them, in the tears hanging from her eyelashes. "'Twas not you."

"It was my hands."

Alessa's nails dig into your cheeks. "You were not yourself," she says, her voice shaking no more. Alessa's eyes burn with a freezing flame.

You try to shake your head, but she doesn't let you. Alessa kisses your stiff lips, then your cheeks, then each of your eyelids. She's trembling, still, her whole body.

You would pull her away if you could, but your limbs are too heavy. "Are you scared of me?" you ask.

"No."

Grabbing your chin, Alessa makes you look at her again. "You cannot make me fear you, darling one. Never."

"You should grab that knife and sink it into my chest."

Alessa's nails draw blood down your cheeks. "I would soon sink it into myself." Her thumb sweeps down your scar as she adds, lips brushing your own. "Whatever is transpiring with you, whatever haunts you, we shall see through it together."

You close your eyes and lose yourself in her voice.

"I will not lose you. Not even to yourself."

• What would be Lance's reaction to an oblivious Romanus who asked for his expertise on a secret code they didn't understand, and showed him the note Alain had given them? (Romanus is interested in the bard, not the noble).

For the third time today, you frown at the hastily written letter.

The sun barely peeks from a cloud-filled sky, rain batters the secret hideout's glass ceiling, and Alain's message is as cryptic as the last time you stared at it. The Ball approaches at a dizzying pace, and you should feel ready. You should be fearless.

But this one small line is like a thorn on your side. It's constantly digging in. "My head in the clouds," you whisper, as if the sound of it could give you a clue. It sounds frivolous, unimportant. But this is Alain Theer, a high nobleborn. Can you discard him as inconsequential? You can't begin to envision the kind of games the nobility play... what if this is a piece of it?

What if he's warning you that you're about to walk into a trap?

Alain's letter crinkles when you tighten your grip, frustration growing like a ball in your chest. What in the hell does—

"Ah. So, this is where you hide."

You quickly fold the letter and hide it beneath your thigh. Turning on the stone bench, hidden away in the inner courtyard, you see Lance Silverthread stepping from behind a bush. He's wearing a black doublet with etched silver wings on the shoulders. The top buttons are undone, leaving his neck exposed, and a peek of his whiter, less tanned chest.

You snap your gaze up to meet Lance's grey eyes. His blue hair is damp, clinging to his cheeks and the side of his neck, and his smile is wide enough that you can see the glint of his golden tooth.

"Alessa is searching for you," Lance says conversationally as he comes closer, his steps as light and casual as his tone. "Something about concealing knives in the sleeves."

"I don't think that's going to work."

"Neither do I." Lance stops beside the bench and tilts his head to the ceiling. "But I'm not the one who'll tell her."

Your lips curl upwards. "That's a job for me, is it?"

"You are smart, my friend, have I ever told you that?"

No, I'm not. I can't make sense of a letter.

Your smile is gone, replaced with a frown. Following Lance's gaze, you see the tiny explosions the rain makes on the glass panels. One after the other. "I'll go in a moment," you murmur, ending the conversation, already wanting to look at the letter again.

Lance nods, but he stays put.

Part of you is annoyed, the other can't shake the silly nervousness whenever Lance is near. Torn between wanting him to go and savoring every little moment you have left with him, you simply keep looking at the fallen rain, as Alain's words materialize in your mind's eyes.

I know you keep your head in the clouds...

"What has the rain done to you?"

You blink and come back to earth to see Lance looking down at you. A teasing smile adorns his lips, but his eyes are sharp as blades. "To elicit such a scowl?"

You immediately relax your brow. "It's wet and noisy."

Lance hums in agreement, sitting down next to you. You tell yourself you stiffen because of the letter. "Yes, and what else?"

"There's nothing else."

Lance cocks his head, resting his chin on his shoulder. "You are smart," he repeats, then widens his smile. "But a bad liar, translator."

Your cheeks flush, and you look away. A brief silence settles before, with a sigh, Lance rises to his feet. "I shall see you inside," he says, "the hour approaches."

He turns to go—

"Are you good with riddles?"

Lance halts. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are shining. "The very best."

-

You watch Lance's eyes skim over the short letter for the second time.

There's no hint of emotion on his face, not a twitch of the brow, or a quirk of the lips. He reads it stone-faced and, when he finally looks up, Lance gives you an indiscernible look. "Is this to provoke a reaction?" he asks, his tone as unreadable as the rest of him.

The anticipation bubbling within you gives way to confusion. "What?"

Lance lifts the letter. "Is it a joke?" he asks, deliberately lifting one single eyebrow. "Or a gimmick?"

Something in his tone has you scowling. "You tell me. Why do you think I asked for your help?"

Something flickers on Lance's expression. Suddenly, he's studying you, his grey eyes roaming your face.

You cross your arms defensively. "Alain Theer gave me this two days ago," you explain, "if you think this was meant as a joke, tell me the punchline because I can't see it."

Incredulity flashes across Lance's face, then astonishment, and lastly, he gives a short, half-amused chuckle. "The nobleman is more observant than I gave him credit for," Lance says to himself.

Done with it, you snatch the letter out of his hand. "Speak clearly," you demanded, hitting his boot with yours. "Or leave me be."

Lance puts his hands up. "I meant no offense," he says with a curved smile. "I was... surprised. But not with the letter."

"What then?"

"Yourself."

The conversation is nearly more puzzling than the letter itself. You always feel a bit like this with Lance. Like you're setting into a labyrinth that only he knows the layout of. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, Lance comes closer and gently opens the letter again. His slender finger drifts across the second-to-last sentence. "The Theer revealed both himself and you," he says, his nail stopping in the letter 'clouds'. "He is saying he is interested in you... and that you did not pick up on it."

Denial is at the tip of your tongue, but there it stays. Your eyes slightly widen when you think back on all the times you've met Alain. Could it be…

"Now, the interesting part is whether or not he means it." Lance keeps talking. "Given his reputation, I have no qualms believing Alain would be intrigued by someone who looks like you, but then again, is that not what he'd want us to believe?"

Looks like me? You blink; your breath suddenly stuck in your throat.

Lance drums his fingers on his thigh, eyes intent on the letter. "If this is a ploy... it may mean the twins aren't simple bystanders, but one of the heads of the beast."

Lance shrugs, then. "Or Alain Theer just wants you in his bed." He smiles charmingly, but something looks off about it. "And he's waiting for you to realize it."

You look down, shying away from those keen, grey eyes. You think of Alain again. The way he held your hand, the tilt in his smile, the soft kiss on your knuckles... and it dawns, then. He was flirting with you.

"I'm a fool," you breathe.

Lance sits back on the bench. "We see what we want to see."

You press your palms against your eyes and groan. "God, I'm so stupid."

There's no reply.

You whip your head, then, and nearly grab Lance's lapels. "What should I do? Do you think—" saying it is like spitting out a tooth. "Should I play into it?"

"That, my friend, only you can choose," Lance says. His voice is blank once again, devoid of any emotion.

"Seriously, Lance," you say, tucking a knee under your leg as you turn on the bench. "You're more experienced in this than I am. Have you... seduced your targets?"

His fingers are drumming against his thigh again. "On occasion."

"So?"

Lance rolls his lips, looking ahead for a moment. "There are other ways." He says it softly, like an intake of air after holding your breath. "You do not need to fall into Alain Theer's arms to get those maps, not if you don’t want to."

Lance turns his head and looks at you. Face impassive, but not uncaring. "So, translator, the only question is: do you want to?"

"I—" As you look into Lance's handsome face, the answer is obvious. "No. I don’t."

Lance studies you again. You don't know what he finds in your expression, but, after a beat, he smiles. And your deluded mind must be playing tricks, because it looks relieved.

"Well, there’s your answer." Lance rises and holds out his hand for you. "Now come. Alessa is stacking knives in her uniform as we speak. I beg you to stop it."

---

The rest of the ROs (and Beka) will be in part 3 at the end of the month. ♡