"Tell , Princess. If there was a ship—one that leaked every ti it touched water—what would you do?"
Priscilla frowned, caught off guard. "What does that have to do with—"
"Would you patch it every ti it leaked?" he asked, interrupting gently, his tone still even. "Running to nd the sa spot over and over, hoping it lasts one more day?"
He paused, the faint gleam of the terrace lamps catching on his eyes. "Or would you replace it? Build sothing stronger. Sothing that doesn’t need saving each ti it falters."
Her heartbeat quickened. She wanted to look away, but his voice held her still.
"People are the sa," Lucavion said softly. "If I keep patching holes for you, you’ll never learn how to make the hull hold."
The words struck deep. She hated that part of her understood what he ant—that quiet, rciless logic beneath his calm.
Still, the anger didn’t leave her. "So you watched," she said, her tone quieter now, tighter, "because you wanted to see whether I’d sink or swim."
Lucavion’s mouth curved faintly, the kind of smile that wasn’t amusent so much as agreent. "Exactly."
Priscilla’s jaw clenched. "And if I’d drowned?"
Lucavion didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he moved—suddenly, lightly, with the kind of energy that never matched his words. One mont he was standing at the railing; the next, he was circling her in a loose, unhurried arc. His coat caught the wind, the hem whispering across the stone as he half-turned, half-spun around her like a boy testing the edge of her patience.
Priscilla blinked, half bewildered, half exasperated. "What are you—"
He stopped in front of her again, hands tucked behind his back, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You think I’d gamble on sothing that fragile?"
And then, with that effortless shift in rhythm that only he could manage, he stepped closer—close enough for her to see the trace of mischief flickering in his eyes.
"I knew you wouldn’t," he said.
He raised his right hand and pointed at her, his index finger stopping just shy of her shoulder. The gesture was casual, almost playful, but his words ca with startling sincerity.
"I knew you wouldn’t drown."
The smile that followed was unguarded—bright in a way that didn’t fit the lowering sun around them. It wasn’t the sharp, ironic grin he used to cut through tension. This one was open, boyish, a flash of honest warmth that felt almost out of place on his face.
For a mont, it disard her completely.
Priscilla froze, her heart betraying her with a sudden, unexpected thump.
It was quick, quiet—but she felt it, all the sa. The air between them seed to shift, just slightly.
Lucavion tilted his head, eyes narrowing with the faintest glint of curiosity, as though he’d noticed sothing—her stillness, perhaps, or the tiny catch in her breath.
She looked away, too quickly, though she told herself it was only to glance at the terrace lights.
’Why...?’ The thought trailed before she could finish it.
There was a strange weight in her chest now—not heavy, but noticeable. The wind brushed against her hair, and the world felt smaller, nearer.
She just stood there, the air pressing close around them. It was cool, sweet with the faint scent of wet stone and distant rain. Yet none of it felt real—not the wind, not the stars, not the way Lucavion’s smile still hung between them like a half-finished sentence.
Her pulse hadn’t steadied. It beat against her ribs, uneven, infuriatingly loud. His words—I knew you wouldn’t drown—kept replaying in her head, warm and sharp at once.
She didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t want to believe it.
Those kinds of words were dangerous. She’d heard them before, in marble corridors lit by gold chandeliers, from mouths that spoke with honey and ant poison. Words ant to disarm, to soften, to make her forget her place before they reminded her of it.
Sweet words were daggers with polished hilts.
And so—she didn’t move. She simply looked at him, her throat tight, the ache in her chest refusing to settle.
’He’s lying,’ she told herself. ’He has to be. That’s what people do.’
Her gaze dropped for an instant, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. The silence stretched until she almost couldn’t bear it anymore.
"Liar."
The word slipped out, quiet but sharp. It tasted strange on her tongue—too honest, too brittle.
Lucavion blinked. His eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Hmm?"
The breeze tugged gently between them, catching the loose strands of his hair. It had grown longer lately, brushing against his jaw, moving with the wind in careless rhythm. Her own hair barely stirred—tied neatly, disciplined as ever.
She t his eyes again. This ti, she didn’t flinch. "You’re lying."
Lucavion tilted his head, the ghost of his earlier smile returning—but fainter, uncertain now. "About what, exactly?"
"About that." Her voice ca out steadier than she felt. "That you knew I wouldn’t drown."
He didn’t answer imdiately. The quiet filled with the sound of the wind brushing over the terrace railings, the faint hum of wards pulsing sowhere deep in the Academy below.
Priscilla continued, her tone sharpening just slightly. "You don’t know . You don’t even trust . You said it yourself—you were testing . Watching to see if I’d sink or not. And now you stand there and smile as if you’ve always believed in ."
Her chest tightened, and before she could stop herself, the next words ca softer—like an old bruise pressed too hard. "That’s not how it works. Not for people like ."
Lucavion studied her for a long, unreadable mont. The humor in his eyes dimd, replaced by sothing quieter—curiosity, perhaps, or thought.
Then he smiled again, smaller this ti, less polished. "So that’s what you think?" he said, his tone gentle but threaded with sothing more serious underneath. "That I’m just saying what you want to hear?"
"I’ve heard it before," she muttered, her gaze drifting toward the garden below. "In the palace, in court... People said all sorts of things. So wrapped their disdain in courtesy. Others dressed their ambition as affection. None of it ever mattered. None of it was real."
The corners of his smile faltered, just slightly.
For a mont, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavier now—thick enough to feel.
Then Lucavion exhaled through his nose, a quiet, thoughtful sound. "You think I’m like them."
"I think you’re better at pretending."
He let out a low hum, not agreent, not denial. "Interesting."
She finally looked back at him. "Is it?"
just slightly, and that faint, lopsided smile crept back to his face.
"I don’t lie."
The words ca so naturally it almost sounded like habit, that sa lazy certainty he’d used before—in the banquet hall, in the testing chamber, even during their first eting on the terrace.
It wasn’t boastful. It was simply there, like sothing carved into him long ago.
Priscilla felt her lips part, a faint breath leaving her before she caught it. He always said that. As if it were a truth beyond question, a rule of nature.
And maybe to him, it was.
Still, she t his eyes and said flatly, "I don’t believe that."
Lucavion’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened—faint amusent shadowed with sothing unreadable. "No?"
"I have no reason to," she said, voice low but firm. "You say whatever suits the mont. Sotis you an it, sotis you don’t. How am I supposed to tell the difference?"
He didn’t answer at once. Instead, his eyes lifted—past her, past the terrace, to the sky where the last light of day stretched thin over the horizon.
The sun had nearly vanished behind the distant line of rooftops. The sky was divided between gold and grey, that quiet, fragile hour when the world couldn’t decide if it wanted to hold onto day or surrender to night.
Lucavion stood there for a long mont, watching it. The glow caught in his hair, outlining him in fading amber. When he spoke again, his tone had changed—not playful this ti, not sharp. Just quiet, thoughtful.
"That’s a rather pitiful way to live, don’t you think?"
Reviews
All reviews (0)