They stood in that silence—an unlikely stillness between two people who had always filled space with sharp edges and challenge.
The ballroom humd softly around them, distant, muffled. The voices of nobles faded into aningless static. Here, in this narrow corner, ti seed to stretch.
Valeria watched him—watched not the man who had turned a ballroom inside out, but the one who had once trained beside her under the burning light of Vendor’s standards.
And maybe she was about to say sothing—sothing real, sothing honest—
But of course...
Lucavion ruined it.
"Careful, Pink Knight," he drawled, lips curling just slightly. "You keep staring like that and people might think you’ve finally decided to abandon the sword and fall madly in love with a dangerous man."
Her expression didn’t flinch. But her eyes narrowed—a sharp, unamused sliver.
"Don’t flatter yourself," Valeria said coolly, not missing a beat.
Lucavion’s smirk deepened, as if he’d been waiting for the jab.
"Oh, but why not?" he replied, feigning a pout. "This sharp knight—esteed, terrifying, impossible to impress—is now standing in front of , and she hasn’t looked away once."
He leaned in slightly, as if to whisper a secret. "With this face of mine, I could have any girl I wanted, you know. I’m quite handso, after all."
Valeria exhaled through her nose—one part scoff, one part weary resignation.
"Handso?" she repeated, arching a brow. "You’re just symtrical enough to get away with arrogance, and you think that counts as a blessing."
Lucavion arched a single eyebrow, that damned knowing look spreading across his face like wildfire set to parchnt.
"Oh?" he drawled. "So you have decided to develop your skills."
Valeria’s eyes narrowed.
"What skills?"
He leaned in again, but this ti his voice carried just enough mischief to burn through even her composure.
"Wit. Retort. Verbal fencing. You’ve gotten sharper. You must have read quite a lot of books."
The mont the words left his mouth, Valeria’s lips pressed into a tight line—biting down instinctively.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
’Damn it.’
He was never wrong when it ca to this sort of thing. How did he see through her that quickly?
She had indeed been working on it.
In quiet corners of the academy’s upper libraries. In letters exchanged with instructors of rhetoric. In nights stolen between duty and expectation. She’d forced herself to read more, study tone, absorb structure—not just for politics, but for him.
Because every ti Lucavion had teased her in the past, every ti he’d tossed a smug grin and spun a sentence that cornered her before she could counter, it had burned.
So she trained.
Not just her sword, but her mind.
’And yet he still sees through like parchnt in the rain...’
He chuckled, reading her silence like a book she hadn’t ant to open.
Lucavion leaned back just slightly, the curve of his smirk deepening with boyish satisfaction. He tapped a finger against his chin as if pondering sothing imnse.
"You didn’t respond like this before," he said, dragging the words out for dramatic effect. "If it was you back then, your answer would’ve been sothing like—"
He straightened suddenly, chest puffed, voice pitching into an exaggerated, stiff impression of her younger self.
’"Lucavion, you are insufferable and entirely lacking in discipline. Honestly, is there a single mont you take seriously?"’
Valeria blinked once.
Then, without hesitation, she punched his shoulder.
Not hard.
But not soft either.
Lucavion let out a low, amused grunt, rubbing the spot with exaggerated injury. "Ouch. See? That’s exactly how she would’ve reacted too."
"I do not speak like that," she said dryly, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "And I haven’t sounded like that in years."
"Sure, sure, my dear knight," he said, his tone dripping with mock concession. "You definitely didn’t sound like that."
Then he laughed—full and warm, the kind of laugh that didn’t just rise from the throat, but from sowhere deeper.
Valeria scoffed, rolling her eyes, but her lips were betraying her again—curving just slightly.
Valeria tilted her head slightly, the faint humor still lingering in her lips cooling into sothing more serious. Her arms remained crossed—not as a defense, but as a silent cue that the tone had shifted.
"Why did you do it?" she asked.
Lucavion’s grin eased—but didn’t vanish. He blinked once, as if surprised by the question’s simplicity. Or perhaps its inevitability.
"Do what?"
She didn’t flinch. "Against the Crown Prince. Why cause a scene? Why this?"
Lucavion’s expression stilled for a mont. Not tense. Not evasive. But watchful. And then...
"I didn’t cause a scene," he said lightly, with a flick of his hand. "They ca to , rember?"
Valeria’s eyes narrowed—but she didn’t argue. Because that much was true.
Still.
He knew exactly what she ant.
And he knew she wouldn’t settle for half an answer.
Lucavion let the silence stretch for a breath longer, then shrugged—lazy, deliberate.
"But," he continued, voice lowering, "you’re not really asking that, are you?"
He looked at her fully now, the smile still there—but thinner. Calr.
"You’re asking why I decided to escalate it to the point where I’m now isolated here. Watching nobles whisper. Watching you walk through fire just to say hello."
A pause.
"And that’s a better question."
Lucavion’s eyes didn’t wander as he spoke next—they remained on her, as steady as the tone that left his mouth.
"Let ask you sothing instead."
Valeria blinked. The sudden pivot caught her off guard, but she didn’t interrupt. She knew him well enough to know that beneath the grin, beneath the deliberate ease, there was always sothing pointed.
"What does it an for you to be a knight?"
The question hit harder than she expected.
Not because it was cruel. Not because it was loaded.
But because she rembered.
That question.
That exact phrasing.
It had been years ago—late at evening, beside the window, during one of their many shared als under the Vendor banner.
They’d been resting in Iron Matron’s inn. She had spoken proudly of knighthood then—of honor, of loyalty, of duty. He had asked that question in response, lounging on a pew, watching her with that half-lidded gaze of his. It hadn’t been a challenge, not then—just curiosity.
Back then, her answer had been clear.
"To serve the realm. To uphold order."
Simple. Unshaken. Naïve.
But now?
Now, she’d stood in courts dripping with falsehood. Dragged secrets from beneath silk-draped salons. Watched nobles whose hands never held blades command armies with wine-stained fingers.
What did knighthood an... now?
She exhaled slowly, gaze turning downward for a mont—unusual, for her. Reflective, not weak.
"I’ve been thinking about that," she murmured. "More often than I should."
Lucavion said nothing. Just waited.
"Once, I believed being a knight ant protecting nobility," she continued, each word deliberate. "Serving the system that crowned them. Upholding the peace that benefited the realm."
She paused. Her fingers brushed the edge of her cup, almost absentmindedly.
"But that was before I saw how fragile those crowns are. How easily peace bends to greed. How often the system protects itself—and not the people."
Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just honest.
"Now....I don’t know what it is..."
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