"It is necessary to be a great feigner and dissembler."
***
I grabbed a fresh piece of parchnt and started drafting a letter. The scratch of quill on paper filled the silence between us.
"We need to make this official," I said without looking up. "Tomorrow I’ll request an audience with my father. I’ll explain that my upcoming ti at the academy has made realize how... inadequate... I am at managing basic responsibilities."
Lyra watched write. Her red eyes tracked every stroke of the quill with that intensity she never bothered to hide when we were alone. Firelight caught in those eyes and made them glow like coals.
"You’ll present yourself as incompetent," she said.
"Worse. Helplessly dependent." I paused mid-sentence, quill hovering above the parchnt as I looked up to et her gaze directly. In the world outside these walls, I’d never commit such a breach of protocol. Servants existed in a noble’s peripheral vision, acknowledged only when needed, then dismissed from consciousness. Eye contact suggested equality, and equality was anathema to the social order. But here, in this sanctuary of conspiracy, those artificial boundaries dissolved.
"Think about it," I continued, setting the quill down to gesture with ink-stained fingers. "What kind of threat could a noble possibly be if he can’t dress himself without assistance? If he visibly trembles at the re thought of managing his own daily schedule? If sothing as trivial as selecting his own als sends him spiraling into a state of paralyzing anxiety? They’ll dismiss before I even open my mouth—just another pampered, broken scion, utterly incapable of independent function, let alone representing any conceivable danger."
"They’ll see what you want them to see," she murmured. Sothing like satisfaction crept into her voice. "A harmless shadow. A footnote in soone else’s story."
"A pathetic child who needs a nursemaid," I agreed. I went back to the letter with renewed focus.
Every phrase was designed to make a self-respecting noble cringe. I let my handwriting waver in places, made the script shaky where a nervous hand might lose confidence. The whole thing scread "anxious ss who can barely compose his own correspondence."
Perfect.
"The beauty is that it serves multiple purposes," I continued. The plan was solidifying in my head as I talked. "You get positioned at the academy as my dedicated handler. I cent my reputation as harmless to the point of being pitiable. And my family gets another reason to dismiss as irrelevant."
I signed the letter with a flourish and set it aside to dry.
"The more they underestimate , the more room I have to move. The lower their expectations, the less they watch."
Alex from three months ago would have been horrified. That version of still had pride. Still thought dignity was sothing you could afford when people were trying to kill you.
Current knew better. Pride was a luxury. Survival was not.
"There will be resistance," Lyra observed. Her tactical brain was already running through obstacles. "Lady Vivienne won’t want to lose a servant to your ’frivolous needs.’ She’ll argue the academy has staff. She might even claim that managing on your own would build character."
"Let worry about Lady Vivienne." I watched the ink settle into the parchnt. "Your job is to be ready. Know your role. Prepare your performance. Wait for your cue."
I stood and walked to the window. The moon hung heavy and silver in the sky, well past its peak. Late enough that any reasonable person would be asleep. Which ant this conversation needed to end before soone noticed candlelight under my door and started asking questions.
Ti to send her off and hope she doesn’t do anything too creative while I’m sleeping. Though with Lyra, "creative interpretation" seed to be her default setting.
"That’s enough for tonight," I said, turning back toward the desk. "You should return to your quarters before—"
"Master."
One word. It stopped cold. Sothing in her voice made the hair on my neck stand up. That primitive alarm system that evolution gave humans to detect predators.
She’d risen from her chair. Hands clasped behind her back. Picture of a dutiful servant. But her tone said sothing else entirely.
"Yes?" Neutral. Careful.
"When you speak to your father tomorrow. When you make yourself appear weak." She took a step closer. I could see fire behind her composed expression now, that internal furnace she kept banked in public but let blaze when we were alone. "I want to watch."
Of course you do.
Because watching humiliate myself in front of my family is apparently your idea of a good ti. Or a religious experience. With Lyra, honestly hard to tell the difference.
"That can be arranged," I said slowly. I studied her face for clues. "Though I’m not sure why you’d want to see it. It won’t be pleasant. I’ll be groveling. Begging. Probably describing my own inadequacies with taphors that would make a court jester wince."
"Because," she said. Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. "It will be beautiful."
I stared at her.
Beautiful. She thought watching grovel would be beautiful.
Either she had a seriously twisted sense of aesthetics, or she understood sothing about my plan that I hadn’t fully grasped myself. Saw so hidden artistry in the performance I was preparing.
Or she was just that devoted to the idea of serving that any expression of my will beca inherently attractive.
Which was... concerning.
"Lyra." I kept my voice flat. She needed to hear this clearly. "Tomorrow, I will grovel before my father. I will beg him for a leash so the world can see what a helpless dog I am. I will paint myself as so fundantally incapable that the only solution is to assign a keeper."
I looked directly into her burning red eyes.
"And you, my dear Lyra, will be the one holding it."
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