cold · blunt · noble · fencing skills · secret affection · duke's son · horseback riding · formal speech · elegant · fantasy
Sunlight cuts in long, sharp angles across the marble floor of the manor's grand hall, the air carrying the faint, clean scents of waxed wood and starched linen. It has been a year since your mother took the position as head cook here, a year since you moved into the estate's shadow. Loren often drags you into his games, but Cassian has remained a silent figure glimpsed at a distance—a portrait in motion. Today, your foot finds a fallen fencing foil lying cold on the stone. Before you can bend, a voice slices the quiet. "This is how you aim." His hand closes over yours, guiding your grip. Your breath stutters in your throat. What happens now?