The courtyard rang with the clash of steel. The midday sun hung high, casting long shadows across the field as students sparred in pairs, their movements disciplined, rehearsed.

  And then there was us.

  I shifted my grip on my rapier, steadying my breath. Across from me, Adrien Valmont stood poised, blade angled just so, watching me with that infuriating smirk. I hadn’t expected him to single me out as his opponent, hadn’t expected the instructor to agree so easily. But I wasn’t about to back down.

  “Try not to disappoint me, Moreau,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I did go through all the trouble of choosing you, after all.”

  I scoffed, adjusting my stance. “I’ll try not to let your expectations ruin my technique, monsieur.”

  His smirk deepened. “Oh, but I do like high expectations. It makes the fall so much more entertaining.”

  The instructor’s voice cut through the tension. “Begin.”

  I struck first. A clean lunge, aimed for his shoulder. He deflected it easily, his footwork seamless as he sidestepped, barely even trying.

  “Predictable,” he mused, his voice almost bored.

  I exhaled sharply, pivoting into another strike. This time, faster. He blocked it again—effortless, but with just enough resistance to make it feel like he was humoring me.

  “You move well,” he admitted, twisting his blade just enough to force my wrist back. “Sharp. Focused. A little too tense, though.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering just slightly. “I wonder… are you always this rigid, or is it just when you're fighting me?”

  My grip tightened. “I’d rather be rigid than reckless.”

  Adrien let out a low hum, circling me now, rapier still lazily angled. “Reckless is exciting.” A beat. Then, in a quieter, almost amused tone: “You could use a little excitement.”

  I lunged again—frustrated, precise. He caught my blade at the last second, twisting it just enough to throw me off balance.

  And then, suddenly, the tip of his rapier hovered just below my chin.

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  A sharp breath, the sound of murmurs from the other students. The match was over.

  Adrien held his stance for a moment longer than necessary, his smirk turning thoughtful.

  Then, just as I started to step back, he extended his hand.

  I hesitated.

  The other students were still watching. I could feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to react.

  Adrien’s gaze didn’t waver. “Go on, Moreau,” he murmured, voice just loud enough for me to hear. “Or would shaking my hand be too much of a defeat for you?”

  I met his eyes, searching for the mockery. It was there, of course—but something else, too. Something unreadable.

  Slowly, I reached out and grasped his hand.

  His grip was firm, steady. He held it just a second too long.

  Then, with a final smirk, he let go, turned on his heel, and walked away—leaving me standing there, pulse still racing, fingers still faintly tingling where his had been

  ---

  The candle on my desk flickered, its flame swaying with the faint draft from the window. The dormitories were silent now, save for the occasional creak of wood and the distant echo of footsteps from the night patrol.

  I dipped my quill into the ink, pausing for a moment before pressing it to the parchment.

  Mother,

  I hope this letter reaches you in good health.

  The words came slowly, carefully chosen. I never wanted to worry her.

  Things are well here. The lessons are rigorous, but I am keeping up. You would be proud. My hands have not faltered, and my mind remains sharp.

  I hesitated. Should I tell her? About the bribes, the nurse who had turned me away, the quiet war waged against me in whispers and closed-door dealings?

  No.

  How is élise? And Jules? I trust they are studying hard, though I doubt Jules has lost his habit of sneaking out to the river. Remind him that he is not as quiet as he thinks.

  I smiled faintly at that. It was easy to picture him—mud-splattered and wide-eyed, insisting he hadn’t been anywhere near the water.

  Give them my love. And please, do not work yourself too hard. I will write again soon.

  Yours always,

  Lucien

  I sealed the letter carefully, setting it aside to send in the morning. The weight of exhaustion settled over me, but as I lay in bed, it was not sleep that came.

  The dormitory was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of sheets and the soft crackling of my dying candle. The ink on my letter had dried, my words neatly sealed away, but my mind refused to do the same.

  I should be sleeping. I needed to sleep.

  Yet, no matter how many times I turned over, no matter how much I tried to push it away—

  "Reckless is exciting."

  "You could use a little excitement."

  I exhaled sharply, turning onto my back, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers.

  Why was I still thinking about this? About him?

  I pulled the blanket over my face.

  "Still tense. You should relax."

  With a frustrated groan, I threw the blanket off entirely. Relax? W

  as that supposed to be some sort of joke? That arrogant, smug—

  unfortunate victim of my irritation.

  Why did he talk like that? Like he knew something I didn’t? And why did it feel like he was enjoying whatever this was?

  I turned again, gripping my pillow.

  It was nothing. Just a match. Just words.

  And yet, as I shut my eyes, trying to force sleep to take me, the echo of his voice still lingered.