"Yeah... so I've never actually beaten him in a fight."

  "You—! I knew I should have been more worried!"

  But Evelyn only leaned back, basking in the sun with an infuriating smirk.

  "Come on. You've been his personal maid for, what, almost two months? You must've picked up something from watching him train."

  I sighed. Ramón did make me tag along to some of his exercises. It tickled him to hear his men whistle while I dabbed sweat from his brow.

  "We should consider the possibility that he'll change up his strategy," I muttered. "He knows I was there to observe him."

  Evelyn waved a zy hand. "Does he still herd his opponents into a corner with the tip of his spear?"

  "...Yes."

  "Then he won't change. He's never lost with that tactic."

  True enough, I'd never seen him lose. With his uncanny sense of distance and timing, he parried everything—effortlessly, almost zily.

  And that was the problem.

  The duel was only five days away. How were we supposed to beat the unbeatable?

  "We'll need a sparring partner," I said, biting my lip. "Where's Rocher?"

  He answered the summons with Lumiere in tow. The moment she saw me, her face lit up.

  "Long time no see, Cire!"

  "Lumiere!"

  I ran to her, pulling her into a tight hug. The past few weeks hadn't been kind to her; she was rarely at the castle anymore. All the chaos I'd stirred up had only made her life harder.

  Still in her arms, I gnced up at Rocher.

  He smiled. "I figured our sessions will be as much for you as for Evie. A second pair of eyes couldn't hurt."

  I buried my face in Lumiere's shoulder, partly to hide how touched I was. The scent of lic filled the space that had felt empty for so long.

  The first strike cracked the air like thunder.

  Evelyn darted forward, daggers fshing, but the spear swept out in a silver arc and forced her back. Dust coiled around each of Rocher's steps, his spear tracing perfect circles, forming a shifting barrier she couldn't breach. Every thrust came within inches of her face, yet never nded.

  Beside me, Lumiere watched quietly. Sunlight caught in her hair like a halo.

  "You know," she said softly, "that rhythm was the first thing I noticed about him."

  "Hm?"

  "When he fights, there's a sort of grace. It's not just power—it's restraint. Patience. Every strike nds exactly where it needs to be. Like the world's just... moving with him."

  Her smile turned wistful. "I thought, if I stayed close to him, maybe I could learn to be like that too."

  I gave her hand a knowing squeeze.

  My eyes drifted back to Rocher. I'd seen many strong men, but he was different—lean, efficient, every motion purposeful. There wasn't a single ounce wasted.

  But still, something was off.

  "Timeout!"

  Both Evelyn and Rocher froze, the spear's tip hovering just shy of her chest.

  "Mister Rocher, you're supposed to be mimicking Ramón's style. We won't learn anything if you keep fighting like yourself."

  Rocher's own technique was almost like a dance—alternating weakness with strength, drawing opponents in before punishing them for overreaching. To me, it was elegant. Refined.

  Ramón's style, on the other hand, was domineering. He pressured relentlessly, mocking any attempts at resistance, never yielding a single inch. He could afford such arrogance because of his precision—an almost inhuman sense of distance.

  Rocher caught my expression mid-thought and frowned. "...So you prefer his style?"

  I blinked. "No, you idiot! I much prefer yours."

  He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling faintly. "...Is that so?"

  Yes—just like that.

  Despite all his bravado, Rocher drew you in with those fleeting moments of vulnerability. It made him almost... endearing. Like a puppy.

  Something about that thought stayed with me.

  I didn't know why, but a thread of an idea began to take shape in the back of my mind—light, fragile, not yet formed.

  "Miss Evelyn," I said slowly, "I think... I might be onto something."

  Her lips curved. "Oh? Do tell."

  The night before the duel, Lumiere found me in the courtyard, kneeling by the fountain. Moonlight glimmered on the water's surface like scattered gss.

  "Can't sleep?" she asked.

  "Something like that."

  She knelt beside me, looking up at the same stars I'd been trying not to read omens from.

  I decided to confide in her.

  "If Evelyn loses, Ramón will kill her," I murmured. "He ran through her former lover the moment he lowered his weapon. He'll do the same to her."

  The timing had to be perfect.

  One breath too soon, one misstep too wide, and he'd see through it. I'd only given Evelyn the narrowest of chances. If she slipped, or missed, or faltered at all, it was her blood on my hands. The thought gnawed at me.

  Lumiere rose, brushing dew from her skirt. Moonlight caught the braid over her shoulder, turning it silver.

  "Then let's pray for her," she said softly. "Miss Evelyn will win tomorrow."

  I looked up. For all her gentleness, there was a quiet steel in her voice.

  She hesitated, then reached out and took my hand.

  "And you, Cire—let's pray for you, too. You try to carry too much alone."

  Her palm was warm against mine. I wanted to tell her she was wrong—that I was only doing what had to be done. But when I looked down, I saw my reflection trembling in the water.

  The next morning, the royal courtyard had been cleared for the duel.

  A ring of banners fluttered in the wind, their colors muted beneath the pale light. The crowd gathered in silence—soldiers, courtiers, mercenaries, thieves—each with their own stake in the outcome.

  At the center stood Ramón Huerta.

  Bare-armed beneath his officer's coat, spear pnted in the sand like a banner, he looked every inch the chivalrous knight he pretended to be. Even now, stripped of his honor, he carried himself with that same impossible precision—head high, feet square, as though the world itself was obliged to move at his command.

  Across from him, Evelyn rolled her shoulders beneath her hooded cloak.

  No armor, no insignia. Just the bck garb of the Thieves' Guild—pin, supple, and soft enough to vanish into shadow. The faintest smirk tugged at her lips as she tested her grip on her daggers.

  She gnced up at the gallery where we stood. I gave her a single nod.

  When the signal bell rang, neither of them moved at first.

  Wind stirred the dust between them, whispering across the quiet.

  Then Evelyn's cloak rippled once—and she vanished.

  She slipped beneath the fabric like a shadow peeling from the ground, knives fshing out in quick, low arcs.

  Ramón didn't even flinch.

  His spear whirled once—a silver compass drawing its own horizon—and each bde that left her hand ricocheted harmlessly into the sand.

  She threw again, faster this time, the motion fluid and hidden behind the flutter of her cloak.

  Clink. Clink.

  Steel struck steel in perfect rhythm. Ramón turned with each throw, always centered, always in control.

  He was reading her. Each backward step she took, he matched with a stride forward, closing the distance with zy inevitability.

  Evelyn tried to break the pattern, feinting left and drawing another bde—but the spear tip was already there to greet her. Not thrusting, not even threatening—just present, like a boundary drawn through the air.

  She ducked beneath it, cloak fring; another throw, another parry.

  A murmur rippled through the onlookers. The fight was starting to look one-sided.

  From the stands, I could see it in Ramón's movement: he'd already found her tempo.

  He wasn't reacting; he was conducting. Each step she took was answered before it began.

  Evelyn knew it too. Her throws grew wider, more desperate, until the st bde cttered off the haft of his spear and tumbled end-over-end into the dirt.

  He smiled, knowing. Like a predator who'd cornered his prey.

  "Finished?" he asked.

  Her reply came through ragged breath. "Hardly."

  She darted forward. Twin daggers fshed—one real, one feint—the cloak snapping like a whip as she spun.

  The spear met her mid-charge, ringing with the same effortless precision. A parry, then a push. The tip slid past her shoulder, grazing fabric.

  She twisted, went low, tried to close the distance.

  Too slow.

  He pivoted, sweeping sideways, forcing her back again.

  Every time she came near, the shaft intercepted her; every time she slipped away, he recimed the center line.

  Beside me, Rocher's fists tightened on the railing. Even he wasn't breathing. Lumiere's lips moved in silent prayer.

  My pulse spiked. There was no gap. No mistake. Ramón's control of distance was absolute—like watching geometry come alive.

  He jabbed once, unexpectedly, probing.

  Evelyn faltered. Her cloak dragged in the sand. He saw it—the stumble, the break in rhythm—and lunged.

  The thrust was clean, merciless. It struck center mass.

  The sound of impact tore through me. For an instant, I couldn't breathe.

  Evelyn's body jerked, pinned in pce—the cloak drawn taut by the spear's shaft.

  No.

  The word echoed uselessly in my head. Seraphine went rigid beside us. Lumiere clutched my sleeve.

  She didn't even scream.

  Her hands hung limp, daggers slipping from her grasp. The crowd's gasp rolled over the arena like surf.

  He'd done it. He'd actually—

  Then I heard it. A sound that didn't belong—a dry, hollow crunch.

  I leaned forward, heart hammering.

  A thin stream of sand spilled from beneath her cloak, pooling around her boots.

  The spear had pierced the sack we'd hidden on her back—a child's trick, repurposed.

  For a heartbeat I recalled the puppy-eared thief girl who once filled my coinpurse with pebbles.

  Ramón seemed to realize it too, panic fshing across his face. He'd overcommitted—too te to pull back.

  The cloak slumped as Evelyn twisted free, reappearing behind him in a swirl of dust.

  Her voice rasped at his ear. "You rely too much on what you see."

  Before he could recover, cold steel kissed his throat.

  "Yield."

  Ramón froze. A line of blood trickled where her dagger met his skin.

  For a long, suspended heartbeat, no one breathed.

  Then his fingers sckened, and the spear slipped from his grasp, nding point-first in the sand.

  As if a spell broke, the courtyard erupted. I exhaled, dizzy with relief.

  All eyes were fixed on the center of the arena.

  There Evelyn stood, triumphant. She found my face in the crowd and winked, smirking.

  I waved back, so thrilled I could kiss her.