They stood in that silence—an unlikely stillness between two people who had always filled space with sharp edges and challenge.
The ballroom hummed softly around them, distant, muffled. The voices of nobles faded into meaningless static. Here, in this narrow corner, time seemed 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 something—something real, something honest—
"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—esteemed, terrifying, impossible to impress—is now standing in front of me, 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 handsome, after all."
Valeria exhaled through her nose—one part scoff, one part weary resignation.
"Handsome?" she repeated, arching a brow. "You’re just symmetrical 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 parchment.
"Oh?" he drawled. "So you have decided to develop your skills."
Valeria’s eyes narrowed.
He leaned in again, but this time 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 moment the words left his mouth, Valeria’s lips pressed into a tight line—biting down instinctively.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
He was never wrong when it came 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 time Lucavion had teased her in the past, every time he’d tossed a smug grin and spun a sentence that cornered her before she could counter, it had burned.
Not just her sword, but her mind.
’And yet he still sees through me like parchment in the rain...’
He chuckled, reading her silence like a book she hadn’t meant 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 something immense.
"You didn’t respond before," he said, dragging the words out for dramatic effect. "If it was you back then, your answer would’ve been something 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 moment you take seriously?"’
Valeria blinked once.
Then, without hesitation, she punched his shoulder.
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 somewhere 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 something 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.
She didn’t flinch. "Against the Crown Prince. Why cause a scene? Why this?"
Lucavion’s expression stilled for a moment. Not tense. Not evasive. But watchful. And then...
"I didn’t cause a scene," he said lightly, with a flick of his hand. "They came to me, remember?"
Valeria’s eyes narrowed—but she didn’t argue. Because that much was true.
He knew exactly what she meant.
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. Calmer.
"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."
"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 me ask you something 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 something pointed.
"What does it mean 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 remembered.
It had been years ago—late at evening, beside the window, during one of their many shared meals 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.
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 mean... now?
She exhaled slowly, gaze turning downward for a moment—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 meant 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..."