"Tell me, Princess. If there was a ship—one that leaked every time it touched water—what would you do?"

Priscilla frowned, caught off guard. "What does that have to do with—"

"Would you patch it every time it leaked?" he asked, interrupting gently, his tone still even. "Running to mend the same spot over and over, hoping it lasts one more day?"

He paused, the faint gleam of the terrace lamps catching on his eyes. "Or would you replace it? Build something stronger. Something that doesn't need saving each time it falters."

Her heartbeat quickened. She wanted to look away, but his voice held her still.

"People are the same," Lucavion said softly. "If I keep patching holes for you, you'll never learn how to make the hull hold."

The words struck deep. She hated that part of her understood what he meant—that quiet, merciless logic beneath his calm.

Still, the anger didn't leave her. "So you watched," she said, her tone quieter now, tighter, "because you wanted to see whether I'd sink or swim."

Lucavion's mouth curved faintly, the kind of smile that wasn't amusement so much as agreement. "Exactly."

Priscilla's jaw clenched. "And if I'd drowned?"

Lucavion didn't answer right away.

Instead, he moved—suddenly, lightly, with the kind of energy that never matched his words. One moment he was standing at the railing; the next, he was circling her in a loose, unhurried arc. His coat caught the wind, the hem whispering across the stone as he half-turned, half-spun around her like a boy testing the edge of her patience.

Priscilla blinked, half bewildered, half exasperated. "What are you—"

He stopped in front of her again, hands tucked behind his back, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You think I'd gamble on something that fragile?"

And then, with that effortless shift in rhythm that only he could manage, he stepped closer—close enough for her to see the trace of mischief flickering in his eyes.

"I knew you wouldn't," he said.

He raised his right hand and pointed at her, his index finger stopping just shy of her shoulder. The gesture was casual, almost playful, but his words came with startling sincerity.

"I knew you wouldn't drown."

The smile that followed was unguarded—bright in a way that didn't fit the lowering sun around them. It wasn't the sharp, ironic grin he used to cut through tension. This one was open, boyish, a flash of honest warmth that felt almost out of place on his face.

For a moment, it disarmed her completely.

Priscilla froze, her heart betraying her with a sudden, unexpected thump.

It was quick, quiet—but she felt it, all the same. The air between them seemed to shift, just slightly.

Lucavion tilted his head, eyes narrowing with the faintest glint of curiosity, as though he'd noticed something—her stillness, perhaps, or the tiny catch in her breath.

She looked away, too quickly, though she told herself it was only to glance at the terrace lights.

'Why…?' The thought trailed before she could finish it.

There was a strange weight in her chest now—not heavy, but noticeable. The wind brushed against her hair, and the world felt smaller, nearer.

She just stood there, the air pressing close around them. It was cool, sweet with the faint scent of wet stone and distant rain. Yet none of it felt real—not the wind, not the stars, not the way Lucavion's smile still hung between them like a half-finished sentence.

Her pulse hadn't steadied. It beat against her ribs, uneven, infuriatingly loud. His words—I knew you wouldn't drown—kept replaying in her head, warm and sharp at once.

She didn't want to feel it. Didn't want to believe it.

Those kinds of words were dangerous. She'd heard them before, in marble corridors lit by gold chandeliers, from mouths that spoke with honey and meant poison. Words meant to disarm, to soften, to make her forget her place before they reminded her of it.

Sweet words were daggers with polished hilts.

And so—she didn't move. She simply looked at him, her throat tight, the ache in her chest refusing to settle.

'He's lying,' she told herself. 'He has to be. That's what people do.'

Her gaze dropped for an instant, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. The silence stretched until she almost couldn't bear it anymore.

"Liar."

The word slipped out, quiet but sharp. It tasted strange on her tongue—too honest, too brittle.

Lucavion blinked. His eyebrows lifted slightly. "...Hmm?"

The breeze tugged gently between them, catching the loose strands of his hair. It had grown longer lately, brushing against his jaw, moving with the wind in careless rhythm. Her own hair barely stirred—tied neatly, disciplined as ever.

She met his eyes again. This time, she didn't flinch. "You're lying."

Lucavion tilted his head, the ghost of his earlier smile returning—but fainter, uncertain now. "About what, exactly?"

"About that." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "That you knew I wouldn't drown."

He didn't answer immediately. The quiet filled with the sound of the wind brushing over the terrace railings, the faint hum of wards pulsing somewhere deep in the Academy below.

Priscilla continued, her tone sharpening just slightly. "You don't know me. You don't even trust me. You said it yourself—you were testing me. Watching to see if I'd sink or not. And now you stand there and smile as if you've always believed in me."

Her chest tightened, and before she could stop herself, the next words came softer—like an old bruise pressed too hard. "That's not how it works. Not for people like me."

Lucavion studied her for a long, unreadable moment. The humor in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter—curiosity, perhaps, or thought.

Then he smiled again, smaller this time, less polished. "So that's what you think?" he said, his tone gentle but threaded with something more serious underneath. "That I'm just saying what you want to hear?"

"I've heard it before," she muttered, her gaze drifting toward the garden below. "In the palace, in court… People said all sorts of things. Some wrapped their disdain in courtesy. Others dressed their ambition as affection. None of it ever mattered. None of it was real."

The corners of his smile faltered, just slightly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavier now—thick enough to feel.

Then Lucavion exhaled through his nose, a quiet, thoughtful sound. "You think I'm like them."

"I think you're better at pretending."

He let out a low hum, not agreement, not denial. "Interesting."

She finally looked back at him. "Is it?"

just slightly, and that faint, lopsided smile crept back to his face.

"I don't lie."

The words came so naturally it almost sounded like habit, that same lazy certainty he'd used before—in the banquet hall, in the testing chamber, even during their first meeting on the terrace.

It wasn't boastful. It was simply there, like something carved into him long ago.

Priscilla felt her lips part, a faint breath leaving her before she caught it. He always said that. As if it were a truth beyond question, a rule of nature.

And maybe to him, it was.

Still, she met his eyes and said flatly, "I don't believe that."

Lucavion's smile didn't waver. If anything, it deepened—faint amusement shadowed with something unreadable. "No?"

"I have no reason to," she said, voice low but firm. "You say whatever suits the moment. Sometimes you mean it, sometimes you don't. How am I supposed to tell the difference?"

He didn't answer at once. Instead, his eyes lifted—past her, past the terrace, to the sky where the last light of day stretched thin over the horizon.

The sun had nearly vanished behind the distant line of rooftops. The sky was divided between gold and grey, that quiet, fragile hour when the world couldn't decide if it wanted to hold onto day or surrender to night.

Lucavion stood there for a long moment, watching it. The glow caught in his hair, outlining him in fading amber. When he spoke again, his tone had changed—not playful this time, not sharp. Just quiet, thoughtful.

"That's a rather pitiful way to live, don't you think?"

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