Rocher owed Seraphine a debt he couldn't repay.

  When he'd reached for Cire alone, it felt like treading water—no matter how close he tried to get, she seemed to drift just as far.

  Seraphine came to his rescue. After the Thieves' Guild incident, she'd started to trust his feelings were real, and thrown her full weight behind him ever since. It was only with her help that he finally made a breakthrough: Cire had agreed to a date.

  That was why he received her next words with deadly seriousness.

  "I think Cire is in love with Ramón Huerta."

  His chest tightened. "...Expin."

  "She spent the whole holiday asking about him. At the parade, she couldn't take her eyes off him. And tely, she seems... distracted. What could it be if not love?"

  He forced himself still. A good leader didn't flinch at gossip, and he'd learned from the st incident not to let his emotion cloud his judgment. But even so, the thought lodged under his ribs like a splinter.

  Had Cire been taken in by Ramón's public image? He certainly did his best to put forward the image of a chivalrous knight—only those who knew him long enough to see the cracks understood his true nature.

  Well, Rocher couldn't put it past her. She seemed to hold too tight to first impressions. Despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, he would only ever be that irreverent rake to her.

  Cire had made him see it—the hole in his heart he'd tried to fill with easy charm and good looks. Everyone else in the kingdom turned a blind eye to his excesses. Gave him grace for what he sacrificed.

  But not her. She saw him for what he was. What he pretended to be.

  She alone was enough. The only good he allowed himself to have. For as long as it took—until he'd proven himself—he resolved to take only as much space as she offered him, and work to earn the rest.

  "I see..." He swallowed the words he wanted to say.

  Restraint was its own kind of pain. Every smile or irreverent ugh, every time she dreamed up some wild scheme, he felt it press against the walls he'd built inside himself.

  The night at the Thieves' Guild had shown just how fragile those walls were. He still remembered the sounds—the fixer's choking gasp, the scrape of his boots against wood—and then Cire's voice, cutting through it all. The look in her eyes haunted him: startled, uncertain, as if she'd glimpsed the part of him he was trying to bury.

  Now, watching her fixate on Ramón Huerta, that old desperation stirred again.

  "She's been following him," Seraphine added. "Writing in that notebook of hers. I think she's about to make contact."

  His heart lurched. Every instinct screamed to act, to stop her, to do something—but one step too far, and he'd lose the ground he'd made. So he held himself back, jaw locked, pulse hammering against the cage he built for it.

  Across the square, I crouched behind the fountain and scribbled another line in my notebook. After hours of watching, I'd nearly nailed Ramón's schedule:

  ? 08:00 — guild office (morning brief)? 14:00 — training ground (sparring)? 18:00 — supper at the tavern (prefers table by the hearth)? ~20:00 — manor (weeknights) / brothel (weekends)

  I snapped the book shut. Dragging Evelyn into this had derailed the story. Now it was on me to steer it back.

  My pn was simple: one, assassinate Ramón Huerta. Two, make it look like Thieves' Guild work. Minor details still needed ironing out—there was a lot I still had to work on.

  But first things first, I had to get close. I decided to py on his vanity and stage a "meet cute."

  Only I had underestimated how perceptive this bastard was.

  "You there."

  My blood froze. The sound of his voice hit like a whip.

  I thought I'd kept a safe distance, but he had turned and looked right at me.

  "You've been tailing me for a few days. Why don't you just come out and say what you want? The Lion's Pride brooks no secrecy."

  Fine. Subtlety was wasted on him. I resolved to run forward, stumble into a coquettish embrace, and confess my undying devotion.

  But instead, my nerves betrayed me, and I tripped over myself—crashing face-first into the cobbles. For a long, humiliating moment I y there, wanting the earth to swallow me.

  When I finally lifted my head I tasted iron—my nose was bleeding. He looked amused, one hand easing off his bde's pommel.

  He offered a hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

  Somehow, things seemed to have worked out?

  "I've always admired Sir Ramón from afar," I lied as he dabbed my nose with a handkerchief.

  "Yes—you were at the parade, weren't you? Strange—I usually remember every face worth remembering." His smile was practiced, slow.

  I exhaled. He hadn't recognized me as one of the hero party. I was gd I'd never made any official appearances with them—and I'd recently had an image change besides. It wasn't like Ramón to look past his own ego, especially while he was busy brown-nosing the Duke.

  I batted my eyeshes and bit my lip. "I was wondering…if I could work at the Huerta manor as a maid."

  He snorted. "That's certainly a roundabout way of doing things. What's your name, ss?"

  "Cire, Sir."

  "Then why don't you start by accompanying me on some errands today? We'll get your measurements for a uniform ter."

  His gaze lingered a beat too long below my eyes. Feeling unsettled, I slipped my arm through his and kept my jaw tight.

  "Shall we go then, Master?"

  He nodded approvingly.

  For the next week, I learned the ropes at the Huerta manor. The work resembled the chores I'd done as a nun—sweeping, scrubbing, and serving. Maybe being a nun was like being a maid for the Goddess.

  The other maids were wary at first, but my cheerful, steady hands soon bored them into leaving me alone. They sometimes watched me rummage through my satchel, but curiosity never turned into suspicion. Had they known what I kept inside...

  "Good morning, Miss Hattie! Good morning, Miss Nealie!"

  The mornings settled into a pleasant cadence: ughter, bread baking, the scent of cinnamon and yeast. Hattie rolled up her sleeves, flour dusting her forearms; Nealie hummed and arranged fruit for the lord's breakfast. It was an intoxicating rhythm.

  "Did you see Sir Ramón this morning?" Nealie gushed. "He was fencing again—without a shirt."

  "He's so galnt, isn't he?" Hattie sighed dreamily. "Always training to protect the kingdom. What do you think, Cire?"

  I gnced up from scrubbing silverware and tried not to roll my eyes. "He has a nice... face?"

  "Goodness," Nealie ughed. "You're hopeless!"

  "Here," Hattie said, pressing a small sugared roll into my hand. "Eat something. You work too hard."

  The warmth surprised me. For a moment the kindness caught and held me in its gentle snare.

  We worked until the trays were ready. For all its vanity and gossip, the manor felt almost homey in those mornings. I hummed once while polishing—a tiny betrayal of myself.

  By the time the Aurelian caravan finished lining the Royal Road, the cobbles themselves seemed to shine beneath their wheels. Dozens of wagons, white and gold, bore the sunburst crest of the Duchy. They were preparing for the long journey home.

  Lumiere stood near the lead wagon, robe hem lifting in the wind, the symbol of the Goddess glimmering softly at her throat. The sight of her smiling through the chill made my chest ache.

  "You're really going," I said.

  She nodded, though her eyes lingered on me. "The Duke insisted I appear for the Feast of Renewal. He says his people would feel blessed by the Saintess's presence."

  "Right. The Saintess," I echoed. "Not Lumiere."

  She smiled faintly. "They're the same person, you know."

  "I'm not so sure anymore. My Lumiere would be trembling like a leaf right now."

  Her ughter was quiet, like silver bells muffled by snow. "You'll be fine without me. It's only a few weeks."

  I wanted to believe that. But I'd already started working in Ramón's manor, spending my mornings in warm kitchens and warmer conversation. Sometimes I caught myself ughing with the maids, humming as I worked—and realized with a sting that I hadn't thought of Lumiere once the whole day. It felt like betrayal—emotional, spiritual, something I couldn't name.

  "Write to me," she said. "Even if it's only to compin."

  "I will."

  The drivers called for final boarding. Lumiere climbed onto the wagon, turning once more to wave. Her hair caught the light—gold against the gray sky. For a moment, her halo seemed to glow again, faint but steadfast, as if she carried the morning sun with her.

  "Goddess be with you, Cire!"

  Her voice carried, bright and warm, cutting straight through the quiet hum of the departing convoy.

  I raised my hand in return but couldn't bring myself to wave. My fingers trembled. When the wagons began to move, the sound of hooves faded into the drizzle until only the faint scent of lic remained.

  I headed back to work, to the warmth of the manor's hearth, and felt a pang of guilt so sharp it almost drew blood. This wasn't love. It wasn't safety. Just borrowed comfort—and even that, I felt I had no right to cim.