7


Miss had a point, of course.

It made far more sense to send Sir, as Master originally intended. Someone who actually knew the ropes—knew how to handle nobility, knew how to wield authority—knew what was expected of a court attendant.

It was a lot of pressure for a old pro, let alone a newcomer. But Obi couldn't complain.

He'd been the one to ask for this.


Perhaps somewhere, in the farthest reaches of his mind, a quiet, sensible little voice whispered that this would never work. Someone like you? A job like this?

Not a chance.

But.

Master surprised him before. Kept on surprising him, really. So he ignored all those nagging doubts and issued the challenge.

In hindsight, he should have expected it—the ferocity with which the prince lunged at him. Two weeks of relentless searching, of scouring docks and ships and warehouses, all without even a hint of a lead?

Parry.

Of course his Master felt cornered.

Dodge.

Ready to lash out at something. Or someone.

Block – damn. The blow renders his entire arm numb. He tosses the practice sword to his other.

But that was the point. Too much pressure shatters anything. Breaks stone, bends metal.

Parr—the wood splinters as the sword snaps in his hand. Seizing the opening, his Master charges and instinct smothers him—instinct he barely managed to supress, wrenching 'incapacitate' to 'disarm.'

Obi landed lightly, mere moments before Master's sword clattered to the floor at the edge of the practice ring.

And then everything started happening at once.

It was late. The little Miss was leaving in mere hours—he'd just ruined days of careful planning. But no one complained. Master went to inform her of his decision. Miss Kiki handled the necessary documents. And Sir dragged him off to the castle clothiers, leaping straight into an explanation of his newfound duties.


His gaze had drifted to his feet as he pondered, so he risked a glance at Miss.

She was still waiting patiently for her answer.
Staring with those unnerving eyes when he hadn't many to spare.

Obi scratched at his shoulder and looked to the wall instead—studied the patterns in the gilt wallpaper, the wainscoting's woodgrain.

Damn.

If there's a joke here, it's him.

His arrogance in thinking half a night's instruction equipped him to handle any of this. This was not his arena nor his modus operandi. And no matter how he looked at it, he was a weapon, not a shield.

So why was he here?

"Well?" she asks.

He tensed reflexively. Maybe Miss wasn't so patient after all.

"Is that a secret too?"

Or maybe she was just tired of his stalling. He wasn't exactly being subtle. Obi risks another glance.

She did look tired.

It peered out more and more from behind the crumbling edges of her mask.

Not the physical exhaustion after a long day's work, or even the crash that follows a particularly close call. No, this was the kind of tired that builds slowly—the kind that grinds down bit by bit over days and weeks and months until all that remained was an empty shell, a relentless bone deep weariness and the feverish desire for respite.

The Elder Highness was certainly doing his best to break her.

And she was too damn good a pretender-like coastal cliffs undermined by the sea, the damage remained hidden until the whole thing suddenly came crashing down.

He hadn't done a thing to guard her from that. All his blundering did was make everything worse.

Now he watched as she teetered on the brink, afraid his next word, his next action would tip her over the edge instead of snatching her back.

"What – " he ventures, cautious.

At this point, there was nothing else for it.

"What am I doing wrong?"