All characters belong to the lovely Sarah J. Maas.

THREE

Archer hadn't stop smiling even when they ordered custard filled bread and a coffee for Sam. He also hadn't spoken a word so Sam was feeling unsure of what to do, all he did was nod –in fact, his neck was getting sore from all the awkward nodding he was doing.

His young companion took another sip from his coffee, watching Sam, searching for something. Archer drops the cup back on the saucer that had little violets painted on the edge and scoops another spoonful full of sugar.

"You look pale Sam, how have you been," he drops the metal teaspoon into the dark coffee and mixes it. Sam could hear the metal and the glass faintly clinking against each other despite the loud ruckus coming from within the kitchen.

"I've been…" Should he lie or tell the truth? What would he gain from lying though?

Nothing.

He sighed and dropped both of his arms flat on the table, "I have been damn right terrible."

To that, Archer laughed an honest-to-good laugh and raised his cup, motioning for Sam to raise his. "That is as expected from a dead man Samuel. Life is a pure sweet torture."

He clinked his cup with Archer's.

"Life is a pure sweet torture," he murmured before draining his own coffee.

Archer pushed his empty cup aside along with everything else in the centre of the wooden table –floral decoration, a pot of sugar and the empty plate that held the two custard bread which Sam ate ravenously. As his arm stretched out to reach for Sam's finished coffee, the edge of his suede jacket sleeve rose to his wrist and Sam noticed a tattoo that he hasn't seen before.

"Now, time for some seriousness," Archer's voice lowered, "The competition starts in a week from now. You will enter under an alias. Your name will be Nathaniel Wellington –a young man who ran away from his boring rich life to become a assassin for the thrill."

He crinkled his nose at the last word. There was absolutely no thrill in killing people and anyone who knew Sam knew that he was an assassin for anything but the thrill. It was different for him –being an assassin was his mother's dying wish and it was either this or being a courtesan… like Archer.

Sam glanced at him again. Word has it that Archer has been building a rebel group but he highly doubted that. It was Archer Finn after all, the prince of beauty. When they were younger all he worried about was his hair. He probably still does but…

He watched him as he scratched behind his ear, the tattoo peaking out of his sleeve once again. Archer hated the idea of piercing or tattooing his skin, so, what changed?

"If you want to see Celaena, you need to survive the tests they throw," Archer flung his hand towards him like he was throwing a dart, "at you. You have one week to train."

A girl no older than fifteen approaches the table, "Would you like anything else gentlemen?"

She asked both of them but her eyes were trained on Archer the whole time as she twirled her ruby hair, Sam was completely oblivious to her. He fought the urge to vomit.

Without looking at her, he responded. "Actually, we were just leaving ma'am."

The waitress bit her bottom lip harshly before turning away and attending another table.

"That was rather rude for Archer Finn," he stood out of his seat and sighed through his words.

Archer stood up with him and placed a gold coin on the table. "People change over time Samuel. Some for the worse and some for the better but they certainly do change," he replied tiredly.

They arrived at Archer's townhouse in his horse-drawn carriage. It was nothing as he expected. The house was missing half of its roof and the door was off its hinges –it was just placed against the frame to make it look like the door was closed.

"Is this seriously your home Archer?" He asked, stepping out of the carriage and onto a gravel path. He'd thought there would be golden framed windows and statues made of marble.

Archer chuckled as he proceeded down the path towards the broken door. "Not by far. I live in an uptown threshold with Madam Clarisse and Lysandra."

Lysandra. Celaena hated her –she was even jealous of her which was preposterous. She was the most beautiful being on Earth so what was there to be jealous of...

"This is where we will be staying while your assassin friends are on the lookout for you until you live in the glass castle for the competition," he lifted the door up and moved it aside with a quiet grunt.

Inside, the furniture was brand new with plastic sheeting covering them. The rooms were surprisingly clean unlike the outside. Deception.

Archer unveiled a dark red couch and sat down with a low thud. "Training time Cortland," he said, lifting his foot onto his knee and raising his arms around the couch head.

He sighed, "What do I do?"

"I don't know. I'm a damn courtesan, what would I know about assassin training? Throw knives at a tree, run laps, do whatsoever pleases you!"

And so, he did. It became a daily routine for the next week.

At dawn, he would run laps around the front and back yard until his legs were unable to take another step. Afterwards, he would have breakfast with Archer who disappeared when they weren't dining. At noon, he would walk out to the Avery River and throw kitchen knives at different trees like they were enemies of his.

Once he was done, he would rest near the river then go home and run more laps until Archer came back from wherever he constantly vanished to. He never asked him any questions about where he went because Archer was giving him another chance to see Celaena and he didn't want that chance to be taken away from him… Like everything else in his life.

The day before the competition Archer came home with a cardboard box.

"Cortland, you need to look presentable when you meet the King and the other competitors since you are going to be representing my name," he opened the box and held out a tunic darker than the night sky. Sam pressed his fingers between the material. Linen. Not the best but still expensive.

"And this," he pulled a sword out of the box and unsheathed it, revealing the image of a Phoenix burnt into the blade, "Is a gift from me to you."

He held the sword in his hands and ran his fingers over the wings of the Phoenix. It was undeniably exquisite, beautiful and pricy like his new attire.

"Thank you a lot Archer," he breathed with a smirk creeping onto his face.

Archer pushed his face away, "Shut up Cortland."