CHAPTER 18: MASKS AND KNIVES

Seraphine Duskveil entered the training yard with the unhurried confidence of someone who believed stone and air bent for her. The late sun caught her white hair, making it glow like frost spun into silk. Her amethyst eyes glittered with something sharper than admiration as they traced Armand, then the skeletal hound seated at his side, and the pale bird perched lightly on his wrist.

She smiled as if she had rehearsed the expression, soft at the corners, but her gaze measured everything.

"Armand," she said, letting the name fall from her lips like a favor she bestowed.

He straightened slowly, slipping the sabre back into its sheath with deliberate calm. Sweat darkened his shirt, his breath still rough from hours of work, but his posture was steady. Marrow sat obediently at heel, Hollow clicked once and stilled.

The boy she had been engaged to—arrogant, vain, desperate for her approval—would have rushed to greet her, words tumbling over themselves to please. This version only regarded her in silence, his eyes steady and unreadable.

Seraphine tilted her head, letting her hair fall like snow across her shoulder. "You’ve been hiding yourself away. Training alone." She stepped closer, boots whispering against the dirt. "It’s good to see you serious again. I was worried your... outburst the other night meant you were slipping."

Her voice was velvet, but each syllable pressed, testing for weakness.

Armand said nothing for a breath too long, then finally: "That wasn’t an outburst." His tone was level, almost quiet. "It was the truth."

Her smile never wavered. She had learned long ago that expressions were armor. "The truth? That you would break our engagement? Armand, please. We’ve known each other since childhood. You’ve said dramatic things before—usually to make me pay attention. I don’t mind, but you don’t need theatrics. We both know you’ll calm down."

She reached a gloved hand as if to brush a strand of hair from his brow, but he stepped back a fraction, enough to break the gesture without making it obvious.

Her amethyst eyes narrowed, the smile thinning.

"You think me dramatic," he said. "I think I was being clear."

Seraphine laughed softly, musical, the way courtiers were trained to laugh when they wished to dismiss someone without looking cruel. "You’ve always had such a temper. But you’ll come to your senses. You need me, Armand. Who else stands at your side when the academy whispers behind your back? Who else ensures your name still means something?"

Her voice sharpened on the last word—name—as though she wanted to remind him that his house’s power, her family’s dwindling fortunes, their shared reputations, all wove together into something neither could afford to unravel.

Armand studied her for a long moment. He could feel the echo of the old Armand beneath his ribs, the boy who had once basked in her attention like it was sunlight, who had thought her beauty and cunning made every cruelty worthwhile. That boy had let himself be used until there was nothing left but a shadow with a crest on its ring.

’He loved her,’ Armand thought. ’Or believed he did. If I’m wearing his skin, perhaps I owe him enough to try something different.’

Aloud, he said, "You think I need you more than you need me. But your family’s power wanes, Seraphine. The Duskveil name doesn’t hold the weight it once did. What you need is someone who can lift it again."

Her lips tightened for the briefest moment, a crack in the mask. Then the smile returned, brittle and bright. "And who better than you? A Valcrey heir, strong, feared, respected—"

"Feared," he interrupted. "Not respected. Not loved. Not trusted."

The words landed heavier than she expected. She blinked, lashes lowering to hide her eyes. Her shoulders stiffened, but she did not retreat.

He stepped forward, closing the space she had left. His voice remained calm, but steel threaded through it. "If you continue as you are—manipulating, scheming—you’ll drag both of us into the same pit. But if you change... if you choose differently... then maybe we can both rise higher. I’ll help you if you want to walk that path. If not, then I walk alone."

The offer hung in the air like an outstretched hand, visible only if she wished to see it.

Seraphine’s heart beat faster than her serene face betrayed. She had never known him to speak this way, with clarity instead of pride, with authority instead of bluster. The old Armand had been clay in her hands, easy to shape, easier to break. This one looked at her as though he saw through every mask she wore.

For a fleeting instant, she wondered if he was serious. If he truly meant to cut her away. If he would dare.

Then she smothered the thought. No, he is still the same boy. This is performance. A tantrum stretched long, a bluff I only have to outlast.

Her smile curved again, this time cooler, practiced to perfection. "You’ve grown bold, Armand. I like it. Confidence suits you."

She reached out and smoothed a fold of his coat with two fingers, ignoring how stiffly he stood. "But don’t mistake yourself. The academy’s first practical evaluation is coming. Assessments, trials, duels... you’ll find it less forgiving than a practice yard. And when the pressure grows too heavy, when even your twin and the Saints look down at you—you’ll come to me."

Her amethyst eyes locked on his. They gleamed with quiet certainty. "You’ll ask for help. And when you do, I’ll still be here."

She turned then, white hair swaying like snow in moonlight, the image of poise and superiority. Her steps were unhurried, as if she carried victory with her even before the battle began.

Armand watched her go, his eyes narrowing. The leash hummed steady in his chest—Marrow silent, Hollow still. His hand brushed the sabre hilt, more for thought than comfort.

’She thinks I’ll crawl back,’ he told himself. ’But this time, I won’t be used. If she changes, I’ll pull her out of the pit. If not... she can fall alone.’

The training yard grew quiet again. His breath cooled, the sweat on his back clinging as a chill reminder. The sun dipped lower, turning stone to gold, and her words lingered like smoke in the air.

The first practical evaluation was coming.

And when it did, the academy would see which of them stood alone, and which of them still wore their masks.