Lady Serenya had learned young that curiosity, when sharpened too quickly, became accusation.

  And accusation—no matter how gently phrased—forced people to choose between defense and retreat.

  She preferred something subtler.

  Observation.

  It began with absence.

  Marquil had been present often enough when he first arrived at court—reliable, punctual, almost painfully earnest in his attempts to fit into a world that had not been written for him. Knights were expected to be visible. Predictable. Anchored to routine.

  Marquil, increasingly, was none of those things.

  He missed an evening meal. Then another. He arrived te to drills with apologies that were polite but oddly vague. On two occasions, he excused himself from court gatherings moments before important conversations began, returning ter with his composure intact but his attention faintly elsewhere.

  Serenya noticed because she noticed everything.

  Not obsessively. Practically.

  She cataloged patterns the way other people collected gossip.

  At first, she assumed coincidence. Knights were often summoned unexpectedly. Duties shifted. Schedules bent.

  Then she noticed when he vanished.

  Never during training.

  Never during public ceremony.

  Always during social convergence.

  When the court gathered.

  When whispers circuted.

  When Silken’s name drifted just beneath conversation like perfume.

  That coincidence troubled her.

  She adjusted her habits, quietly.

  She lingered near the training grounds at twilight, speaking with Gareth and the other knights, listening for mention of Marquil’s movements. She walked the gallery corridors ter in the evening, noting which doors opened and closed. She asked servants questions framed as idle curiosity.

  “Did Sir Marquil already pass through?”

  “Oh? Earlier than expected.”

  “Did he leave with anyone?”

  The answers were never arming.

  But they never aligned.

  One maid mentioned seeing him leave through the west corridor. Another swore he’d gone toward the gardens. A guard recalled him exiting alone, while a page insisted he’d been accompanied by someone hooded.

  Serenya smiled through each exchange.

  Inside, her interest sharpened.

  Their first deliberate conversation came by accident—or so it appeared.

  She found him in the fig orchard beyond the inner wall, armor set aside, sleeves rolled, a faint cut along his knuckle he hadn’t yet noticed.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  Marquil startled, then followed her gaze. “Ah. That expins the sting.”

  She produced a cloth from her sleeve without comment and offered it.

  “Thank you,” he said, surprised.

  They stood there a moment, the orchard quiet save for cicadas and distant bells.

  “You favor this pce,” Serenya observed.

  “It’s quiet,” Marquil replied. “No expectations.”

  She studied him openly, unembarrassed by scrutiny. “Court life doesn’t suit you.”

  He ughed softly. “Does it suit anyone?”

  Serenya smiled at that. “Some of us learn to wear it well.”

  They walked together between the trees, the conversation meandering. Serenya spoke of trivialities—an upcoming council dinner, her father’s frustration with foreign tariffs, a gown she disliked because it made her feel like someone else entirely.

  Marquil listened carefully, answering when prompted, rexing despite himself.

  Then she asked, casually, “Do you enjoy disappearing?”

  He stopped.

  Not abruptly. Not defensively.

  Just… paused.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.

  Serenya met his gaze, expression mild. “Neither am I. That’s why I asked.”

  The silence stretched.

  Then Marquil exhaled. “Sometimes I enjoy not being watched.”

  She nodded. “Most people do.”

  They resumed walking.

  Serenya said nothing more—but she filed away the answer. It was honest. Carefully so.

  The court showcase two nights ter confirmed her suspicions.

  Serenya watched from her customary vantage point as Silken’s newest creations debuted—Aurora-threaded gowns shimmering subtly beneath chandeliers, the air itself seeming to respond.

  She did not watch the gowns.

  She watched the people watching them.

  She saw how Marquil stood near the periphery, posture alert but restrained. How his eyes tracked reactions with the precision of someone invested not in appuse, but in outcome.

  She saw how he left early.

  Again.

  This time, she followed.

  Not openly. Never openly.

  She allowed him distance, trailing just far enough to remain unseen. She watched him disappear into the warren of corridors near the service wing, noted which passage he chose.

  She did not pursue further.

  What mattered was not where he went.

  What mattered was that he knew how to vanish.

  Their next conversation took pce days ter, in the gallery overlooking the river.

  Serenya joined him at the balustrade without announcement.

  “Silken fascinates the court,” she said, eyes on the water.

  Marquil stiffened almost imperceptibly. “So I’ve heard.”

  She turned toward him. “Do you approve?”

  He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I think… he challenges people to feel something new.”

  “Is that dangerous?”

  “It can be.”

  Serenya smiled faintly. “You speak as though you’ve given this great thought.”

  “I admire craft,” Marquil said.

  “So do I,” she replied. “Silken’s work feels intentional. Considered. Not reckless.”

  Marquil’s pulse quickened.

  “He doesn’t hide behind shock,” she continued. “He invites reflection. That takes restraint.”

  She looked at him fully now.

  “You remind me of him.”

  The words nded softly—and cut deeply.

  “In what way?” Marquil asked.

  “You both stand slightly apart,” Serenya said. “As if the world isn’t quite shaped for you, but you’re polite enough not to compin.”

  Marquil ughed under his breath. “That’s an unfttering comparison.”

  “I don’t mean it to be.”

  She held his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. Not accusation.

  Recognition.

  Later that evening, alone, Serenya reviewed everything she knew.

  Marquil’s absences.

  Silken’s timing.

  The quiet precision with which both navigated the court.

  She did not conclude they were the same man.

  Not yet.

  But she did conclude this:

  Marquil was not merely a knight swept up in change.

  He was standing at its center.

  And he was trying—very carefully—to ensure no one noticed.

  Serenya smiled to herself.

  Eyes that noticed were dangerous.

  But they could also be loyal.