ALISTAIR

  The flame didn't catch.

  Alistair Ascor sat like a painting on the clubroom couch, one leg crossed neatly over the other, spine held like he was born balancing tea trays on it. Which, in fact, he was.

  He clicked the lighter again. Still nothing.

  The marble fireplace across from him crackled with contempt.

  He sighed, adjusted the cuff of his tailored navy blazer, and tried once more. This time, the flame held.

  He leaned forward, cigarette between his lips, intent on a single moment of peace—

  The door flung open.

  Corin Clarendon strode in. Her heels bit the antique rug, and before he could so much as lift a brow, her fingers snatched the cigarette clean from his mouth.

  "What did I say about this little vice of yours?" she asked, not bothering to look at him as she snapped the stick in half and tossed it into the ashtray like discarding a failed suitor.

  Alistair glanced at the broken pieces of tobacco.

  "It wasn't lit yet," he said mildly.

  "That doesn't mean I won't hurt you next time," she replied, already halfway to the fireplace, the amber glow licking at the hem of her navy uniform.

  It had been four days since term began, and Corin had been... difficult. Which was saying something, considering her baseline was imperial frostbite.

  Not that Billard noticed, of course. The school saw her as curated to perfection, Head Girl posture, everything done with ease and class, like she didn't even sweat. But here, behind polished oak doors and gilded privacy, she let the devil out. Not fully. Just enough to scorch the wallpaper.

  Alistair leaned back into the sofa, exhaled quietly, and adjusted the silk knot of his tie. His socks—canary yellow today, with tiny blue lions—peeked out from under his immaculately pressed trousers. He watched her eye them briefly, as she always did. She never commented. That was the worst part.

  "Mustard Boy," he said.

  She didn't need context. She knew who he meant.

  "He scored a hundred on the entrance exam."

  He saw her shift her weight, a gesture that meant so much more than words could, because no one had ever gotten a perfect score on that. Not even previous prime ministers during their days at Billard.

  The only other person who ever had was currently standing across the room with a thunderstorm in her mouth.

  "What else?" she asked, her voice clipped.

  He stood with deliberate care, like a butler answering the Queen's call, and moved to the side table where a school-sanctioned decanter of brandy awaited. He poured himself a glass—not because he needed it, but because he liked the sound it made, the way light bent through the amber.

  "Not a penny to his name," he said. "Doesn't look like someone's bastard. But you never know. Some people hide their roots too well."

  She didn't answer.

  Alistair took a sip. It was dull brandy, from the school's cellar, and beneath his standards. He made a note to swap out the liquor later.

  "I'm not sure what he wants yet," Alistair added, crossing one leg over the other again. "Which is exactly what makes him dangerous."

  Corin turned slowly. Her eyes were colder than the brandy in his hand.

  "If he's as smart as you say," she murmured, "one of you should be scared."

  She was right, of course.

  Victor should be nervous. He wore his entitlement like a crown and had the charm of a blunt spoon.

  Rothwell still hadn't forgiven the world for his demotion from her side.

  And Alistair? Well, he wasn't scared. He was interested.

  He pulled another cigarette from his case. Leaned back. Lit it with a new flick of the lighter.

  Corin crossed the room, slow, silent, and plucked it—again—straight from his mouth.

  "Majest—"

  Before the word even finished forming, she stubbed it out on the mahogany board beside him.

  His chessboard.

  The one with mother-of-pearl inlays and hand-carved ebony kings.

  "Didn't we have this conversation already?" she asked without looking at him.

  He couldn't curse. Couldn't even sigh. It was his fault. Corin didn't like repeating herself.

  Alistair stared at the smudge of ash now marring the square where his bishop had been. He closed the lid with a quiet snap.

  "I'm down a bishop now," he muttered.

  "You shouldn't be putting that thing into your mouth," she said.

  He reached for her hand, brushing her fingers with his own. "Then give me something else."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She leaned against the mantle again, the flicker of a grin ghosting the corner of her mouth.

  A flash of silver caught the firelight. His breath stalled.

  "Knight," she murmured, lifting the letter opener to his throat, "careful now. I enjoy you—but don't provoke me."

  Alistair cursed inwardly. He had told the clubroom keeper never to leave sharp objects lying around. He hadn't even seen her take it.

  "Put it down," he said softly, swallowing around the cold edge pressing his skin.

  "He doesn't look at me like the rest of you," she continued, the blade still resting against him.

  "You mean with fear," he answered evenly, "or obsession?"

  Corin lowered the knife at last and placed it neatly beside his ruined chessboard.

  "Either."

  Alistair exhaled. A bead of sweat rolled from his temple down his jaw, and he stepped away.

  "Do you... want him to?" he asked carefully. One sharp thing aimed at him was enough for one day.

  Her eyes flicked to him. For a second, just one, he thought he saw it: a question she hadn't dared ask herself yet.

  She straightened her collar, turned toward the door, and left without another word. No apology. No goodbye. Just footsteps echoing on marble and the scent of lilies where she had stood.

  Alistair remained by the chessboard. He didn't reach for another cigarette.

  Instead, he picked up his dethroned bishop and turned it in his fingers.

  A mysterious new boy. A queen who's losing control. And three would-be kings all convinced they still had her favour.

  The board was about to shift.

  ***

  It was barely past lunch when Alistair decided to follow him.

  Not in the cloak-and-dagger sense. That would be pedestrian. No, this was observation. Academic. The same way one might study a new organism, or the twitch of a queen's hand during wartime.

  Lucien Green left the east wing after Literature, books tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up like he didn't care this was Billard and not some bargain-rate public school. His tie had already begun its daily descent from 'uniform' to 'suggestive accessory,' and somehow, no one had yet enforced dress code.

  Alistair trailed him with the same poise he wore everywhere: one hand in his coat pocket, steps exact, back never slouched. Someone who belonged on a hundred-pound note. No one ever questioned where he went. He was Alistair Ascor. That was reason enough.

  Lucien didn't lead him anywhere exciting. Just the library.

  But it wasn't the main one—the grand arched cathedral of leather and glass, where students flaunted their annotations like stock portfolios. No, he chose the back one.

  The old wing.

  A place most students avoided unless they had something to hide. Or were trying not to be seen.

  Alistair entered a few minutes later, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate precision. The sleeves were crisp white. His socks—today's statement pair—were covered in cartoon frogs.

  Lucien was at a corner table. Books spread out before him—not just course texts, but ones from the off-curriculum shelves. Economics. Political strategy. Defence history.

  Interesting.

  He wasn't just smart. He was curious. And curiosity, Alistair knew, was the first thing Billard crushed in its heirs.

  He stood by the Philosophy shelf, pretending to examine a copy of The Republic. That was when their eyes met across the space.

  Lucien didn't startle. He didn't even pretend not to see him.

  Instead, he nodded once. Calm. Measured. A little like a chess player acknowledging a worthy opponent across the board.

  Alistair tilted his head in return but said nothing. Then he walked slowly, casually to the other end of the shelves.

  If Lucien was surprised, he didn't show it. He just returned to his reading.

  Alistair watched for another ten minutes. Long enough to confirm the pattern: no posturing, no flash. Just analysis. Lucien wasn't even underlining or annotating; he was just consuming the words.

  Eventually, Lucien stood and returned the books.

  He made his way toward the exit. Alistair let him pass by the edge of the shelves.

  "I know you're watching me," Lucien said softly, not as an accusation but as fact.

  Alistair just stared at him.

  "If it's a mild crush you have, forget it. I like girls."

  Alistair stepped forward, closing the gap just enough.

  "One of these days, someone will make you choke on that tongue of yours."

  Lucien studied him then, not as a peer, but as something older. Smarter. As if trying to determine whether Alistair was a threat or a test.

  "Are you warning me?" he asked.

  "Think of it as orientation," Alistair replied. "Everyone's curious on what you actually want to come here."

  "And you?"

  He offered a polite, perfect smile. "I'm deciding."

  Lucien held his gaze. "You people talk like it's all war."

  "You're at Billard," Alistair said. "It is war. We're just better dressed."

  ***

  For the third day now, he swore he wasn't lurking. He wasn't in the old wing because he was expecting his bishop to appear and make his day interesting.

  It wasn't like he knew the queen would be here too.

  She never came to this wing. The books were too dusty, the chairs were too creaky, and the windows hadn't opened in a decade. Not suitable for her delicate majesty.

  And yet, there she was.

  He spotted her the moment she stepped between the shelves, her expression twisting with distaste.

  The corners of Alistair's mouth twitched. Predictable. She clicked her tongue—sharp, annoyed—the sound echoing in the quiet space like a metronome of disapproval.

  He followed her gaze to the top shelf. Of course. She wanted that book. She always wanted the most inconvenient thing in the room.

  No ladder, though. She scowled. He knew that look. Pride would never let her walk away or ask for help. So, she reached, and unsurprisingly, came up short.

  He watched her stretch with the kind of stubbornness that seemed determined to defy every law of the universe. But his wasn't the only pair of eyes on her.

  "Do you need me to carry you?" Lucien asked, tone dry but not mocking.

  Alistair tensed. He'd give the boy credit—walking directly into a Clarendon tantrum was a bold choice.

  Corin turned. And smiled.

  Alistair had seen it before. It wasn't joy. No, not even amusement. It was threat disguised as charm. Half-predator, half-prank. Never a good sign.

  "Do you really want to help?" she asked. "Will you not regret it?"

  Lucien, clueless as ever, nodded.

  An idiot.

  He had no idea how she behaved when no one was watching. Alistair did. It was why he remained very still and silent, like a biologist observing two wild animals in the midst of a mating ritual or a power struggle.

  "Get down," Corin ordered. "On all fours."

  Lucien blinked. "What?"

  She pointed to the floor. No explanation. No shame.

  Lucien sighed and obeyed. Slowly, he crouched, hands flat on the ground. Like a butler. Or a beast.

  Corin, graceful as a swan, stepped forward and planted one heel between his shoulder blades.

  Lucien groaned. Her shoes were stilettos. Alistair recognized the brand. There was no mercy in those soles.

  Second foot followed.

  His arms trembled slightly, not from weight—Corin was slight—but from the bite of her heel. He didn't cry out.

  "Don't you dare drop me," she warned in a singsong tone.

  "Get your damn book, Corin," Lucien muttered, voice strained.

  She took her time as expected. Ran her fingertips across the bindings like she was browsing wine.

  "Don't look up," she warned sweetly. "Or I'll break your neck."

  He watched beads of moisture dot Lucien's forehead and the small tremors through his fingers. Not from fear, or shame, but sheer effort.

  Her Majesty's heel was digging into him with all the gentle grace of a dagger. She was doing it on purpose. Her way of reminding him that he was nothing but a foot stool.

  "Found it," she announced at last, then she looked down and beamed at the commoner.

  Lucien was still holding. Barely.

  She stepped down. First heel, then the other. The moment her weight left him, he let out a low, audible breath like someone surfacing from under ice.

  "Do you regret it now?" she said, smug.

  Lucien rose slowly, dusting off his hands. When he stood fully upright, Alistair noted how much taller he was than her. But the way she looked up at him made it feel like they were eye to eye.

  "No," he answered.

  "No?"

  "Because I love blue," he added. Then turned and walked away.

  Corin's face did something strange. She was flushed, not with embarrassment, but something closer to fury. She looked genuinely rattled.

  Blue?

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  And then it clicked.

  The damn bastard looked up.