Rosalyn, denied the support she had expected without even realizing she expected it, went sprawling onto the floor with a sharp, humiliating thud, landing awkwardly on her backside.
For one stunned second, she simply stared up at Theron, unable to believe what had just happened.
Earlier, he had moved with startling speed to stop her wrist and protect that girl. Earlier, he had reacted instantly, as though shielding Aveline had been the most natural thing in the world. And now, when she was the one visibly falling, he had not even bothered to offer his hand.
Sothing in Theron’s expression shifted then, as though only belatedly realizing that perhaps his response had not been the most considerate.
"Need help?" he asked.
But he still did not hold out his hand. He did not step forward. He did not even bend slightly, not enough to make the offer feel real.
He simply stood there looking down at her, as if the question itself should have been enough.
Rosalyn’s eye twitched.
The sheer audacity of it was almost impressive.
He had not caught her. He had not helped her up. And now he was asking whether she needed help while making absolutely no effort to provide any.
Heat surged up her neck and into her face.
Embarrassnt.
Humiliation.
Rage.
All of it crashed through her at once until she felt as if she might erupt on the spot.
Around them, several students abruptly discovered that the floor, the walls, and the ceiling had beco fascinating all at once. No one wanted to be caught staring. No one wanted to be the unfortunate soul who witnessed Rosalyn Caelvaris finally losing her temper.
Slowly, Rosalyn pushed herself upright on her own.
Her hands trembled out of raw fury.
She pointed a shaking finger in the direction Aveline had disappeared, then turned that sa blazing look back on Theron.
For the first ti since eting him, she genuinely wanted to set both of them on fire.
Theron only moved aside, as if her anger did not bother him in the slightest.
It really did not. His thoughts were already elsewhere, following Lucien Caelvaris as he hurried after Aveline, still unwilling to let her escape.
Lucien did not stop.
He caught up to her just as she reached the corridor, and this ti Aveline slowed, curiosity getting the better of her. Beneath her irritation, she had begun to suspect sothing important.
There was sothing about this old man that was different from the others. Sothing in the way he looked at her, in the way he spoke, in the way he seed to notice what everyone else missed. Deep down, she had already begun to understand that he might be a better teacher than the rest of them combined.
Pride had never been enough reason to walk away from knowledge.
To her surprise, Lucien stopped in front of her and held out both hands, palms facing up.
"Place your hands over mine," he said.
Aveline narrowed her eyes, mildly annoyed and more than a little suspicious. Still, curiosity won. She placed her hands over his.
Before she could make sense of what he intended, Lucien interlocked his fingers with hers and leaned forward until his face was close to hers. Then he blew gently across her face.
Aveline’s eyes closed on instinct.
Her annoyance flared at once. "What are you doing, old man?" she asked.
For soone called an old man, Lucien’s grip was remarkably steady, almost unyielding. Even now, while holding her hands, he looked at her with an intensity that was strangely unsettling. A faint redness had begun to creep into his eyes, and that made her irritation falter just a little.
"I see you," he said.
Aveline’s expression shifted.
That was the second ti he had said it.
The words landed differently now, quieter and heavier than before. She did not fully understand why, but sothing in her chest tightened at the sound of them.
Then Lucien released her hands.
"Your brother is not with you?" he asked.
Aveline rolled her eyes. "I do not have a brother."
Lucien did not seem to hear her.
He was already fiddling with the gold chain around his neck, his movents quick and deliberate. From sowhere in his pocket, he drew out a small dallion, plain at first glance but clearly important to him. Then, with one of the stones he had been carrying, he carved sothing into its surface.
Aveline watched him in silence, her curiosity sharpening with every motion.
And then, without warning, he lifted the chain and placed it around her neck.
Aveline froze.
"Have it with you at all tis," he said, leaning in just a little too close for comfort. "This ti, I’ll protect you."
She did not understand why he would say that.
She did not understand why he would give her sothing so serious, so suddenly, so openly.
But he looked completely sincere.
That, more than anything, left her unsettled.
"Grandfather!"
Rosalyn’s voice cut through the corridor with the brittle sharpness of wounded pride. She lifted her chin as she spoke, as though volu alone could restore the dignity she had just lost. "I am here to introduce my future husband," she announced for everyone to hear.
It was not really an introduction. It was a declaration, thrown out like a banner ant to cover the embarrassnt still burning on her face. She needed the room to rember who she was. She needed them to look at her and see not the girl who had fallen, but the woman who belonged beside the Crown Prince, the woman whose place had already been chosen.
Lucien’s gaze slid toward her.
He looked at her for a long mont, then gave a faint, almost disbelieving snort.
"In all my years," he said dryly, "I have seen mismatched couples. I have seen unhappy couples. I have even seen couples who openly despised one another."
His eyes narrowed a fraction, and the corner of his mouth twitched with scorn.
"Yet sohow," he continued, "this is the first ti I have seen two people who seem entirely wrong for each other from the mont they stand in the sa room."
The silence that followed was imdiate and rciless.
Rosalyn’s face tightened.
Lucien looked from her to Theron, as though the conclusion offended him on a scholarly level.
"The fit is so poor," he said, his tone turning even colder, "it borders on absurdity."
For a mont, Rosalyn could only stare at him, her humiliation deepening into outrage. To be dismissed so casually, and in public, by her own grandfather no less, felt almost worse than Aveline’s insults.
She had expected support. She had expected loyalty. Instead, she had been reduced to a spectacle, asured and found wanting before everyone’s eyes.
And Aveline, standing a little apart with Lucien’s chain resting against her throat, looked as though she had just stepped into a room where nothing concerned her in the slightest.
That, sohow, made Rosalyn even angrier.
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