The leaves above him rustled, a sound too deliberate for the breeze. A moment later, a tiny, pink-gold form descended. Amora drifted down like a falling petal, her wings a nervous hum. She came to a hesitant stop, hovering in the air directly before him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She couldn't meet his eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere on his sternum.

Alistair did not move from his seat on the bench. He merely watched her, his expression granite. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of training. He let it hang, let the weight of her disobedience and his disappointment press down on her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet, each word a chip of ice. "What, precisely, did I instruct you to do this morning?"

Amora flinched. Her wings stilled for a second, and she dropped an inch in the air before recovering. "R-remain in the study," she squeaked.

"And what," he continued, the calm in his tone a stark contrast to the vein that could be seen pulsing faintly at his temple, "are you doing here?"

"I... I was... observing.."

"Observing?" he supplied, the word dry and sharp as a whip crack. "You have an interesting definition of the word 'remain'. Along with your definitions of 'discreet' and 'quietly'."

"I was careful!" she burst out, her tiny voice gaining a desperate edge. "No one saw me! I was the soul of—"

"Do not," he interrupted, his voice dropping even lower, "finish that sentence. It is not about being seen. It is about being crushed under some unseeing foot. It is about a stray sword stroke you cannot predict. It is about a world that is, by its very design, too large and too violent for you." The controlled anger was a living thing in the space between them, cold and sharp. "I gave you an order to keep you from becoming a tragic, glittery smear on the cobblestones. Explain to me why you seem so determined to become one."

The graphic, horrifying image he painted—a "glittery smear"—struck her with physical force. It wasn't just a scolding; it was a vision of her own annihilation, delivered in his chillingly logical tone.

Panic and indignation warred within her. "But I wouldn't! I'm not! I've been watching you for four months before you ever caught me in your office and I followed you here lots of times and nothing ever happened. I.. I know how to stay safe!"

The confession, born of sheer, flustered defense, tumbled out into the silence she had just broken.

Alistair went perfectly still. It was a different stillness than before. This was the freeze of a man whose worst suspicions have not only been confirmed but have been exponentially multiplied. The number—four months—landed, giving a staggering, horrifying timeline to her presence.

He slowly leaned back, his grey eyes holding hers with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. A long, slow breath escaped his nostrils.

"Four months," he repeated, his voice unnervingly hollow. He dragged a hand down his face, a rare gesture of pure, unvarnished weariness. "You have had a front-row seat to my life for more than an entire season without my knowledge." He let the statement hang, its violation immense. "That is not 'observation.' It is called 'stalking.' And your proud declaration of it does not make the reality any less... unsettling."

Amora opened her mouth, a defense ready on her tongue, then snapped it shut. What could she say? That to her, it wasn't stalking? That it was her sacred duty? To his ears, it would sound like the ramblings of a... well, a stalker. The human term was so ugly, so wrong, but she had no equivalent to offer.

Alistair watched the internal struggle play out on her tiny face. He sighed, a short, sharp exhale as he visibly wrestled his composure back into its iron cage. "So," he began, his voice regaining its measured calm, though the tension still thrummed beneath it. "You are a veteran of this environment. You know its dangers intimately. You should know it holds nothing for you. Why? Why would you repeatedly infiltrate a place like this?" He gestured with a slight, dismissive tilt of his head toward the grunting, sweating, steel-clashing chaos beyond their shaded spot. "There is nothing to observe here. Just men. Training."

The question, so logical, so utterly blind, was the final spark.

"Nothing to observe?" she repeated, her voice starting with a sharp, defiant edge. She zipped a little closer, her tiny hands gesturing at the air around them. "You see a sweaty, noisy, smelly field! I see... I see a cathedral!"

Her tone began to shift, the frustration melting away, replaced by an involuntary, wondrous warmth. Her gaze grew distant, looking not at the physical forms, but through them.

"Beneath all that leather and sweat," she said, her voice softening into a dreamy lilt, "this place is woven with wonder. It's a tapestry of threads... of love and longing that stretch far beyond these walls."

She floated in a slow, graceful circle, as if tracing the invisible connections only she could see. "So many of them carry hearts that beat for others. A wife in home, lover in village, people they would die for... Their emotions glow around them, reaching out like... like silent prayers." She turned back to him, her pink eyes wide and luminous, all defiance gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated revelation. "This place isn't just training. It's... it's a garden. The most beautiful, resilient hearts, all beating with stories you can't even see."

She fell silent, hovering before him, her own heart in her eyes. The air between them was no longer charged with anger, but with the echo of her impossible, beautiful vision.

Alistair stared at her.

He blinked, once, very slowly, as if trying to clear the image of shimmering threads and beating hearts from his mind's eye. Then he let out a long, slow sigh, shaking his head as he dragged a hand down his face. It was a gesture of pure, exasperated disbelief.

But as his hand passed over his mouth, it hid the briefest, most involuntary twitch at the corner of his lips, a reaction to the sheer, absurd wonder of her perspective that fought a war against the vein still pulsing with strained patience at his temple.

He lowered his hand, his composure once again a solid wall, though perhaps with a new, hairline fracture. His gaze drifted away from her. But her words had planted a seed.

They have stories.

The thought intruded, unwelcome and undeniable. The young recruit, who he saw his face tight with concentration this morning, wasn't just a body learning to hold a pike. He was someone's son. Perhaps he dreamed of a girl in his village. The veteran sergeant barking orders had a life beyond this field, a home to return to, memories and regrets he carried in silence.

He saw men as weapons for battle, assets to be maintained and deployed.

But suddenly he saw them as men. With lives that began long before they entered his service and would continue long after they left his sight. They loved, they longed, they bled for reasons that had nothing to do with him.

Before he could form this disquieting thought into words, she was off again, the dam of her passion broken.

"And it's not just here, it's everywhere!" she babbled, zipping in a frantic, shimmering circle in front of him, her back often turned as she gestured wildly at the invisible tapestry of the world. "In the kitchens, the maids whisper about the stable boys and their threads are all a-jumble of pink and gold, and in the village, the baker's daughter pines for the blacksmith's apprentice and the longing is so thick you could swim in it, and—"

She was speaking faster and faster, her words tumbling over one another, her tiny chest heaving with the effort to pour her entire worldview out before him. Her cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink, not from shame, but from the sheer, overwhelming need to make him see.

"—and it's all connected, don't you see? Every heart is a loom, and every thread is a story, and my job, my real job, isn't to force them, it's just to… to make sure the knots aren't too tight and the colors don't fade and—"

She finally had to stop, gasping for a tiny breath, her wings drooping slightly from the exertion. She hovered there, panting, her back to him as she stared at a distant point, completely unaware of the nascent, golden thread that had quietly formed in the space her passion had filled.

Alistair watched the entire performance, his expression unreadable. The faint, amused twitch was gone, replaced by a look of analytical curiosity. When the silence returned, he let it stretch for a beat, then raised a single eyebrow.

"Fascinating," he stated, his tone drier than the training field dust. "Is this extensive oratory meant to be a defense against the charge of stalking? A plea for me to reconsider your definition from 'criminal trespass' to 'aesthetic appreciation'?"

He leaned back, the picture of cool detachment, though his eyes remained fixed on her, studying her with an intensity that belied his casual tone. "Or are you simply attempting to talk me into a headache so severe I forget why I was angry in the first place?"

Amora tensed mid-hover. Her tiny shoulders shot up to her ears. She didn't dare turn around, the weight of his dry, sarcastic question pinning her in place.

Just then, a blur of movement in the periphery—Gareth was merely walking back toward the ring, still a good twenty paces away and not even looking in their direction.

It was all the excuse she needed.

"Intruder!" she squeaked, a blatant and desperate overreaction. In a panicked pink shimmer, she zipped straight up, vanishing back into the leafy sanctuary of the oak tree without a single glance behind her.

Alistair was left alone on the bench. He stared at the empty space where she'd been. A long, slow breath escaped him. The vein at his temple, which had finally begun to subside, gave one last, prominent throb of pure, exhausted exasperation. And despite it all—or perhaps because of it—the briefest, most weary twist of a smile touched his lips before he smoothed it away, that lingering scent of her was the only proof she had ever been there at all.

The brief respite was over. Gareth's shadow fell over him.

“Another round, Your Grace?”

Alistair rose from the bench, his expression composed, though his pulse had not quite returned to its usual calm rhythm. “Naturally.”

He stepped back into the circle. The air was cooler now beneath the oak’s shade, though the sun still pressed at the edges of the field. Gareth’s stance shifted. The next bout began.

Steel met steel again, the sharp rhythm returning—clean, deliberate, measured. But this time, Alistair’s precision had a ghost of hesitation. His parries were still flawless, but a fraction slower. His mind, so disciplined it could map a battle in silence, found itself wandering—unwillingly—to the rustling branches above.

He caught himself glancing upward once—just once—under the pretext of adjusting his footing. The leaves swayed gently. Nothing more. No pink light. No shimmer.

Still, he thought he saw something glint—a faint flicker near the upper branches.

He ignored it.

He tried to

Gareth pressed him harder, their blades ringing in clean succession. Alistair countered easily, the motion fluid, automatic. Yet, between strikes, he caught himself listening—actually listening—for a telltale hum, the delicate buzz of wings that had no business surviving this environment.

“Your focus, Duke,” Gareth barked between blows, his grin widening.

Alistair’s jaw flexed. He turned a block into a driving twist of the wrist, disarming his opponent in one smooth motion. “It is precisely where it should be.”

“Oh I'm sure it is,” Gareth panted, stooping to retrieve his sword.

Alistair didn’t dignify that with an answer. His gaze flicked upward once more, only for the briefest instant. The oak’s leaves shifted, filtering light like green glass. Still nothing. Perhaps she was still up there—quiet, hidden, unharmed. It was high enough. Far from the swords. Far from danger.

He drew a slow breath, forcing the thought to settle him. She’s safe. That’s all that matters. Focus.

He adjusted his grip, the cool steel grounding him again. Gareth lunged. Alistair deflected, spun, countered—a seamless, controlled storm. And this time, his rhythm did not falter.

When the bout ended, both men stood breathing hard, the echo of steel fading into the hum of the training grounds. Gareth grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Better. You’re back in it.”

Alistair said nothing. He wiped a streak of sweat from his forehead, eyes drifting one last time to the branches overhead.

The leaves shifted again, and for just a heartbeat, a speck of pink light darted through the shade—too small to be anything but imagination.

He closed his eyes briefly, a long exhale escaping him.

Later.

He would scold her later.

For now, he turned away, voice cool and composed once more. “Again.”

Gareth lunged, and the air filled once more with the metallic chorus of combat—clang, grind, hiss, strike. Dust rose around them in pale spirals, catching sunlight like powdered gold.

High above, Amora leaned forward from her perch, squinting through the shifting branches. The sun was directly in her eyes, glaring off every blade and sweat-slick shoulder below. She lifted a hand to shield her face, wings twitching in annoyance.

“Oh, for stars’ sake,” she muttered, pouting. “I can’t see anything. Why can’t they just stand two steps to the left? I’d get a much better view…”

Her voice faltered. Her cheeks warmed. “Right,” she scolded herself under her breath, wings drooping a little. “Because you’re not a stalker. You’re a professional observer of fate. Entirely different thing.”

She nodded once—firmly, decisively—and that was precisely when the branch above her gave a faint, ominous buzz.

Amora froze. Slowly, she tilted her head upward.

A wasp the size of her torso hovered inches away, its body gleaming like burnished bronze, its wings thrumming with a sound that felt entirely too personal.

Her mouth fell open. “...You’ve got to be kidding me.”