May, 12th, 1007

  Gerald tapped the board with the chalk still pinched between his gloved fingers, right beside the three distinct yet unmistakably significant numbers he had just written down: 874.

  He spoke in the same measured tone as usual—not having to raise his voice even in a classroom full of students. “By 874, the Franciste dynasty was closer to collapse than at any other point in its early rule. At this point, the family has suffered through economic strains and push-back from the other two royal families.”

  He turned to the students just around a dozen or so in this classroom. Some bored, others writing down into their notebooks. He could hear them scribbling as nobody said a word in between his pauses.

  “But the question is: why?” he continued confidently, “What happened that the once most powerful and influential royal family in all of New Baymort history became so unpopular, almost dethroned by their own people?”

  He aimed the question towards the youth, most avoiding his gaze. And yet Gerald would be hypocritical if he were to judge, since he too avoided eye contact with the one most likely to comment.

  But it seemed like he had nothing to say.

  Good.

  Gerald proceeded.

  “Well, one of the inciting incidents came seventy years prior to those protests.” He wrote down another number on the chalkboard: “In 801, Raveck Krai’s revolution concluded with its absorption into New Baymort as the thirteenth region under Franciste protection.”

  He gestured toward the map beside the chalkboard, tapping the spot that marked Raveck Krai. Visual cues had always helped him learn back in his own student days, after all. He noticed students eyeing the map now, following his motion.

  “At the time, the Francistes were revered for securing the deal of a distressed region.” He watched the map, leaning against his chair, before he turned back to the students.

  “But years later it would be revealed and later confirmed by the Franciste family themselves that they had direct involvement in provoking that unrest from the get-go.” He couldn’t help the light smirk on his face. “Their goal was, as you might assume: to secure the annexation of the divided region, or at least give the people of Raveck Krai a gentle push towards the outcome the royals wished for.”

  “That’s revisionist nonsense,” came the voice from the student at the front of the classroom.

  There he is.

  Gerald exhaled and rested his elbows against his teachers’ chair. He threw an exasperated smile at the lean boy. His light blond hair, almost white, skin as fair as paper contrasted starkly with his black and blue uniform—accentuated by the fact he was the only student in the room representing that specific faction.

  Thalondor—the same one Gerald used to wear.

  And those light blue eyes, jabbing at Gerald like he was planning his demise.

  “Ah, Clairmont—I almost thought you were sleeping through my class.”

  The students chuckled.

  Neville Clairmont, a fifth-year student: a strong, competent, and intelligent boy, Gerald had to admit that much, but his nationalistic pride got in the way of his own brilliance.

  The most dangerous kind of person.

  “I would much rather sleep through your nonsensical ramblings, but then you would skate by without opposition,” he spoke, as biting as ever.

  Gerald’s nerves flared. This was why he didn’t enjoy teaching the fifth years in particular.

  “And pray tell, which part of my lesson do you have issue with this time?” He motioned towards him, not without his confident smile breaking through. “So I can carefully and hopefully simply explain why you’re wrong?”

  Gerald was needling him, and he was aware he sounded downright condescending. It wasn’t professional per say coming from a teacher. Some might even call it harassment of a young and impressionable student.

  But this particular young man—truth be told, Gerald had it out for him ever since he started working here. And it was mutual between both parties.

  Clairmont cleared his throat, no doubt waiting for this opportunity since the start of the class.

  “While the Francistes may have helped steer the region towards unrest—that is indeed, an undisputed fact—it would be laughable to ignore the Tsarnian puppet placed in Raveck Krai as the head of the state at the time. Frankly, the unrest was inevitable in the face of a blind dictatorship.”

  Clairmont motioned with his finger at the Franciste crest—mandatorily displayed in every classroom of the Spirit Academy. “And it is thanks to the Franciste family’s generosity that the people of Raveck Krai live peacefully in New Baymort today.”

  Gerald nodded his head, listening to every word—mentally rolling his eyes at the bias.

  “Clairmont—a Fleurinian academic. Quite on brand to defend the Francistes’ colonialism.” He couldn’t help the jab.

  Clairmont didn’t like it; the rest of the class didn’t even understand the reference.

  “But if you think it’s that simple, why do you presume the people of Raveck Krai, almost two hundred years after joining our nation, still struggle to assimilate and use the common tongue?”

  Clairmont didn’t waste a second. “British has been the mandated language used in all schools across the nation for over a hundred years. Again—with your nonsense, Mr. Aldrick. Your refusal to accept that reality does not make it a policy failure.”

  That earned him chuckles from the class—Gerald inhaled.

  The way Clairmont just proved his point and nobody, seemingly even he, realized it. Gerald let it be and rephrased, “Do you think they speak british colloquially in Raveck Krai?”

  Clairmont shook his head like the idea was inconsequential. “We speak fleurinian colloquially in my region—what does it matter? We have one common tongue in New Baymort, and that’s the point.”

  Gerald mused, standing upright as he moved around his desk. He leaned against the surface, standing over Clairmont with his arms crossed.

  “The hundred year mark you speak of—do you know why that mandate was made at that specific timeframe?”

  Clairmont didn’t know the answer—or if he did, he was too slow to respond. Frankly, he probably knew, but Gerald didn’t mind explaining.

  ”It was in response to the Dragoviches joining the Four Royal Families. It was a clear boundary set by the Marelians, Chernwicks, and Francistes who felt threatened by their powerful new counterpart. It was both to reassert dominance over the spiriter powerhouse, and a thinly veiled discrimination tactic to stop the spread of the saric language family.”

  “Family?” Clairmont bellowed, disgusted. “You would call the tsarnians ‘family’?”

  And there it was. The discrimination showing in real time.

  “I didn’t even mention Tsarnia.” Gerald motioned to him with a heavy exhale, but also—it gave him an excuse to continue from a different angle. “But it’s interesting you mention them, since it proves my point. Indeed, half of our country shares more linguistic patterns with the so-called enemy’s language than the one mandated by our royalty.”

  Clairmont grimaced as he sat up in his chair, gritting his teeth.

  “With every passing day, you sound more and more like a traitor, Mr. Aldrick—as would be expected of someone from Noctue—just another saric region benefiting from New Baymort’s protection. If it weren’t for us, you would be rotting under the Tsarnian regime today instead of spouting your propaganda in our schools.”

  Gerald chuckled pointedly, not finding offense at the jab. “A true scholar does not allow bias to blind his view of the truth. I, of course, have nothing but devotion and loyalty to our royals and my country. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have an open discussion about the facts.”

  The boy was seething from that chair, Gerald couldn’t help the second jab. “With such a strong passion for your own worldview, you could consider a career in law. I imagine a guilty suspect would appreciate such a devoted defense attorney.”

  That got him a few chuckles from the students.

  Clairmont looked ready to stand up to him, but he remained seated. “Fine then—if you want facts: the tsarnians enslave spiriters. Is that what we really want in this country? To lose our freedom because of the animusin in our blood?”

  Gerald didn’t lose his composure, but couldn’t help getting annoyed hearing and correcting the same misconception over and over again. “Tsarnia is a vast nation, and while there are parts where encampments still exist, in the majority of the land, they call them Trenegrad,y and they function similarly to our Spirit Academy.”

  Clairmont twitched at Gerald’s proper pronunciation of the Tsarnian word.

  Gerald continued as if he saw nothing. “The only difference is that they accept students at their age of awakening—join the Trenegrad for five years and graduate. That is why you could have an eight-year-old in the same training group as a fifteen-year-old for example. As opposed to our system, which only mandates you join the Spirit Academy at sixteen and keeps you here for seven years. Both have their quirks and pros.”

  Clairmont bit back, “And what about the hierarchy they enforce for spiriters? That’s the clearest violation of spiriter rights I’ve ever seen. Why should I have more privileges than my classmates just because my ability is superior?”

  Gerald nodded. “That is true. They do enforce a clear hierarchy based on strength.”

  “So you concede?”

  Gerald smirked, having to remind himself not to enjoy this too much. But it was almost cute how this little patriot thought he had in any way the upper hand over him.

  “Not entirely, no. Their system allows for the weaker and less fortunate spiriters from ever being forced into war, for example. It may be a limit for their future careers too, but it’s a small mercy.”

  He motioned to the young adults in this room. “As you all know, in Spirit Academy, we have the four faction system. Waloruth, Thalondor, Hearthwelle, and Glauffether. Which are better for diverse career opportunities, but under the current socio-political landscape, it’s just a funnel to Volnyr with different specifications.”

  He meant for the line to land like a warning—but nobody was even paying attention to the details anymore. They were all just witnessing the spectacle of debate like it was a form of entertainment.

  Clairmont was the only one affected by it, shaking with anger.

  Gerald continued, “Do you know what I learned the tsarnians say about us during my service?”

  Clairmont was quiet; even the other students seemed to have perked up at this statement, so Gerald knew he had to make it count.

  “They call our education system lacking. They say too little, too late. They think we have no discipline, no strength, and weak direction from our instructors.”

  He smirked, adding, “And considering your constant quipping at my authority, Clairmont—perhaps you have something in common with the ‘enemy’, after all.”

  Clairmont opened his mouth to argue back, but got cut off by the bell ringing. Gerald didn’t wait for him to regather himself either.

  “I apologise to you all, but it seems that is all the time we have today. Perhaps, next time we will finish the Franciste re-establishment period without interruption.” He aimed the jab at the obvious target, about to leave the classroom.

  That was when he remembered the stacks of paper he left on the teacher’s desk at the start of the lesson. He tapped the stack and motioned for one of the female students in a green uniform.

  “Here are the results from your homework assignments. Please, pass them along.”

  As he walked out of the room, he didn’t spare another look at Clairmont.

  But Gerald knew—Clairmont wasn’t going to like the result he got.

  Which was exactly why he didn’t pass the homework along at the start of the lesson—trying to avoid a head-on argument with him.

  Seemed like that didn’t work quite as he planned…

  Gerald walked through the academy hallway with deliberate steps. The sunlight streaming through the arched windows cast warm highlights across the classical interior and the high arches. He returned the students’ greetings with polite nods as he passed.

  “Mr. Aldrick!”

  Gerald sighed, but recognizing the friendly voice, he slowed his pace.

  This student was a sight for sore eyes after Clairmont.

  Osman Kara, a seventh-year student in a green uniform, ran up to him—a toothy grin sprawling across his broad face. His massive build could intimidate anyone at first glance, but Gerald knew better; beneath that sturdy exterior, he was basically a clever little cinnamon roll.

  “Osman—how are you doing today?” he greeted with a pleasant smile.

  Osman matched his pace as they walked side by side.

  “Perfect, actually! Have you heard, Mr. Aldrick? The royals will finally cease the conscription this year. Or so they say.”

  Gerald tried to maintain his composure, but of course, perceptive Osman would notice that second of hesitation.

  “You don’t think it’s true?” His sunken expression broke Gerald’s heart.

  ”No—that’s not it.” He wrapped his arm around him, patting his shoulder with the gloved hand. “The Marelians are on our side—they have been advocating to cancel the conscription for months now. The Dragoviches, on the other hand, are unlikely to change their mind,” he clarified, just to keep the young man’s expectations realistic. “It’s the Chernwicks and Francistes who stir on either side.”

  “But that’s the thing.” Osman continued, “Theodore Franciste criticized sending spiriters to Volnyr the other day. If he’s saying that now, it’s only a matter of time, right?”

  Gerald nodded. “Yeah, I believe so too.”

  He wished for it every day.

  For Osman especially—in his seventh and final year at Spirit Academy—time was ticking...

  Osman continued, his jovial smile returned. “I was thinking, actually—if I don’t have to go to Volnyr, I want to advance my education. Maybe Wexford College?” he chuckled; Gerald caught the uncertainty in his voice.

  He smiled, confident that no one deserved admission to one of the most prestigious colleges in the country more than Osman.

  “You’re a hard-working Glauffether student—one of the best, in fact. I’m certain they would accept you.”

  Glauffether, also known as the green faction, was built for students who valued scholarship and the steady pursuit of wisdom. Yet even there, Osman excelled through his breadth of academic knowledge and sheer effort.

  “You think?” he smiled sheepishly. “Honestly, I’m not so sure. A Khanturk student in a fancy Brithorn college… It sounds like a fantasy, but I want to give it my best shot.”

  “Would you like a formal recommendation from me?” Gerald offered without hesitation.

  Osman’s brown eyes almost blew out of eye-sockets. For a moment, it looked like he forgot how to breathe. “Y-you would do that?”

  Gerald muffled his chuckle, playing up his surprise instead. “Hm? Wasn’t that the reason you came to tell me?”

  Osman had gone white as a sheet; the thought had clearly never once occurred to him. “Wait—no, of course not. Oh God—I didn’t mean—”

  Gerald gripped his shoulder, steadying the young man through his spiraling panic. “I’m just having fun, but expect that recommendation as soon as it’s relevant.”

  Osman’s panic was replaced by his genuine, almost infectious gratitude. Gerald, unfortunately, couldn’t share the enthusiasm; his mind remained in that history class with Clairmont. Still, he smiled through it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Aldrick. Seriously, I mean it,” his voice, so humble. “If you ever need help—please, I’ll do anything.”

  Gerald chuckled, but shook his head. These students, especially those from marginalized regions of New Baymort, were always so humble, as if they weren’t entitled to the same opportunities as the others. The thought of exploiting that goodwill for his own benefit turned Gerald’s stomach.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Still, not meaning to worry the student, Gerald nodded. “Of course.”

  As they neared Gerald’s office, Osman slowed his pace.

  “Oh, I won’t bother you anymore—it’s your break, after all. Have a good day, sir.” He walked off before Gerald could tell him he didn’t mind.

  But he didn’t stop him.

  Gerald opened the door to his office. Finally, a quiet moment to himself.

  He walked further inside, mentally prepared to sit down on that smooth padding of his leather chair and relax—but before he could make it halfway into the office, the door burst open.

  Gerald shook his head dismissively.

  “An F? You can not be serious!” Clairmont shouted at Gerald’s back.” There is nothing wrong with my thesis; I researched the facts thoroughly. I worked on this all night.”

  Clairmont threw the paper at Gerald, which he managed to catch mid-air. He turned to Clairmont. The student, though more than ten years younger, stood at the same height.

  “Clairmont, your homework assignment was to write an essay about the importance of the Volnyrian nation’s independence, or at least a subjective opinion piece on the matter.”

  He pushed the paper onto his chest. Like Gerald wanted to read that performative jargon ever again. “What I got from you instead are the hysterical musings of a belligerent nationalist about the dangers of the Tsarnian nation, and you somehow managed to include the mention of the Qadiri genocide—a completely separate topic.”

  “Are you st—” Clairmont cut himself off, apparently reminding himself he couldn't just speak to him like a peer. “The Qadiri genocide is extremely relevant due to the weapons embargo the tsarnians invest in. They arm the qadirians against our soldiers stationed there.”

  Gerald exhaled—now extremely annoyed.

  But no—no—he refused to start an argument about the oppression of the Qadiri people. Not the time, absolutely not.

  He would spare his energy for the upcoming lesson on the period of Khanturk’s absorption into New Baymort; certain Clairmont would have a lot to say then.

  “I will not be discussing this with you further, Clairmont. The lesson is over.”

  This was his office, his personal space, and Clairmont was walking a dangerous line, provoking the disciplinarian sergeant within him.

  Gerald had tamed that side of him since he returned to New Baymort, but he knew—oh, he knew it was there, dormant, prepared to unleash on someone who really drew him over the edge.

  Breathe out.

  “Mind you, this is homework.” He pointed at the paper Clairmont was still holding in his face. “I won’t be taking it into account for your end-of-year grading if that is what you’re worried about. You do fine on objective tests, albeit your writing reveals your bias in every line.”

  Clairmont turned a deep, furious red, his light hair stark against his fury. He grit his teeth, exhaling over his sheer unrestrained anger.

  “Mr. Aldrick. For once, and I mean it—be honest. Have you lost your mind since you returned from the war?”

  Gerald had to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the claim.

  But Clairmont wasn’t finished. “Mind you, I used to worship you. Your contributions in Volnyr against those brutes are awe-inspiring. I can’t fathom how you can go from that to someone who would even consider the ideas you are so audaciously spouting.”

  This kid…

  Breathe in.

  “Clairmont, who you worship is none of my concern, and frankly, you should reconsider your own morals if that is something you would consider.”

  “Stop deflecting!” he shouted in his face.

  Gerald stared at him; the teen stared right back.

  The teacher had lost his composure long before this office, frankly, but still, the composed man he was refused to raise his voice back.

  “Sincerely,” Gerald crossed his arms, but had to correct himself as he heard the shallow crack in his speech. “Sincerely, Neville, I wish that the conscription will finally end, and you won’t step on the battlefield in the upcoming years.”

  He hoped that such a plea would break through those thick walls of his.

  But experience with these types told him that was just a foolish thought.

  And seeing that angry hiss from Clairmont?

  Yes, it was futile.

  Pointless.

  The teen turned on his heels, storming out of the office with the same fervor he had coming in.

  Just as he was about to shut the door, he spoke, not even turning back to Gerald.

  “Sincerely, Mr. Aldrick—I hope that I get the chance to fight in Volnyr and finish what my incompetent history teacher couldn’t.”

  He slammed the door shut, the walls shaking from the impact.

  Gerald sighed.

  Because what else was there to say?

  He walked over to the door, meaning to lock it this time, just in case Clairmont decided he wanted a round two.

  But he heard a knock from the other side just as he approached.

  Gerald bit back his annoyance; this was his mandated break, after all. When was he going to get it?

  At least it most certainly wasn’t Clairmont. No way he would knock.

  Gerald cracked the door open, convinced his eyes were deceiving him the instant he saw the figure behind it.

  He blinked twice, thrice.

  No, she was still there.

  “Ms. Taylor?”

  He called out, half doubting himself. The woman hadn’t said anything yet after all.

  And yet, her presence alone eased the tension bristling in him. Like a miracle lifeline—his personal angel here to release the pressure. He smiled, surrendering his thoughts to her grace.

  Is that a pink kimono she is wearing this time around? It looks so lovely on her.

  But Ms. Taylor didn’t meet his gaze; did he do something wrong? Instead, she looked amused, her focus drifting down the hallway.

  Gerald followed her line of sight, having to lean out of his office. Clairmont was there, ranting off to some of his classmates.

  He ignored it entirely, settling his focus on what mattered: Robin Taylor.

  “Did someone give out an unfair F?” Ms. Taylor finally spoke—her playful smile aimed at him.

  Gerald could melt into it. Those beautiful chocolate eyes finally met his.

  He realized now: Ms. Taylor seemed shorter than before. Was he looming over her from this position?

  Was he intimidating her?

  Wait, no—he noticed now the flat sandals she chose today, as opposed to her previous heels.

  He then realized that he still hadn't answered her question.

  His nerves re-emerged momentarily as the question registered as Clairmont-centric, but he didn’t show his displeasure at the risk of offending her.

  “Well, not entirely, but…”

  “Really?” Ms. Taylor quipped, cutting him off. “So I misheard him when he said ‘that bastard gave me an F’? That felt fairly straightforward.” She leaned towards him, that light, delicate smile—so mischievous.

  Gerald sighed.

  First a traitor, now a bastard.

  He chose, instead of anger, to smile at the wonderful woman before him.

  “Well, it’s a long story with that boy. He’s a proud nationalist and thinks he’s swallowed the world’s wisdom. But someone actually clever would, I assume, understand a simple homework assignment.”

  Even with Clairmont not around to hear it, Gerald couldn’t help himself.

  “Hmm…” Ms. Taylor mused, Gerald just then noticed the pink sparkles on her cheeks, almost invisible to the naked eye, but the sun's shine landing on her cheeks accentuated the detail.

  She was so perfect.

  It didn’t seem like he got his point across, but he swallowed the need to explain it. Ms. Taylor surely had more important matters to think about than the differences between conscious solidarity and adversarial patriotism.

  “Ms. Taylor, where are my manners? Would you like to come inside and sit down?”

  The lady stretched her back, pulling at her shoulder. The audible crack made him wary.

  Was he keeping her standing here this whole time in pain?

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind coming in for a little chat. If you will have me?” she asked.

  Like he could ever wholeheartedly say no to her.

  “Of course, come in.” He moved out of the way, smelling the scent of fresh berries as she walked past him.

  He closed the door behind them, forgetting all about that history class, Clairmont’s prejudice, the butchered homework assignment, other non-consequential matters...

  None of that registered as important.

  This was the start to his day.

  Ms. Taylor walked through his office, his personal space, so casually—her delicate palms landed on his globe briefly as she passed through. “Ah, my back is killing me. I’ll steal your couch if you don’t mind…”

  Her back, so curved, so tender.

  So provocative.

  Killing her…

  Painful?

  She just said she was in pain.

  Gerald’s content vanished.

  He considered his options with the Colonel’s precision. His gaze settled on the high cabinet as he spoke, “Hmm… I have this herbal tea… It’s extremely effective at easing joint pain. I could brew a cup for you.”

  By the time he looked back, Ms. Taylor was already seated on his couch, leaning into it as if it belonged to her. He smiled, feeling better but knowing he could do more to comfort her.

  “Oh?” she looked surprised—or was that disappointment?

  “I didn’t take you for the tea type,” she clarified, her playful energy back like a switch was flipped.

  Gerald chose not to dwell on it as he chuckled. He walked towards the cabinet, opening the cupboard where he left his tea box. “It’s a pleasure to see you, of course, but I’m curious what brought you here?”

  Once he had the tea out, he filled the kettle with water and set it on the cooker. Even as he busied himself with the tea, he listened closely to her every word.

  “What else? It’s always you, homeroom teachers, causing me headaches.” Even her ranting carried the beauty of an ethereal hymn, something he could listen to without end. “One of your colleagues made a mistake while scoring Wendy’s chemistry test. So of course, I threw it in his face.”

  Wendy—Gerald assumed another student who joined their academy through the Spiriter Home system, just like Bastion.

  But the mention of chemistry pulled Gerald out of his trance. “Chemistry? Do you mean Mr. Friedhof?” He looked off to the side, his hands working on autopilot.

  “Yes! That ancient wizard. I forgot his name.” Ms. Taylor flayed her arms dismissively.

  Gerald chuckled as he reached out to choose an appropriate cup, examining the classic porcelain he got from Raveck Krai a long time ago. This one would do. “Really? That’s rather uncommon for Mr. Friedhof. Perhaps his sight is failing him at his old age?”

  Should he ask Mr. Friedhof if he was alright?

  But knowing him, he would probably just laugh it off.

  “How old is that wizard anyway?” Ms. Taylor questioned—her tone a mix of annoyance and exasperation.

  Gerald smiled. “Very—If I count it right, he should be… A hundred and twenty-three this year,” he laughed at the absurdity of that claim; even knowing the old teacher for years, he still couldn’t get used to it.

  If Mr. Friedhof were to hear them, he would downplay his own age—something about his preserved vitality and a pointed lesson about healthy lifestyle choices.

  “That in itself is a crime against humanity.” Ms. Taylor argued, “How is he even allowed to still teach at this academy? You’d think they would force him into retirement half a century ago.”

  Though Gerald chuckled, he felt the need to defend his mentor. “Well, Mr. Friedhof was actually my homeroom teacher, so I know him quite well. He has prolonged his lifespan through sheer spiritual mastery. I’m not sure if this will come as good news, but he told me he has plans to teach here long after I retire.”

  Ms. Taylor shrugged, clearly not impressed. “Well, if his eyesight is already failing him, perhaps it’s only a matter of time before his senility catches on.”

  Gerald didn’t object, though he respectfully disagreed. Instead, he passed her the cup of tea, sitting across from her. She smelled it carefully, brushing her lips over the cup—her eyes half closed as she inhaled the vapor.

  Gerald watched all this carefully.

  “I guess only time will tell…” he said, as Ms. Taylor blew the vapor from the tea. Her eyes caught his momentarily, before she smirked and looked down again.

  “So—” Gerald started, “you were out on a hunt for my colleagues and then decided to stop by my office as a courtesy?” He chanced it—curious about her intent. “Unless, of course, I somehow earned your fury too?” he added that last part with wry amusement.

  He wouldn’t mind a round two of her yelling at him if he were honest.

  But instead of anger, she did something even more disarming; she hid her smile behind her palm. “Ah—Mr. Aldrick—must you really interrogate me so? I’m very self-conscious, you know.” She looked off to the side, raising one shoulder in defense.

  That signature move of hers, which pulled down her robe ever so slightly.

  She deployed her pretense of innocence to deflect, and Gerald played along with it. “I apologize—I shouldn’t pry.”

  Ms. Taylor took a sip of her tea. Even when she met his gaze, he didn’t look away. He didn’t feel compelled to.

  And just like that, she put down the cup on the table and rested her chin on her palm. “Perhaps I came by, wondering if that date offer is still open…”

  Gerald nodded, “Of course it is.”

  Of course, she wasn’t surprised by it.

  Of course, he would agree any time of day.

  “I was actually considering this fine establishment I’ve visited in the past,” he continued, envisioning the memory of the restaurant—the warm atmosphere, the luxurious interior, the exquisite food... “The Velvet Parlor. It’s in Sterkholm, so a bit out, but I could always drive us there.”

  Ms. Taylor played with her teaspoon. “This establishment… It’s where you take all your romantic interests?”

  Only one.

  “Let’s just say it has a special place in my heart.”

  In that moment, the look in Ms. Taylor’s eyes shifted momentarily.

  It was a look he still couldn’t decipher.

  She giggled to herself, a second too late to be authentic—yet the sound itself so majestic he didn’t really care about the performance. “Oh well, with that kind of high praise, I would be silly to reject, wouldn’t I?”

  Gerald could look at this woman for the rest of his life, and he would never get enough.

  “When are you free?” he asked.

  “I was thinking this Saturday…Or well, hmmm, maybe…” she added that part a bit too theatrically. She definitely had a day prepared before she even came here.

  “Could I come for you at four?” he offered, not forcing her to explain her planning.

  She didn’t reply, just nodded with that same flirtatious smile as she took another sip from the cup.

  Gerald couldn’t wait another day, and yet he also felt like he could wait for the rest of his life.

  Anything for her…

  And right now, that anything came in the shape of an angry teenage hag waiting for him in his house, possibly casting spells to curse his very existence…

  “All that’s left is for me to clear it with Ms. Solbakken,” he commented slyly. “I can already imagine the fury fest that will bring.”

  Ms. Taylor giggled, but then her eyes wandered away—Gerald’s gaze held hostage by her regardless.

  “Ah—I’ve taken up so much of your time. Don’t you have classes soon?”

  He sighed, wishing he could say no, but…

  “Correct.” He motioned towards her. “But if you’re still in pain, I don’t mind if you need to rest longer. I can just keep the office unlocked while I leave.”

  “Oh no no—I couldn’t do that.” She shook her head—this time, Gerald was not certain of the authenticity.

  “Plus, I have to get back to the orphanage,” she added, quickly finishing her cup of tea.

  The orphanage—

  Ms. Taylor stood, brushing off her robe from nothing that he could see.

  “I understand,” he said.

  He stood up after her—Ms. Taylor headed towards the door—Gerald followed.

  He was reluctant to let her leave, but he knew he couldn’t voice it, or god forbid, push.

  His eyes wandered on the beautiful, flowery pin in her hair—so delicate… that tiny decoration holding the whole presentation together.

  He should have stopped her.

  He couldn’t.

  Of course, he opened the door for her, words muffled by his restraint.

  “Well, I’ll be eagerly awaiting your arrival on Saturday,” she said playfully, winking at him as she did so.

  “I’ll be there on time.” Gerald nodded.

  Ms. Taylor exited his office, her hips swaying from side to side as she walked through the hallway.

  He watched her the entire way. Once she turned at the end of the hallway and no longer in his sight—

  The magic was over.

  His smile vanished.

  It was a set-up.

  Trizstan sent her here; he was certain of it.

  That poor woman…

  Truthfully, Gerald couldn’t stop thinking about her for the past few weeks.

  At first, he only meant to see her again, hoping to fill the void where his heart used to be. But from that first meeting until he finally went to the orphanage, Gerald had plenty of time to figure things out.

  It was the realization that she never attended Spirit Academy that raised the first glaring red flag. After all, every spiriter was mandated to attend the Spirit Academy—people born here and immigrants alike.

  Then he realized the obvious.

  Robin Taylor—a local name used by a woman clearly far from home. Working under Trizstan Attila’s influence of all people…

  The man who paid his way out of military service, who went God knew where, only to return with a beauty from a foreign land, even paying extra to ensure she never got an education in this country.

  Those geisha rumours he heard…

  And Trizstan’s words from the past kept echoing in his mind.

  “Women serve men–not the other way around.”

  “Women don’t need education to bear children.”

  “Women don’t need the right to vote.”

  Among his other infamous lines.

  It all painted an extremely suspicious picture to Gerald, and he refused to be blind to it.

  It had been his worst fear this whole time—that Ms. Taylor was a victim of trafficking, forced to work under Trizstan Attila to sustain her life in this land where she looked so out of place—likely not even wanting to be here.

  And here she was, a woman who had held nothing but justified contempt for his status as Gerald Aldrick, the Colonel. The same woman who kept her distance, wielding only her charm—what he could only surmise was an attempt to lure him deeper. Her contempt for his occupation, status, privilege—all those were her true self showing amidst the performance.

  Gerald didn’t know how deep the charade but its existence was clearer than ever before

  Still, Ms. Taylor could have been a willing participant in it all, and that was something he couldn’t overlook. He couldn’t allow his own negative view of Trizstan influence his decision. Forcing himself into the situation—that would make him no better. The uncertainty of it all had been keeping him up at night for weeks.

  That was why he knew he had to see her again for himself—see the situation firsthand.

  Within the orphanage, Ms. Taylor seemed truly happy with the children and in control of her workers.

  That alone eased his mind immensely.

  But the doubt surrounding Trizstan lingered, especially since Gerald knew him so well.

  The thought of that bastard sending Ms. Taylor to play this theater in his office—he felt horrible for making her feel like she needed to do that.

  Truthfully, even suspecting what was behind the curtain, Gerald was obviously going to agree.

  He needed to know if this woman, so full of passion, the woman who saved his life…

  If she was safe.

  If she was, and he was not but a fool for falling for her and Trizstan’s schemes, then so be it—he would accept it. Live happily knowing she was safe and secure.

  If not…

  Then he didn’t mind getting in Trizstan’s face again. That bastard had gotten away with too much.

  He wouldn’t let him get away with this.