Naoko didn't answer right away.
She lifted her teacup to her lips, took a slow sip, and placed it back down with the same grace she applied to everything. Her silver eyes flicked briefly toward the maid, then returned to her plate.
"That won't be necessary," she said coolly. "Let him finish his training."
The maid bowed once more and stepped back into the shadows.
A quiet hum settled over the room again.
Rina gripped the edge of the table gently, her fingertips brushing against the fine velvet tablecloth. Her posture remained composed, trained… but inside, her nerves were unraveling, thread by thread.
*He's here. In this house. Somewhere close.*
Jean Roché.
The name tasted bitter on her tongue.
*The man I'm supposed to marry.*
She hadn't seen him yet. Not truly. Only heard stories, whispers—rumors that were darker than the obsidian walls around her. A prodigy. A recluse. A monster in disguise. Or worse, a puppet of his mother. Some said he didn't speak. Others claimed he trained until his body bled. Some even said his mana was cursed.
But Rina wasn't afraid of curses.
She was afraid of what she didn't understand.
She pushed a piece of fruit across her plate with the edge of her fork, not really eating, just trying to *do* something.
Her golden eyes flicked sideways—to Naoko.
The woman was silent now, eating elegantly, her expression unreadable. The way she held herself, the calm she radiated, the slow rhythm of her breathing… Everything about her was *precise*. Calculated.
*How much does she control here? How much of Jean is hers, and how much is… himself?*
That strange thought unsettled her more than it should.
She glanced at Leona, hoping for a moment of quiet solidarity.
Leona was eating like a soldier: clean, fast, efficient. But she noticed Rina's glance, and without missing a beat, reached under the table and gently squeezed her hand.
The gesture, simple as it was, grounded her.
She exhaled softly.
Even Amelia noticed her discomfort—though, true to her nature, she said nothing. Her mother's golden gaze flicked to her once, briefly, with something like… approval? Or maybe warning. Then she returned to sipping her coffee.
And still—
That question.
*What if your fiancé is a lustful man?*
It echoed in her mind again, sharp as a blade.
Rina clenched her jaw.
She *hated* how that boy from last night had gotten under her skin.
His voice. His smile. His teasing, shameless tone.
His beauty.
A stranger in the kitchen, cloaked in moonlight and arrogance, asking questions he had no right to ask. And she had answered him. Angry, yes—but she had *spoken*. She had looked into his eyes, his ridiculous red eyes, and she had burned with fury… and something else.
Curiosity?
No.
*Absolutely not.*
Rina straightened slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her aura flickered faintly—just a whisper of heat, enough for those sensitive to mana to feel the shift.
*Focus, Rina.*
She was a noble.
A warrior.
An heir to the legacy of the Amberharts.
She would not be undone by a boy with a pretty face and a twisted question.
And she would not—*would not*—let herself be affected by Jean Roché, no matter how powerful, handsome, or dangerous he might be.
She lifted her cup and took a long sip of tea.
But even the tea couldn't wash away the dry taste of dread building at the back of her throat.