Leona's fingers twitched at her side, brushing against the hilt of her sword.
Her pale blue eyes narrowed, flickering between Rina—whose expression was a frozen mask of shame—and the boy standing before them.
No... *the man.*
Jin rochey
She had heard the name before, of course. Everyone in the noble circles had. The only son of Naoko—the Moon-Blessed herself. A prodigy. A weapon. A myth dressed in flesh.
But the man who stood here now was not what Leona had expected.
He looked far too pleased with himself. His posture was too relaxed, too casual for such a formal setting. There was a playfulness in his tone that she didn't like—something that curled behind his words like smoke.
Still, Leona kept her voice calm, firm.
"I'm Leona Lionheart," she said, her words clipped and clear. "Lady Rina's companion."
She said nothing more.
Jin tilted his head slightly. "Lionheart, huh?" His eyes glimmered with interest—almost amusement. "I should've guessed. You wear that sword like it's part of your blood."
His gaze dipped ever so briefly to her side, where her family's blade rested in its scabbard. A symbol of pride. Of lineage. Of *honor.*
But he didn't mock her.
He just smiled.
And then he turned.
His attention now shifted toward the woman sitting to Rina's right.
Amelia Amberhart.
The head of House Amberhart, known for her strategic brilliance and piercing gaze. Her expression hadn't changed since Jean entered the room—not a flicker of emotion. Only cold, thoughtful silence.
But now, she spoke.
"Jin," she said smoothly. "I see you're not one for formal greetings."
Jean's red eyes locked onto hers. He offered no apology.
"Would it matter if I were?"
A pause.
Amelia's lips curved—slightly. Almost imperceptibly.
"It might," she said. "To the kind of people who care about tradition."
Jin shrugged one shoulder with a slow elegance, like he was brushing off dust.
"I don't care about traditions, Lady Amelia. I care about intentions. And presence."
He leaned forward, placing one hand on the table's edge. "And right now, I'm present."
Rina's breath caught in her throat again.
He was present.
He was *here*.
And she was still sitting beside her mother, trying not to look at him, trying to pretend she hadn't said *I want him dead.*
But she could feel his eyes. Even when they weren't on her. She could *feel* the way he lingered, mentally, emotionally—he was everywhere in her mind now, like a stain that refused to be washed away.
She clenched her fists beneath the table.
Her stomach was in knots.
He knew.
He *knew everything.*
And he was being... *nice.*
That made it worse. So much worse.
He should've been angry.
He should've snapped at her.
But instead... he was smiling, like this was all a game. Like *she* was the amusing one.
Her thoughts spiraled, loud and brutal:
*Why didn't I keep my mouth shut? Why did I trust him? Why did I tell him everything?*
*Why did I look into his eyes last night and feel something stir?*
And now—this morning—it was worse. His scent lingered in the air, rich and clean and laced with something darker. She hated that she noticed. Hated that her heart beat a little faster when he spoke.
*Damn him.*
And yet—
*Why did he have to be so beautiful?*
Why did his voice have to be that voice?
And then it hit her, sharp as ice:
*He knows I said I love someone else.*
She bit her lower lip hard, trying to keep her expression blank. Trying not to cry. Not here. Not in front of her mother. Not in front of *him.*
Her thoughts roared:
*I can't do this. I can't marry him.*
*He knows everything.*
And then—
As if to make it worse—
He pulled out the chair beside her and sat.
Close.
Too close.
His scent hit her again.
His presence *burned.*
And he leaned slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his voice low and warm:
"Well," he said casually. "Since we're all here... why don't we talk about the engagement?"