The noon bell sent students into the courtyard. Tables appeared quickly; servants set out neat trays of pastries and finger food. Voices rose and drifted.

Lucian walked with Etienne and Selene to a windowed alcove just off the main hall where they usually ate. From there, the courtyard lay clear below.

“Have you heard?” Selene lowered her voice, eyes flicking outside. “Lady Valmont is eating in the courtyard.”

“That is… unusual,” Etienne said, curious. “Where?”

Lucian saw her at once beneath a tree near the path. Emilia Valmont sat on a spread cloth with a blonde girl, a basket between them. The girl laughed; Emilia passed her a jar and twisted the lid as if she had done it many times before.

“Is that the guild girl?” Selene whispered.

Before he could answer, a bright call cut across the grass.

“Mia!”

Cedric threaded through the groups with another basket. He set it down and, grinning, tugged gently at a maroon strand that had slipped from Emilia’s pencil-knot.

“You’re late,” the blonde girl said, smiling anyway.

“Only a little. I brought decent bread,” Cedric replied.

Emilia cut a tart, nudged the larger piece toward the girl, then leaned in to brush a crumb from her cheek with a napkin. Clarisse—yes, that was her name—pouted about something; Emilia’s mouth softened in quiet amusement.

“What is she thinking, sitting out there? Her skirt will crease,” Selene muttered.

“At least she won’t be alone,” someone at the next table said, not bothering to lower their voice. “She must have gone mad after Lord Edmund ended it.”

“Perhaps she thought no one else would be her friend,” another added.

Etienne’s mouth tilted. “Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care now,” he said lightly. “Now that she isn’t the future duchess, she has more freedom.”

Lucian unfolded his napkin. The mask stayed where it belonged. Etienne might be right. Maybe this is the real her, after the engagement—had the Emilia we all knew been the one bent into the shape people expected?

Down below, the three ate easily, passing bread and a paper of pickles back and forth. No titles. No careful distance. It was nothing special, yet they looked happy and content.

Roderic dropped into the seat beside Selene. “So His Highness and Lady Valmont are partners,” he said, tearing a roll. “We should rescue His Highness before she bores him to death with rules and ledgers.”

A ripple of laughter went around their alcove and the ones nearby.

“Lady Valmont is lucky,” someone from the next table sighed. “His Highness is handsome and brilliant.”

“I’m sure she’s already fallen for him,” another added.

Lucian kept his tone even. “I’ll be fine. Lady Valmont has always finished her work well. I expect the same here.”

Etienne glanced at him, just a shade longer than usual, as if tucking that answer away.

The rhythm of their table settled; it always did when Lucian willed it. And still, his gaze slid back.

Emilia and Cedric consulted a folded list; Clarisse leaned in, shoulder to shoulder, said something that made Emilia smile—small, sudden.

“Look at them,” someone farther down said. “Desperate, truly.”

“She should be careful who sees her,” another murmured.

Lucian set his cup down and, without looking their way, said to his own table—mild, clear, carrying just far enough:

“Strange how quickly rumors grow when people have nothing of their own to discuss.”

A short pause followed. Plates shifted. The nearby voices thinned, turned to other topics. Etienne was watching him now, thoughtful.

He returned to his roll and did not taste it.

Below, Clarisse tied the remaining tart in a twist of paper and slipped it toward Emilia with a conspirator’s grin. The bell tolled once. Cedric rose and offered his hand; Emilia took it, and he pulled her up. She smiled—bright and brief—at him as she stood.

A smile again. Directed at him.

Clarisse tugged Emilia’s sleeve, pouting. Emilia patted her head, said something soft, and the three split—Clarisse toward the west wing, Emilia and Cedric toward the main halls.

“She doesn’t even pretend not to hear,” Selene said, not unkindly.

“Perhaps she truly doesn’t,” Etienne murmured.

Lucian folded his napkin and stood. “We’ll be late.”

They fell into step. Talk blurred—weekend plans, a new tutor, nothing that held. For a moment he thought of the anteroom’s quiet, the scrape of pencil, the way she’d said told you so with a small, satisfied curve of her mouth. He caught himself smiling and let it fade before anyone saw.

At the staircase, Etienne matched his stride. Without looking over, he said under his breath, “You were somewhere else a moment. Thinking of Lady Valmont?”

Lucian’s step hitched. “No,” he said too quickly, then softened it a beat late. “No. Of course not.”

Etienne’s mouth twitched. “Be careful, then. Hartwell dislikes daydreams in his lectures.”

Lucian’s smile found its usual shape. “Noted.”

The second bell sounded. He turned toward the next class with attendants and friends in their usual orbit. Only the knot remained—quiet, present. He knew why: the smile she gave Cedric. The unfamiliar tug of it stayed, a small gear shifted forward that would not turn back.