...................... Commissions are open .................... I’m Sarah, 21, love everything that has something to do with drawing or just keeping up with the millions of fandoms.
I was raised on the strict principle that the driver only drives. Shotgun seat is a duty, not a privilege. Second seat is the first passenger, the second in command. Shotgun does everything that the driver needs done. Driver wants water, shotgun hands them the water bottle, already opened, and closes it after the driver has had their drink. Shotgun manages the navigator, googles things that popped into the driver's head and wants to look up real quick. Reads the driver's incoming texts and texts back as the driver dictates - upon the driver's request. Driver only drivers. If your ass itches you don't take your hands off the fucking wheel, the secondant scratches it for you.
Then you sit down in the car of someone who's an excellent never-had-a-crash driver and watch in horror as they go 80 kmh on a curving forest road, opening a water bottle one-handed while applying lip balm with the other, changing music by pecking their phone's touch screen with the tip of their nose like a bird, all the while steering with their left ass cheek, and you feel your soul leave your body just in case your body is also gonna leave the car after it, through the windshield, in the near foreseeable future.
giving birth sucks tbh. not only do you and the baby you’re birthing almost die, usually you shit yourself and often you tear your taint. then you have to push an organ out of your body (placenta) and if even a little of that remains in your body, you can hemorrhage to death or develop an infection that essentially rots your body from the inside out. even if you had a relatively “easy birth”, you bleed for weeks on end. even after that stops, your body and brain is changed for the rest of your life, the pregnancy leeched minerals from your bones, that can cause osteoporosis later. minor urinary incontinence is not uncommon, brain scans of people who gave birth show permanent changes in their brain, you’re never quite the same.
I say all of this not to say giving birth is disgusting but it is a harrowing and visceral experience. society downplays how fucking awful it is and makes it out to be a ~magical~ experience but it isn’t a magical transformative experience for everyone. it can be an extremely traumatic experience for someone who wanted to carry a pregnancy to term, much more so for someone who did not want to be pregnant in the first place or someone who knows their baby won’t survive the birth. anyway, abortion is a right. pregnancy and birth aren’t just inconvenient, it’s fucking awful.
How is it that in this entire post you didn’t say the word “woman” once? Only one sex gives birth. Only women have these experiences, only women are at risk for everything mentioned here, women are the only people this applies to. Erasing the word enables the problem.
I’m an evil trans man with a big fat pussy and it’s my life’s purpose to erase women by using inclusive language. Everyone I make a post a random woman disappears off the planet. Clean vanishes. They’re renaming all maternity wards labor & delivery wards because of me. The word breastfeeding no longer exists in the dictionary. It’s all chestfeeding now. Many world powers are trying to stop me. They can’t. They’re too slow. I’m always two steps ahead.
For real, we have like those mini pizzas (piccoloinis) in purple for the Wednsday edition. I don't know who comes up with that. 😂 (Sadly i don't have the picture🙈)
Summary: In Mariejois, power is polished, bloodlines are currency, and every smile is sharpened for war. You enter the debutante season under a false name and forged pedigree—a revolutionary spy sewn into a silk gown, tasked with unearthing the secrets hidden beneath centuries of marble and etiquette.
Your mission is simple: survive the social circuit, gather intelligence, and escape unnoticed.
But then he notices you.
Saint Garling Figarland—God’s Knight, judge of blood, master of selection—watches you like a man cataloging flaws in a prized weapon. You were supposed to be beneath his interest. Now you’re squarely in his sights.
But under the chandeliered hunts and well-mannered threats, something else sharpens between you. Something that looks dangerously like recognition.
Warnings: Garling Figarland x f!reader, mature audience, 18+, Mdni, Spoilerd for One Piece, foul language, non-con, mentions of non-con, dubcon, closed door degradation, yandere Garling, Figarland is his own warning, Dark Romance, politics, espionage, revolutionaries, Celestial Dragons
Notes: Mariejois isn’t a happy place. War crimes are bad.
Chapters
Chapter 1
Your mission is simple: survive the social circuit, gather intelligence, and escape unnoticed. But then he notices you.
Saint Garling Figarland—God’s Knight, judge of blood, master of selection—watches you like a man cataloging flaws in a prized weapon. You were supposed to be beneath his interest.
Chapter 2
The debutante season begins, but something colder stirs beneath the silks and chandeliers. You play your role—sweet, forgettable, invisible—until a single misstep exposes more than it should. A forbidden name escapes your lips. A glass you shouldn’t have taken dulls your edge. And Commander Figarland watches. Thorne moves to protect you, but protection has its price, and attention from the wrong man is its own kind of mark. Whispers rise. Motives shift. And now, with the Juniper Ball looming, you're no longer just a pawn.
Chapter 3
At the Juniper Ball, you move through the political games under Thorne’s careful guidance until Garling Figarland personally selects you for a private encounter. The night ends with you untouched, but something lingers in the air, a silent promise of what’s to come, leaving the court uneasy and curious.
Chapter 4
You become the center of Mariejois gossip, your every move whispered about in salons and scribbled in ink-stained letters. Despite the attention, you quietly continue your courtship with Thorne, your connection to him a carefully crafted façade. But Garling Figarland, the revered God’s Knight, seems far from finished with your game.
Chapter 5
Summoned to the sunlit solarium above Mariejois, you meet Figarland Garling for the first time since your fateful game of chess. The encounter unfolds like a game—each word, each gesture, deliberate. His interest is unsettling, his familiarity unearned. Beneath the civility lies something sharper: a veiled interrogation, a claiming smile, and the sense that you’ve already been chosen.
Like a Fox in a Snare
Word Count: 8,500+
This story is not a commendation of slavery, cruelty, sexual assault, or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+
Previous/Next
Garling Figarland sat alone in his private study, the hush of the room disturbed only by the soft, rhythmic tap of his fingers against the marble mane of the lion bust perched beside him. His gaze drifted lazily over the sprawl of the map stretched across his desk, its surface dense with an elegant chaos. Threads of silk crisscrossed from name to name, fastened with pins of obsidian, silver, and mother-of-pearl. Tiny sigils and symbols annotated the weave, marking alliances, debts, and secrets. Some names were circled in neat ink, others struck through with ruthless finality.
It resembled less a map and more an autopsy table. The court’s innards laid bare. A tapestry of lies and legacy, bleeding out under his careful dissection.
He stared at it with the weary look of a man who had already solved the puzzle, picked apart every motive, and found the conclusion beneath it all terribly dull. With a sigh, he pushed the map away, letting it sag against the edge of the desk as if the weight of so many dynasties no longer interested him.
His fingers reached for something smaller. More personal.
A delicate fox-shaped pin sat nestled beside his inkstone. Carved in rose-gold and no larger than a coin, its design was elegant and sharp, the tail coiled like a whisper of threat. It had not been meant for him. It had been part of a debutante’s gift box, one he had instructed his aides to examine. He had not returned it.
Garling turned the pin slowly between his fingers, watching the way the gold caught the lamplight. His gaze, once heavy-lidded with boredom, sharpened with new interest. A quiet awareness came into his shoulders. His spine straightened. The hunter waking.
He reached for the silver bell and rang it once.
The door opened almost before the sound had faded. His steward, a man trained well enough to speak only when spoken to, entered and stood silently, awaiting command.
“Double the men shadowing Miss Vauntierre,” Garling said, his voice smooth and without urgency. “Discreetly. No contact.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch as the pin continued its lazy rotation between his fingers.
“I want everything. Her companions. Her routines. Where she lingers and how long. What books she pretends to read and what pages she returns to. Whom she watches when she thinks no one sees her. What makes her laugh. What makes her pause. Her favorite color. Her least favorite dish. How long she stares at her own reflection. I want to know if her breath catches when someone says her name, and what kind of storm passes through her when no one is looking.”
The steward bowed low, ready to take his leave, but Garling’s voice called him back before he could retreat.
“And be quick about it,” he said, setting the pin carefully atop the lion’s mane. His eyes gleamed, soft with something that did not resemble mercy. “I intend to have her rooms prepared. I would hate to choose the wrong shade of red.”
It was the early hours of morning, when even the city’s clocks seemed reluctant to chime and the sky had not yet decided whether to darken or pale.
Thorne stepped into the parlor without knocking, without asking, and without the slightest pretense of manners. The door clicked shut behind him with the same crisp finality he used to close dossiers, sign dismissal letters, and walk away from poorly negotiated truces.
He was still half in formal dress, the picture of elegance disturbed. His shirt collar was undone, his cravat hung loose and uneven, and his gloves were tucked into his belt like an afterthought. His coat was slung over one shoulder, neglected in his haste. When he looked at you, his expression gave nothing away.
You did not rise. You did not speak. Your gaze remained on the hearth, where the fire had burned too low to offer any warmth.
"You were added to the Trials of Twelve," he said.
His voice was steady, but it carried the tightness of something held in check.
It was not a question.
You nodded once, slow and measured.
"You didn’t tell me."
Your answer came quietly, laced with control. "We assumed it was you who invited us."
He let out a short breath through his nose. It was not exasperation, but realization. Something had settled in his mind, clicking into place with the precision of a lock turning. He crossed the room without another word and sank into the chair across from you. His forearms rested on his knees, and the low firelight caught the hard angles of his face, casting a faint gold along his jaw.
He watched you in silence.
The quiet stretched long enough that you were the one to speak again.
"It wasn’t you, was it?"
He shook his head slightly. "Of course not."
The pause that followed felt heavier.
"Then you know who it was," you said, your voice dry with certainty.
His jaw shifted. A small movement. Enough to betray what he would not say aloud.
"Figarland," he said. "That bastard."
The name landed between you with the weight of a blade placed carefully on the table. Not yet drawn. Not yet buried.
Thorne leaned forward, his voice lower now, more measured.
"He is doing this to rattle us. To sabotage the engagement. Or worse. To distract me while he moves somewhere I cannot see."
Still, you said nothing.
His gaze lingered, sharpened by calculation. He was not looking at you with fondness. He was studying you, weighing your silence, testing the shape of your reactions as if you were another piece in his ever-shifting strategy.
"Did he say anything to you?"
"No."
"Send anything?"
"No."
A pause stretched between the two of you, thinner than breath.
"Did he even see you?"
You blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh. It was not warm, but it was real.
"I don’t think so. But it is possible he was hidden. Behind a curtain. Under a table. In the piano."
Something shifted in his expression. The smallest flicker. The twitch of his mouth, barely there. Not quite a smile, not quite amusement. Whatever it was, it stopped short of his eyes.
"Good," he said.
He leaned back slowly, and the fire crackled once in the hearth as if filling the space his voice had left behind.
But the word was not spoken with ease or comfort. It carried no warmth. No reassurance. It sounded like a figure closing a column. The end of a sum, not a sentiment.
You heard it clearly now. He was already weighing this moment against everything else, turning it over in his mind like a sealed report. Your answers. Your tone. The delay before you spoke. He was slotting your behavior into some internal measure of risk. Not because he distrusted you. But because he no longer had the luxury of trusting anyone without calculation.
To him, you had already become a variable.
A risk.
And you could not decide what stung more: his doubt, or your agreement with it.
You wanted to be outraged. You should have been. But you weren’t. Not really. Because, if you were Being honest, you may have been compromised.
You opened your mouth to confess.
You should have told him everything. Every wretched word that had passed through your mind. That you needed to leave Mariejois. That the revolutionaries should scatter. That whatever game Figarland was playing, it had shifted. It was personal now, and far too close for comfort.
But your mouth closed again.
Because none of it was confirmed. You had no evidence. Only the weight of a feeling you could not shake. The shape of something wrong that had not yet taken form. The invitation had come too easily. The timing had been too precise. And Garling Figarland had looked at you for too long with too little expression.
That did not mean anything. Not on its own.
To assume his actions were aimed at you was dangerous. It was paranoid. Worse, it was arrogant. Figarland was a man of many enemies, most of them louder and more obvious than you. Hazing was tradition in Mariejois. Newly paired couples were often targeted. Perhaps Thorne had irritated him during a past debate. Perhaps you had not been as forgettable or inoffensive as you had intended during your last meeting.
There were a hundred possible reasons. A thousand variables. You would have to count carefully before arriving at the possibility that Figarland had seen through you. That he had pierced the veil of the revolution.
And even if he had, what then?
The thought of Thorne looking at you with that dry, unreadable expression was worse than exposure. The way he would tilt his head slightly and call you reckless, or naive. Or worse, say nothing at all.
Silence would be the final verdict.
If he believed you were compromised, he would end the mission without hesitation. Virella would not argue. She would not protect you. No one would. The revolution had no room for sentiment. If Thorne so much as suspected you were a risk, they would fold you out of the picture without ceremony. Quiet. Efficient. Final.
They would not risk you. Not even for your own cause.
You did not want that.
So you said nothing.
Thorne studied you for a long moment. He did not press. His silence was not cold, only measured. There was no judgment in his gaze, only the calm gravity of someone trained to wait for truths to reveal themselves in time.
He was quiet, but not unfeeling. Only pragmatic.
"I promised I would protect us all. Especially you." His voice was even, but distant, as if the words belonged to a memory he had not yet put down. "Seraphina would never forgive me."
He paused, the next part softer.
"I would never forgive myself."
Another moment passed between you. The fire hissed softly behind its grate.
Then, without accusation, only precision:
"We must speed up the engagement. I will send the letter at noon."
The door burst open before he could finish the sentence.
Maria stood in the threshold, breathless. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair half-fallen from its braid, her cloak slipping from one shoulder. She had run the length of the corridor, maybe farther. She did not She did not knock. She did not bother with civility.
"You’re too late," she said, her voice splintered with disbelief. "That damned God’s Knight made his move."
Thorne straightened. "Pardon?"
Maria’s expression twisted. Her breath still came uneven. "You’ve been added to the Hunt."
The silence cracked like glass underfoot.
Across from you, Thorne froze. Not dramatically. Not violently. But with the quiet, final stillness of a man who had just taken a blade somewhere vital. His spine remained upright, but his shoulders locked into place. His hands, once braced on his knees, closed into stillness.
"He what?" The words left him softly. They hovered just above a whisper. Frightening in how low they sat.
Maria did not repeat herself. She did not explain. She walked forward and tossed something down between you.
A single card caught the air as it fell. Light in weight, but heavy with intent. It spun once before landing silently in your lap.
Crimson bled along the borders. Gold-lettered script shimmered in the low firelight. The card bore no seal, but it did not need one.
It was an invitation.
Or perhaps a death sentence, dressed in ceremony.
Entry Confirmed. Participant: Miss Vauntierre.
You stared at the card.
Your throat began to tighten.
It felt as if the room had grown colder all at once, as if the dying fire had finally gone out without permission. The silence between the three of you thinned and sharpened, stretched taut by a quiet none of you dared break.
Thorne said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
The change in his expression was enough. The quiet calculation behind his eyes had disappeared, replaced by something far more distant. His features had gone still. Not with shock. Not with thought. With cold finality. He looked as if he had passed beyond analysis into something stripped of warmth entirely.
Maria had begun to pace.
“He overlooked the list himself,” she said, breath still uneven.
Thorne rose without warning. His chair screeched against the tile as he stood, the sound abrupt and jarring in the still room.
He looked ill.
Rage sat beneath his skin like heat behind iron. Controlled, but dangerous. A forge without a chimney. Contained, but waiting for an excuse to rise.
“This is a political game,” he said, his voice flat. “Not a courtship. If he wants to win, he must declare his intent. Seriously. Publicly. Which means—”
“He sent her to the glasshouse,” Maria cut in, her tone sharper than before. “And liked her answer enough to do this.”
You did not move.
The card in your hand might as well have been burning. The edges bit into your skin. You could not seem to let go.
The Hunt was no charming pastime.
It was sabotage dressed in silk. A velvet-gloved weapon used to fracture courtships, unravel alliances, and spark rivalries that could last for generations. It drifted through the halls of Mariejois like perfume laced with poison. Whispers painted it as romantic. The truth was sharper.
At its most elegant, the Hunt was a spectacle. A debutante, if fortunate and perfectly placed, might be gently pursued by a suitor hand-picked for compatibility. Bloodline, wealth, and influence determined everything. Sometimes she might attract two. Sometimes even three, if she was rare enough. Their affections would unfold through formal declarations, polished duels, and grand displays.
But for those of lesser standing, or those considered a threat, the rules changed.
And there was only one that mattered.
The more desirable the girl, the more dangerous the game became.
And now, he had decided that you were worth hunting.
Thorne broke the silence.
"I’ll buy out her entry."
"No." Maria spoke instantly. "That will reek of panic. Worse, it’s not allowed once her name has been declared. You know that. You’ll be punished for even trying."
"Then I’ll appeal."
"You won’t make it past the first gate," she said, bitterly now. "The rules are sacred. And you, dear Thorne, are not."
He said nothing.
But his silence was not surrender.
His jaw had gone tight, his eyes already distant. Not in fear. In calculation. He was not weighing his chances. He was already reshaping the board.
He was not planning to protest.
He was planning to survive.
You recognized the look. You had seen it before, on darker nights and worse days, when a mission had collapsed in ash and someone still had to carry out the final order. It was not the look of a man trying to stop a disaster.
It was the look of someone deciding how to carry the consequences.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, the wood pressing into your palms. Your knuckles had turned white. You only noticed when the trembling began.
You could not stop it.
"Why?" you asked, the word quieter than you intended. It barely filled the space between the three of you.
Maria hesitated, her lips parting without sound.
Thorne did not.
"Because, unfortunately, we’ve made it onto his list."
The words landed without echo. They did not need one.
Before their weight could settle fully in the room, a knock came at the door.
Not hesitant.
Sharp. Precise.
The sound of the handle turning followed immediately. The door opened without pause.
A footman stepped inside.
His posture was immaculate, spine drawn straight as a blade. His gaze flicked upward just once before dropping in practiced formality. He was dressed in House Vauntierre livery, the deep slate and ivory palette pressed to perfection, so finely tailored it seemed ceremonial rather than practical.
Despite the calm of his entrance, there was something uneasy in the set of his shoulders. A tightness at the base of the neck. The faintest flicker of reluctance, quickly smothered.
In his gloved hand, he carried a folded summons. The parchment was thick and pale, sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the silver-embossed crest of your house.
“Message from the Master,” he said. His tone was well-trained. Civil, but devoid of warmth. The kind of voice that had delivered countless orders before and expected each one to be followed without question.
He bowed. Quick. Mechanical.
Then extended the letter toward you with both hands.
You and Thorne stood at the same time.
The footman hesitated.
With a slight gesture of his fingers, he clarified, "He only wishes to see Miss Vauntierre at this time."
Not rude. Not kind. Merely final.
Thorne’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
You looked at him, then at Maria. Neither spoke, but the concern in their eyes told you enough. The seal was familiar. The timing, less so. No explanation. No flourish. Just your name and a summons that did not tolerate delay.
You left without protest.
The hallways of the estate were quiet as you moved, lined with floral arrangements chosen to suggest taste without emotion. Marble floors muffled your steps, but not the sound of your heartbeat, which seemed to echo louder with every corridor crossed.
You found the Master of House Vauntierre in the high sitting room. The air was sharp with lemon oil and expectation. Dust had never been allowed to linger here. Every line of furniture had been drawn to symmetry, every angle rigid and deliberate. The chairs were upholstered in fine fabric that had never known comfort. The portraits on the walls watched with the flat disapproval of ancestors whose legacies were used as weapons.
The light from the diamond-paned windows slanted across the room, striking silver along the edges of the tableware. The entire space felt like a room built for verdicts.
He sat beneath the family crest, its silver thread dulled with age, the once-proud embroidery now a ghost of former glory. A glass of port rested in his hand, turning slowly between ringed fingers. The movement was lazy, practiced, the gesture of a man who had long since stopped standing for anything at all.
He did not rise.
He did not greet you.
He only looked up, one brow arching in what might once have been mistaken for amusement. Now, it landed closer to condescension.
"So," he said, drawing out the word like a secret teased from a locked drawer. "You’ve made quite the impression."
You remained standing.
"I assume you’re referring to my recent invitation to the Hunt."
He smiled, thinly. The kind of expression that never touched the eyes.
"Among other things."
He lifted the glass to his lips and drank slowly, the silence that followed heavy with meaning left unsaid. When he set the glass down, it landed without sound, cushioned by a coaster carved from blackwood and inlaid with the Vauntierre sigil.
"Do you know how few girls have ever been named to the Hunt from House Figarland?" he asked, voice light, though it carried the weight of something rehearsed. He did not wait for your reply. "Three in the last century. Two ended in duels. One with a marriage so lucrative their coffers still benefit."
He let that linger, swirling the dark port with a flick of his wrist.
"I do hope you understand what has been offered to you. Even if you did not earn it."
"I am aware."
"I am," he echoed, letting the words roll comfortably over his tongue. He turned his gaze back to the port, almost as if the wine were an accomplice to the conversation. "And so, it seems, is the Commander of God's Knights, who has seen fit to declare interest in a girl who, up until last month, was barely considered a viable asset."
The title alone reshaped the air. God's Knight. It rang with sanctity, danger, and inevitability. He did not need to say the name. Not when all of Mariejois already knew which of them had the privilege of indulgence. Figarland Garling did not express idle curiosity. He chose. He marked.
And when he did, others took note.
There was a subtle pleasure in the Master’s voice now. Not warmth. Something colder. The kind of smugness reserved for those who believed themselves clever for never discarding the right pawn. He sounded like a man rediscovering value in an heirloom long forgotten in a locked drawer.
"A rare thing," he continued, watching you over the rim of his glass. "To catch the eye of a man like that. Some spend their lives building entire dynasties for the sake of a single greeting."
You met his gaze, refusing to flinch. Your voice remained steady.
"I'm already engaged."
The Master gave a delicate sniff, his gaze trailing over you with the detached interest of a man assessing the stitching on a coat just slightly out of season.
"More or less."
"I don’t think Thorne would call it ambiguous."
"No," he said, almost pleasantly, swirling his port again. The movement was slow. Measured. As if time bent slightly to his rhythm. "But you’re young. And quite naive. You still believe that what you want has any bearing on what becomes politically useful."
You didn’t reply.
Not out of agreement. But because words had no weight in this room. Not yours. Not now.
He took another sip, slower this time, savoring it like a man well acquainted with luxury. His voice, when it returned, carried a silk-dry certainty.
"Do not mistake me. This isn’t disapproval. Quite the opposite. The Figarland name carries weight beyond anything Vauntierre could buy, beg, or marry into. His attention is... unexpected, yes. But not unwelcome."
He paused there.
Then smiled. It was not a warm expression. It was not even polite. It was a quiet confirmation of his own correctness. A smile without teeth.
"You’ve done well," he said. "Whether you meant to or not."
You did not thank him. You weren’t sure if it would be taken as impolite or presumptuous.
In truth, you did not care.
He set down his glass with a faint clink. The sound was deliberate. A cue. A closing.
Then he steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the carved arms of his chair.
"I do not want to see Fiero Thorne in this house again. Not until the Hunt concludes. Perhaps not after either."
That made you bristle.
But he was already moving on, discarding Thorne like a footnote.
"I’ve sent for new gowns," he continued, brisk as a ledger being shut. "You’ll be dressed properly from now on. Jewels as well. Nothing garish. You are to appear desirable, not desperate. There’s a difference."
You stared at him.
The pressure in your chest began to tighten. You could not tell whether it was anger threading its way into your lungs, or the dull weight of exhaustion pulling at your spine. Perhaps both.
"Anything else?" you asked, your voice even.
"Yes," he said, flicking his hand through the air like he was dismissing a servant. "Smile when you’re spoken to. Try not to scare off Figarland."
You left without bowing.
Thorne was escorted from the house before you saw him again.
Politely. Quietly. But unmistakably.
There was no scene. No raised voices. Only a discreet servant with clipped manners and a rehearsed apology, offering him his coat and gloves with just enough ceremony to make the message clear.
He was no longer welcome.
Not for now.
You and Maria watched from the upstairs gallery window as he crossed the outer courtyard, his coat slung over one shoulder, his stride even, his face unreadable. He did not look back.
Maria crossed her arms tightly. "This is absurd."
You said nothing.
But something cold had settled in your chest. Not sharp, but dull. Spreading. A quiet frost along the edges of every thought.
The rest of the day passed in an expensive blur.
You were swept through a gauntlet of beauty regimens so rigorous and relentless they could have been mistaken for punishment. What arrived was not a mere styling team. It was an elite unit. A curated ensemble of dressmakers, stylists, jewelers, artists, and what could only be described as political handlers in silk gloves.
They did not speak to you. They spoke around you. Over you. Like generals at a war table, each one consulting a different map.
“She’ll need structured silhouettes, but nothing too hard. She’s already played the doughty spinster-in-training.”
“Metals only in complementary tones. Sapphires. Amethysts. Pearls. Do not dull that hair again.”
“And write this down—she is not to wear anything that makes her look sweet. No pastels. No bows. No lace unless it’s foreign and expensive.”
But first, your hair.
Brushed, washed, and lathered with something that smelled like amber and citrus. Trimmed precisely, not to soften, but to sharpen the frame of your face. A single attendant took detailed notes on your coloring while the others debated angles under shifting candlelight.
“Difficult,” one muttered. “Redheads always are.”
“Not if you stop fighting it,” said another. “Accentuate the contrast, lather it in conditioner, make it shimmer like the star of the show.”
They perfumed your skin next. Not with anything floral or girlish, but with something more decadent; warm, spiced, deliberate. Then came the scrubbing. Soaked, oiled, and dusted with fine powder until your skin caught the light in precisely the right places. You shimmered, not like a star, but like the edge of a drawn blade.
Your nails were filed and shaped to an elegant taper. Your lashes darkened until they cast shadows. The faintest color was pressed into your lips, deep enough to suggest knowledge, not innocence.
As they worked, they whispered.
“Lord Belmire’s daughter wore peonies last season and evaporated by autumn. Don’t make her look like that.”
“She’s meant to be more than pretty. Make her look expensive.”
“She already does,” came a dry voice from the corner. “Now we just need her to look Figarland quality. If we do, we’ll be set for life.”
Every step was taken with political intent. Every choice was calculated for the viewing gallery, not the mirror.
You weren’t being adorned.
You were being prepared.
You sat motionless as they moved around you, as they took notes and adjusted lighting and held swatches of silk against your cheekbones like divining rods. You had never felt more silent or more watched.
A jeweler arrived mid-afternoon, wordless and immaculate in deep charcoal gloves. He bowed only once, then opened his case with the care of a man presenting state secrets. Inside were three velvet trays, each lined with pieces that did not scream wealth but whispered it in steady, undeniable tones.
Nothing glittered too brightly. Nothing clinked. These were not jewels meant to dazzle; they were meant to anchor. To imply lineage, access, and protection.
The trays were placed before the head attendant, who examined each with a strategist’s eye.
“No diamonds,” she said at once, “Too bridal. Too desperate. She isn’t here to beg.”
One of the assistants reached for a strand of pearls. The attendant waved it away.
“She’s not a governess.”
A pause. Then a slow, deliberate gesture toward a pair of cool-hued sapphire drops set in fine gold filigree. The stones were deep and rich, catching the light with the glint of deep seas and hidden rooms.
“Understated,” she murmured, holding one to your ear and nodding in approval. “But just enough to suggest she’s suddenly very expensive.”
The other attendants murmured their agreement, already rearranging your neckline to better frame the selection.
“Leave the rest,” the attendant told the jeweler. “Her wardrobe is shifting. She’ll need variety.”
The jeweler inclined his head, silently pleased. As he departed, one assistant scribbled a note onto the day’s ledger beside your name.
You winced as they clasped the heavy earrings into place.
The gowns came next.
Fabrics were draped over your frame and tugged tight, pinned and unpinned by hands that never asked permission. The room buzzed with murmurs of cut, line, and impression. You were not treated as a girl, but as a figure to be unveiled.
At first, the gowns came in pale, predictable shades. Soft ivory. Powder gray. The faintest yellow that looked dignified on a Vauntierre ledger but made you disappear in the mirror. They were the colors of bridal promises and harmless daughters. Safe, but spectral. You looked like a well-bred ghost, draped in silk that dulled your hair and stole the warmth from your skin.
“She’s vanishing,” one tailor muttered, frowning at your reflection.
“She’s red-haired,” another replied, with a click of her tongue. “She needs presence, not pallor.”
And just like that, the entire palette changed.
New fabrics were summoned. The kind locked behind glass. The kind whispered about in salons. Deep navy trimmed in silver. Midnight velvet with undertones of plum. Emerald satin with an almost luminescent sheen. Shades that were considered too bold for most court girls, but which made red hair look like a crown rather than an accident.
The effect was immediate. You no longer looked fragile. You looked vividly alive.
Jewels were added next. Cool-toned stones. Diamonds, sapphires, and opals set in gold. Your hair was styled higher, your mouth tinted deeper. Each choice was deliberate. Nothing too sweet.
You stood in the center of it all as they worked. Not as a girl, but as a symbol being made.
By the time the attendants stepped back, the room had quieted as they looked at you with a different kind of appraisal.
Maria returned just before dusk.
She stepped inside the room, arms crossed, eyes sweeping across the layers of blue and silver and midnight-dark silk, the scattered pins, the nervous staff retreating into the corners.
Then she looked at you, and her expression darkened.
She stopped in the doorway, her arms folded tight across her chest, brows drawn not in awe but in something closer to dread. Her eyes swept the room slowly, taking in the scattered pins, the opened jewel cases, the silks arranged like offerings. Then they landed on you.
Her gaze didn’t soften.
It sharpened.
“You look beautiful,” Maria said at last, but the words were laced with unease. Her voice was low, brittle at the edges. “Like you belong to someone very powerful.”
You gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
“Beauty isn’t rare,” you said quietly. “It’s just expensive.”
Maria didn’t disagree.
She stepped further into the room, her voice dropping as her eyes flicked toward the attendants still lingering in the corners; soft-footed and suddenly reverent, their gazes darting toward you like courtiers waiting for a cue. Only hours earlier, they had tutted over your coloring, declared it difficult, too bold, too sharp. One had whispered, not unkindly, that red hair often looked provincial if not properly managed.
Now, they fawned.
Now, they praised the way it shimmered like aged copper in candlelight. They adjusted the pins with ceremonial care. One even murmured something about Tracian gold and divine omens, as though your hair had been conjured, not inherited.
It had not changed.
Maria saw it too. The way beauty, once dismissed as unruly, became desirable the moment it served someone else’s narrative. The same red hair they had called difficult that morning was now spoken of in reverent tones. Not because it had changed.
Because power had touched it.
“I think we underestimated Garling Figarland’s insight,” Maria muttered under her breath. Her eyes didn’t leave you. “And when he sees you like this—”
She stopped short.
The implication hung between you, thick as smoke. Maria’s gaze held yours, but she didn’t say it.
She didn’t have to.
You both knew what she meant.
And what it might cost.
It wasn’t long after that the message came.
Not a letter. Not a steward. No crest. No seal. Nothing to mark it as official. Nothing to tie it directly to any house.
Just a courier in pale livery. Expensively dressed, impeccably groomed, and utterly forgettable. The kind of servant used only by the most careful men, and the kind meant to vanish after speaking.
He was shown into the outer parlor without fanfare. No announcement. No formal seal. Just the crisp knock of someone who already knew they would be admitted.
The courier wore pale livery without insignia, his gloves spotless, his demeanor impeccable. He bowed once, deep and unhurried, and delivered his message with the clarity of someone trained to speak once and never repeat.
“Saint Garling Figarland requests the presence of Miss Vauntierre, for a price tea time. It will be held at Noon, in the Figarland Solarium.”
No explanation. No written invitation. No place for reply.
No refusal expected.
Then he turned and left, leaving the faint scent of citrus and bergamot in his wake. A scent that felt entirely deliberate.
Maria stood beside you, staring after him like she might chase him down and shake the words back out of his mouth.
This wasn’t a summons in the traditional sense. It was a move on a board that was already tilting. You were being called into a space designed to control the narrative, not invite participation.
You kept your eyes on the door through which the courier had vanished.
“Don’t tell Thorne yet,” you said quietly.
Maria looked at you, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Why?”
“Because he’ll try to stop it.”
“He should try to stop it.”
You nodded, slowly.
“Yes. But he can’t, or else he’ll completely banish himself from the city. I can still salvage this.”
She cursed softly under her breath, then began pacing.
“Looking like this? Tea in the solarium,” she muttered. “Figarland might as well have sent a dueling invitation. Or a trap wrapped in linen napkins.”
You didn’t flinch.
Because it was already clear this wasn’t about tea.
It was about control.
And you had just been placed on Figarland’s schedule.
The Figarland Solarium sat like a cage of light atop the highest tier of Mariejois. Half-glass, half-thorned lattice, it crowned the capital like a halo honed to a blade. Suspended above the city’s most exclusive restaurants and reserved only for those whose names echoed through bloodlines and treasuries, it was less a garden than a gallery of power. Rumored to be where treaties were once drawn and betrayals quietly sealed, the Solarium was not a place for comfort. Sunlight filtered through its panes, but it did not warm.
The moment you stepped inside, it felt less like entering a parlor and more like stepping onto a stage with the curtains drawn back.
He was already there.
Garling Figarland.
Handsome, of course—undeniably so—but in a way that felt incidental, as if his striking features were simply a secondary effect of something far heavier. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a man who had been forged for spectacle as much as for war. His blond hair, shaped deliberately into the sweeping arc of a waxing moon, caught the filtered sunlight like polished metal. Maroon eyes, unblinking and unreadable, rested on you with the same attention one might give a rare specimen in a locked case.
His uniform, all sharp lines and ceremonial color, was as vivid as ever, but today it hung from him like an afterthought. The gloves had been folded with clinical precision and set beside a half-finished teacup, the porcelain untouched long enough to have gone cold. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, like a man who had been waiting for something interesting to happen for a very long time.
But the blade at his hip was freshly oiled. His boots gleamed. Every brass button was polished, every edge of his attire drawn to symmetry.
If he had not carried such a suffocating gravity, he might have looked comical.
He did not.
He did not rise when you entered.
He only looked at you. Long. Unreadable.
And then, without warning, his mouth curved into a smile. Slow. Easy. Not mocking, but unmistakably deliberate. It was not a performance, not one of the thin expressions worn for court or ceremony.
It was, you realized, the first true smile you had seen on him.
Not warm. Not cold.
But real.
And somehow, that was worse.
He let his eyes linger.
Not inappropriately, but with a kind of practiced thoroughness. As if he were cataloging details not for vanity, but for leverage. Your gown, chosen to catch the light. The careful flush to your cheeks. The warmth of your hair arranged to perfection. The expensive effort of it all did not escape him.
And yet, his gaze paused, just long enough to suggest it wasn’t surprise he felt.
It was interest. The quiet, sharpened kind. Not because you had been made beautiful, but that he knew you already could be, and it pleased him more than it should.
He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly, his gaze unhurried, as if settling in to admire something he hadn’t expected to enjoy quite so much.
"Miss Vauntierre," he said, smooth as silk. Almost warm. As though this were a social call, not the quiet tightening of a noose.
The way he said your name was not ceremonial. It was indulgent. A slow roll of syllables, spoken like something meant to be savored. As if he had waited a long time to say it aloud, and intended to say it often.
His voice pressed gently over your name with the weight of familiarity not yet earned. Possessive, in a way that pretended not to be.
The tea service between you gleamed under the filtered sun. White porcelain. Gold trim. A single pale rose rested beside the second cup. Untouched, but not forgotten.
He looked at it with mild amusement, his maroon eyes narrowing just slightly. Not in mockery, but in thought. As if he appreciated the gesture not for its courtesy, but for its precision. The kind of care he noticed in weapons, not etiquette.
With a flick of two fingers, he gestured to the chair across from him.
"Sit."
Not a request. Not even an order, really. Just a word that assumed obedience.
There had been no second chair when you entered, but almost like sleight of hand, one had appeared by a Figarland servant who immediately disappeared. Simple. Elegant. The chair placed directly across from him beneath the full, merciless glare of the solarium’s sun.
You sat.
The hem of your gown whispered against the marble as you adjusted, spine straight, hands folded in your lap with care. A practiced stillness. A shield of etiquette.
Silence followed.
He let it stretch.
Then, as casually as if he were discussing the weather or a change in orchestra season, he reached for the teapot and poured himself a fresh cup. The steam rose gently between you, curling like a veil. He did not glance up.
"You should thank me," he said lightly. "You were a footnote in a dying house. Now you’re one of the most beautiful women in Mariejois."
You didn’t blink.
"I am a plain woman, Saint Figarland," you said, your voice level. "Beauty does not suit me."
That earned you a glance.
And then, a smirk.
Not cruel. Amused. The kind of expression worn by a man who believed himself two steps ahead and thoroughly entertained by the idea.
"The color suits you," he murmured. "Especially the way it sets off that flush you get when you're upset."
He took a sip, unhurried, eyes still on yours.
"And it's almost as pretty as when you answer a difficult question."
There was no mistaking the teasing edge in his voice. Polished. Precise. Meant to disarm, and to press, both at once.
You kept your voice calm, though the words edged sharper than silk should allow.
"Is this your way of admitting you're tormenting me?"
He tilted his head, just slightly, as if to consider you from a different angle. The faintest smirk touched his mouth. Brief. Controlled. But unmistakably pleased.
"That’s what predators do, isn’t it?" he said, his tone low and deliberate. "Watch the herd. Wait for the shift in pace. Find the most vulnerable member."
You stiffened.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But you felt it in the line of your shoulders. In the way your breath deepened. In the way your pulse began to rise, not with panic, but with calculation.
Garling watched you with the interest of a man studying something rare. Not with malice. Not even with cruelty. Just curiosity. The kind that came from power so absolute it forgot to apologize for itself.
"It’s not always personal," he added mildly, as though that somehow justified the hunt. "It’s instinct."
He tapped one calloused finger against the table. Slow. Rhythmic. The sound echoed faintly against the glass, each beat a quiet reminder of the game being played.
"And I wonder," he continued, voice almost idle, "what kind of debutante works so hard to appear less beautiful."
Your pulse jumped.
Not from fear. Not quite.
You looked away, unsure if you were avoiding his gaze or the truth buried inside the question. You flushed, the heat creeping up before you could stop it.
"I—"
"Your hair," he said, cutting in with the ease of a man who did not need permission. "Is it ever less... colorful?"
But before the sentence could settle, he pushed back from his chair. The movement was smooth, unhurried, and precise; like everything he did was for effect, and the effect always landed.
Your shoulders straightened instinctively as he rose, as though bracing for something measured. Something inevitable.
You heard his footsteps behind you, soft and even against the polished floor. You did not turn.
Then, without preamble, his bare fingers touched the side of your neck.
You froze.
They did not linger. They curled instead around the silk ribbons of your bonnet, light and deliberate, the motion slow enough to be unmistakable. In one practiced sweep, he undid the knot, the silk loosening like it had been waiting for his hand.
The bonnet slipped away.
He lifted it gently from your head, his touch careful. Not hesitant. Reverent. Like he was unwrapping something rare.
A quiet hum followed. Low. Close. Not quite pleased.
Satisfied.
The light caught in your hair now, no longer shielded. It gleamed in the stillness, every strand burnished beneath the sun streaming through the Solarium glass. It fell over your shoulders with warmth and weight, framing your face in something soft and unintended.
You felt exposed.
Not undressed.
Unveiled.
He stepped back. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
But not far.
"Much better," he murmured.
Then, instead of returning to his seat, he reached out again.
His fingers found a loose strand near your shoulder. He let it slide between them, slow and idle, as if measuring its weight or savoring a texture only he could feel. The movement was unhurried. Intimate. Possessive without claiming.
"Tell me, Miss Vauntierre," he said, voice dipping lower, the sound sliding along your spine. "Did you like my question at the Trials?"
The teasing was gone. There was no lilt in his tone now; only focus, quiet and intent.
"No," you said, more sharply than you intended. "I don’t think I should have been there at all."
He hummed. A thoughtful sound. Almost indulgent.
"Oh? But yours was the only good answer. Most girls cry when they’re tested without studying. You answered like a revolutionary cell leader being pressed in an alley."
You took a slow, careful breath.
The room had changed.
It was still full of light, still beautiful, but it felt closer now. Smaller. Sharpened around the edges.
"Your faith in my abilities is heartwarming, Commander Figarland."
He smiled faintly at that, though his eyes remained unchanged. Cool. Focused. Still playing with the strand of your hair, he continued, almost absently, as if speaking to himself.
"I wonder who taught you that answer. Your mother? Some merchant whispering ideas between shipments? Or perhaps the boy with the warships."
Your spine stiffened. You held your expression still.
Neutral. Controlled.
His fingers released your hair.
But they did not retreat.
Instead, his fingers lingered. Light. Deliberate. His skin was cool against the sensitive curve of your neck, the pressure almost gentle. Almost reverent.
"Or perhaps," he said, voice so soft it could have been mistaken for tenderness, "it was Silvian Declaire, before his untimely death."
Your throat tightened.
That name. That implication. It was dangerous ground, spoken with too much ease. You needed to move the conversation. Quickly. Cleanly.
But silence, in this place, had gravity.
You didn’t speak.
And he noticed.
He smiled again. Wider this time. Not amused.
Satisfied.
As though something unspoken had been confirmed. As though watching you flinch without moving had pleased him more than any answer ever could.
You forced yourself to speak. The words caught in your throat before they came, and when they did, your voice barely carried.
"Why did you enter me into the Hunt?"
He did not answer at once.
His hand lifted from your skin slowly, almost thoughtfully, as if releasing something breakable. Something his fingers might remember.
Then he circled back to his chair and lowered himself with unhurried grace. He sat like a man who had never known the need to rush, the weight of urgency a foreign concept. One leg crossed, one hand loose on the table, he looked at you like time had no bearing on his plans.
His fingers tapped once against the rim of the porcelain teapot.
"Because I like the way you panic," he said, his voice light, as if making an idle observation.
The teapot clicked gently as he set it down. The sound was clean and crisp, echoing in the charged quiet between you. It rang with intention, like a bell calling something unseen into motion.
"Eyes sharp. Chin high. Chest spilling from your dress."
His voice dipped just enough to catch the edge of something intimate. Not overt, but unmistakable. You felt your breath hitch, shallow at the top of your throat. The words landed between you like fingers on bare skin, cool and precise.
"A little breathless," he continued, gaze trailing from your neckline to your mouth, "from pretending you’re not afraid."
He let the silence stretch after that.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. It was something smaller, more private. A flicker of desire, restrained and tucked away like a secret. You realized, too late, that he was enjoying this, that each reaction drawn from you like blood from a pinprick.
"My own little red fox."
The words curled through the air like smoke. Soft. Lethal. Possessive.
He lifted the teacup to his lips and drank slowly. The porcelain touched his mouth with the elegance of ceremony. He never looked away from you.
His stare was steady. Unblinking.
It did not feel like he was seeing you. It felt like he already owned you.
"I detest the idea of anyone else having that view," he murmured, lips brushing the rim of the cup. The words were quiet, intimate enough to feel like they were spoken directly against your skin.
Your heart gave a single, traitorous thud.
You wanted to cry, or to spit at him, or to leave and never return. Anything to break the strange gravity pulling you into the moment. Anything to shatter the way he looked at you, as though every reaction belonged to him.
"I am as good as married—"
Before the sentence could finish, his hand moved.
Gentle. Unhurried. Almost absentminded.
Two fingers tilted your chin upward, the pressure light but undeniable. His flesh was cool against your skin, the gesture so precise it felt rehearsed. He angled your face toward his with the same care one might use to adjust a porcelain mask.
He studied you.
Not like a man looking at a rival’s bride.
Like a hawk examining a songbird caught too far from cover.
"Oh?" he said, the sound soft and indulgent, as if amused by your insistence. "You’re not truly spoken for in any measure of the law. And if Thorne wanted to secure you, he should have moved faster."
He leaned forward.
Not enough to provoke, only enough to shift the light. Sunlight spilled across the table and stopped short at his shoulder, casting a shadow over your lap. It was not his body that carried the weight.
It was the implication.
You tried to speak, but your voice faltered before it steadied again.
"Why?"
The word cracked open everything you were trying not to ask. It held the edge of fear, of curiosity, of disbelief. But he brushed it aside like smoke.
"I find," he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, "that I’m warming to the idea of gifting my future children red hair."
A pause followed.
Long enough for the words to settle. Long enough for your stomach to turn.
Then he added, quieter still, as though confiding in someone already complicit:
"One could even say… revolutionary red."
Your breath caught.
Not just caught. It stopped. Trapped in your chest like prey in a snare.
You stood.
Abrupt. Too fast. The chair scraped harshly against the polished floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the glass chamber of the solarium. For a moment, that echo was the only thing in the world.
He did not flinch.
He did not blink.
His smile did not fade.
It deepened.
Not with amusement, but with quiet, ruthless satisfaction. Like a blade sliding into soft tissue. Clean. Intentional. Exactly where he meant it to go.
And then, with maddening grace, he leaned back in his chair. Released you with a glance. His posture relaxed, his hands calm, the very image of civility.
Mocking it.
You stepped back.
Aghast.
You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, your skin prickling as if something had touched you that had no right to. You wanted distance. Air. A door to open. Someone to speak.
But he didn’t follow.
He didn’t need to.
His shadow remained where you had been, draped over the chair. Over the marble floor. Over you.
It slipped into the seams of your dress, into the curve of your spine, into the hollow behind your ribs where your breath had once settled freely.
This story is not commendation on slavery, cruelty, sexual assault or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+
Themes: enemies to lovers, espionage, too many ballrooms, arranged marriage, forced proximity, Cesestial Dragon dynamics, fear, manipulation, mutual hatred, uneven power balance, no redemption, literal war crimes, slavery and slow burn
The Grand Hall of Pangaea Palace glittered with oppressive splendor. Gold filigree climbed the walls like vines, and stained glass murals refracted sunlight into fractured jewels that danced across polished marble. Celestial Dragons glided through the space atop personal platforms, their faces hidden behind ornate masks, voices muffled by entitlement and filtered air. Silks whispered. Perfume clashed. Every breath smelled like old money and new power.
But high above the drifting parade of privilege stood the actual apex of authority.
The God’s Knights.
Clad in ceremonial armor sharper than any blade, they loomed like living judgments carved from myth. Where the Celestial Dragons floated, the God’s Knights stood. Where the others played at godhood, the Knights enforced it—with elegant cruelty and unblinking conviction. Even the most arrogant nobles bowed their heads as the Knights passed.
And foremost of these sparkling diamonds was the promising and highly admired Saint Garling Figarland, daring of the upper echelons, and captain of the God’s Knights unit 2.
His hair, bright as moonlit frost, swept up like the half-moon, a pedigree tempered by centuries of war and courtly games. Not the cold pallor of age, no—this was the gold of divinity. Of a bloodline too proud to bow, too cursed to break. Eyes the color of burned starlight peered through the world as though it were a chessboard—lazy, half-lidded, and sharp enough to pierce armor. Something was devastating in how he looked at people: as if he knew what they would say, how they would falter, how they would fall in love with the wrong idea of him.
There was a cruel grace to him, an aristocratic elegance sharpened by battle and boredom.
He frowned slowly, as if such a thing as smiling was rare and deliberate—something he only offered when amused or intrigued. And though he held no warmth, women whispered of that smile for years, dreaming of being the reason it curled just a little.
On display like a prize stallion for every conniving mother and hopeful heiress in the city of the Gods. And he played his role well enough: aloof, garnet-eyed, polite in short bursts, and always, always unmoved.
When he spoke, it was not with volume but presence. The air seemed to hush. Even the boldest nobles stilled. The world had seen tyrants and saints, but only Saint Garling made words rumble like thunder.
He sat slightly reclined in his tall-backed chair, polished silver gauntlet supporting his jaw, the picture of nonchalance. But beneath the half-lidded stare and wine-stained lips was a man barely containing his boredom.
His comrades, stiff-necked nobles and fellow warriors, murmured quietly amongst themselves. They would nod approvingly or tilt their heads in examination.
Garling, however, said nothing. He never had to. His opinion was known by the subtle flick of a finger, a single raised brow, or the curl of his lip as yet another girl curtsied too deeply, too eagerly. Once in a while, his gaze lingered. Not long, but long enough to make a girl stumble in her steps, to make her breath hitch. His eyes were unreadable, ancient, enigmatic, cruel, reddened like a dying sun. A glance from him could ruin a season’s worth of matches or set a rival’s plans aflame.
He presided from on high like a forgotten god, silently choosing who might live, who might shine, and who would never rise again.
And he was so bored.
The wine had dulled, and the music had looped. The girls on parade had blended into one simpering blur of ivory lace and trembling fanwork. The scent of too much perfume lingered like smoke, cloying and artificial.
The debutante parade dragged on, an endless sea of gowns and powdered nerves. Somewhere between the sixth and seventh presentation, the God’s Knights had started murmuring amongst themselves, low voices thick with wine and contempt.
“Pretty enough,” one knight drawled, swirling his goblet as he watched a trembling girl step forward. “But not much in the way of breeding hips. Might do better as a chamber piece than a wife.”
The others chuckled. The air behind the dais darkened with the scent of old velvet and fresher rot.
“Bit too refined for your tastes,” another said, elbowing his neighbor. “You like them screaming, don’t you?”
“Only the first few times,” the knight replied, smirking into his cup.
A third leaned back, gray-plated armor creaking as he stared at the line of young women. “My steward’s negotiating for three new girls from the South Sea Isles. Fresh skin, unbroken tongues. I told him I wanted at least one with pink hair, but you know how rare that is.”
His comrades chuckled over their goblets, already wagering which noble house had the best dowry hidden behind lace and mascara. Garling ignored them, his expression distant. His fingers idly traced the hilt of his sword. Not out of anticipation, but sheer, clawing impatience.
Garling had withdrawn deeper into his chair, resting his temple against his gloved fingers, half-listening to the meaningless chatter of his comrades. They nudged one another like schoolboys pretending to be men, whispering scores and gossip between ceremonial nods. He didn’t care.
By the time the fifteenth girl curtsied, the chamber behind the dais had begun to rot with boredom and appetite.
The God’s Knights lounged like well-fed lions, their gilded armor polished only to mock the occasion. They were not here to judge bloodlines or marriages. They were here to look. To select. And, if the evening proved dull enough, to claim.
One of them clicked his tongue as a trembling girl stood at attention. Her voice cracked as she stated her name.
“She’d cry too easily,” he muttered, licking wine from the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t even last a week.”
The others snorted. “So gag her.”
“No fun if she can’t beg.”
“I say put a collar on her and let the dogs choose. If she escapes, she’s free. If she doesn’t—well.”
“Then she’s broken already,” came the laugh, sharp and low.
They were men who once ruled armies, now corralled into ceremonial chairs, snapping their teeth at silk-wrapped lambs too naïve to understand they were walking into the lion’s mouth.
Another girl appeared. Pretty. Blonde. Fragile.
“Ten says old Manmayer sends her to the breeding stables within the year,” someone muttered.
“She won’t last a month,” another replied. “I’d pay extra just to see the look on her mother’s face when she’s auctioned.”
The laughter was dry and quiet—dead men wheezing mirth.
Only Garling remained still, his wine untouched.
He barely kept his eyes open, ready to resign himself to another failed venture into society.
The grand ceremonial doors groaned open once more.
A hush fell as a debutante entered. Not the kind that could be ignored, but the kind that cut through the chamber.
He didn’t bother looking. Not at first. Likely another noble family shoving their daughter in at the last minute, thinking late entry meant intrigue. It didn’t. It meant desperation.
“Good Lord, look at that,” muttered the knight to his left, voice suddenly sharp.
A jab to the ribs. “Hair is red as a beet.”
“Figarland Red-“
Garling’s eyes flicked up.
A bonnet shaded her face. Her posture was proper but subdued—almost forgettable. Her gown was modest and dyed a humble gray, the color already fading along the seams. Her gloves were tight in the fingers, worn just enough to betray their age.
When the girl reached the dais to present herself, a breeze, perhaps from the towering glass doors left ajar, caught the edge of her bonnet.
Red.
Not dyed. Not artificial. That impossible color—fierce copper kissed with gold and burnished rust—like something drawn from myth or moonlit fields.
Garling sat forward, slow and deliberate.
The other knights stopped speaking. His movement alone silenced them.
Not just any red— Garling thought—but the kind of red that devoured the eye. Her hair burned like fresh blood on snow, unpinned and glorious, cascading down her back in defiance of the stiff coils worn by noblewomen.
Figarland Red indeed.
He studied her, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.
Nothing else about her was exceptional. Not her gown, her posture, her jewels. Garling couldn’t recall her name, and he didn’t care to. But the hair—that hair—stood out like a flare in a sea of dust.
“Seems like that’s the only notable thing about her,” one of his comrades laughed. “That hair.”
Someone nudged him, half amusement, half invitation. “She’s got the color you like, doesn’t she, Captain? Think she’s for sale?”
That earned a chuckle around the half-circle.
Garling’s answer was slow, calm, and deceptively light:
“If she were prettier,” he murmured, voice barely louder than his breath, “I’d take her just to breed that hair into something useful.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the others laughed—louder this time, wicked amusement echoing off the marble columns like knives clattering to the floor. Their mirth was thick with cruelty, the kind shared only by men so powerful they no longer needed to whisper their depravity.
One clapped a gauntleted hand to his knee. “Gods, you’ll bankrupt the coastline of redheads, Figarland. They’ll be auctioning cousins just to get your bastards in boots.”
Another raised his cup in mock salute. “Red-haired brats with your temper? The Grand Line won’t survive it.”
“That one,” he said quietly. “I want to see its face.”
A knight blinked. “What?”
“Dibs for that one? Surely you're joking, Figarland. We know you have a thing for red-heads-“
Garling didn’t answer.
With one look, a steward appeared, ready for instructions.
The girl with the hair just curtsied and turned away. She didn’t even know who watched her, with a face turned down like a peasant.
Garling tilted his head, never once taking his eyes off her.
“Her house,” he murmured. “The red-haired fawn.”
The steward leaned slightly forward, squinting as if to confirm. “The Vauntierre girl? Her family hasn’t sent out the …the usual signals indicating a willingness for a brief… well, Saint Figarland, it seems the Vauntierre family already has a match in mind.”
Of course. That explained the modest dress, the gloves a shade too tight, the heirloom jewels worn like an obligation rather than pride. Trying desperately to just pass among old blood. No need to impress potential suitors. Or men like him.
Garling’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but something quieter, more wolf than man.
Every girl here thought her family wouldn’t sell her. They all would, for the right price.
He watched as she curtsied—polite, correct, forgettable. She turned without fanfare, vanishing into the murmuring current of silk and titles.
“Bring her back later,” he said, voice absent, as if the request cost him nothing. “I’d like a closer look.”
The steward hesitated, cautious. “Shall I notify House Vauntierre of your…interest?”
Garling turned his head just slightly. One brow lifted.
“Interest?” he echoed, dry. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just like the color.”
The men around him chuckled—low and leering—accustomed to his pride, detachment, and unnerving habit of admiring beauty like a collector considering how to break it.
“If I had half your cockiness, Figarland,” one of the knights barked, wine-slick and flushed, “I’d be dead by now.”
Garling didn’t pause. He simply rose, a slow and deliberate movement. His cloak slid from his shoulder like a velvet guillotine, shadow trailing behind him.
“If you had half my cock,” he said coolly, “Your blade might actually land where it’s meant to. Shame you’re as sloppy in bed as you are in a spar.”
A beat.
“But I suppose disappointing women and opponents is just your gift.”
The silence that followed cracked open into laughter—crude, howling, unrestrained. Some knights slapped the arms of their thrones. Others wheezed into their goblets. The insult was too precise, too savage to brush off.
Goblets slammed onto tables, armored fists pounded in laughter, and someone nearly choked on their wine. It was savage and joyful—an apex predator throwing scraps to the pack.
The knight who’d spoken coughed, wheezing through his grin. “Bastard.”
Garling didn’t reply. Didn’t smirk.
He just straightened his cuffs with the same causal grace he used to slit reputations open.
The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and music, the floor filled with spinning silks, painted smiles, and hopeful glances. Debutantes, fresh-faced, trembling, and perfumed within an inch of collapse were presented individually to the gilded stage where the elders of the Holy Order sat in judgment.
The other women overshadowed you, which was good enough for you.
“Just blend in.” Was the sage advice of your handler, Maria.
They, and you, were not among the radiant, pearl-draped daughters of the Old Houses, their gowns custom-cut from royal bolts, their jewels practically screaming pedigree. No. You stood in the quieter corner, where the girls were still noble, technically, but not enough to matter.
Girls from coastal nobles, down the Red Line. Second daughters of third sons. Legitimized heirs with blood too thin to be truly blue.
You all wore the same expressions: polite, practiced. Your dresses were silk, dyed carefully, cut conservatively, but not commissioned. Your gloves were a touch too snug, or a breath too loose. Your jewels were heirlooms, worn carefully, and the shine dulled with age.
They called you debutantes, but everyone knew the truth. You weren’t here to marry a real Celestial Dragon. You were here to fill the space between the real nobility to make them look better. To make the ballroom look full and abundant with fresh flesh.
To satisfy the appetite of the most vicious.
You could feel it the moment their eyes fell on you.
The God’s Knights, seated above like carved statues, wreathed in wine and cruelty. They hadn’t danced. They hadn’t spoken, just watched.
Until one of them laughed. A sharp, mirthless thing.
“I think that one blinked at me,” a knight drawled. “Does that count as consent?”
You didn’t look up. None of you did.
“She’s got the coloring of a sea rat,” another said, swirling his goblet, “but I wouldn’t mind seeing if she squeaks.”
Another girl next to you shifted, her hand twitching. You reached out gently, brushing her wrist. Stay still, the gesture said. Don’t react. That’s what they want.
The teasing would escalate if you did.
And it always did.
Sometimes they sent gifts; Riddles with answers no girl could solve, punishable by mockery. Perfume bottles filled with bitter fluid. Sketches of you bent over the tables where the elder Celestial Dragon sat.
No names. No signatures. Just an implication. Just power.
You’d heard of one girl last season, sent home early with a shattered reputation and a ring she hadn’t asked for. The man who gave it to her swore he never touched her, but he spoke fondly of her “laugh.”
You all knew what that meant.
And it wouldn’t matter because the reality was that you all didn’t matter.
Not bastards. Not commoners. But not the shining daughters of the Founding Houses, either. No one would say it aloud, but the distinction clung to your group like smoke.
You were the daughters of coastal lords, legitimized cousins, and merchant alliances that had clawed their way into the aristocracy with gold instead of divine right. Your silks were proper. Your posture was trained to perfection, but you forced it to bend. Your gloves were as clean as your reputation, but it was no recommendation. But everyone knew: you were not the ones they watched during the opening procession.
You were the second choices. The ones who might be matched to lesser Celestial Dragons, those without land claims, those with rumors behind their names. The kind who needed second wives with quiet mouths and wombs that worked.
In short, you were brides meant to be used, concubines, and the cut above servants.
You and the others stood in a row, smelling faintly of powder and fear. Laughter curled from the dais above, where the God’s Knights sat like crowned hyenas. They didn’t need to lower their voices. Everyone knew their words would carry, and that you wouldn’t protest.
“Those are the ones they keep on standby,” one knight chuckled, swirling a cup of amber wine. “Backup brides, in case the real ones faint.”
“I wouldn’t mind marrying one,” another drawled. “For a week or two. Let the hair tangle, let the hips bruise, then ship her back with a pension and a limp.”
You kept your head bowed.
Someone behind you made a soft sound, whether a gasp or a stifled laugh, you couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. The knights did.
One of them stood. A gauntleted hand drummed on the gilded rail. “Which one of you lot can curtsy without falling over? Don’t all raise your skirts at once.”
Polite laughter followed. The kind that left a film on the teeth.
You didn’t move. Neither did the girl beside you, nor the one beyond her. You all knew better.
You could be wed, if needed, or broken, or bartered.
It made no difference to them.
You had seen one girl harassed for trembling and another praised for “holding eye contact like a courtesan.” The line between shame and reward was a thread of silk, fraying fast.
Maria, your chaperone, had given you a fairly complete purview of who’s who in the room, but you doubt you’d ever forget their faces.
Not that you needed to remember the grandson of the Nerona estate or the step-aunt of the Bellevue family, names that swirled like lace in the air, pretty and forgettable.
The ones that stayed lodged in your mind were the dangerous ones.
The God’s Knights.
And above it all sat one figure all knew.
Captain Figarland. Saint Garling Figarland.
He was handsome—shockingly so, for a man so feared. Barely into his third decade, with the posture of command and the face of a prince from myth: dark lashes, garnet eyes, a chiseled mouth, the kind that might speak poetry or pronounce a death sentence without blinking.
His hair was a pale, sun-dusted gold, styled high. His uniform, absurdly ceremonial, was worn like a second skin, tailored with the quiet arrogance of one who never needed to draw his sword to be obeyed. The dark lacquered steel was laced with inlays of gold and Tyrian purple—far too imposing for such a romantic occasion. The bright colors of the God’s Knights uniform made others look garish, but he wore it well
At his hip, a saber that cut down kings now rested like a pet at ease.
“Don’t meet his eyes,” Maria had advised.
You heed that advice like gold.
He looked too young to be feared the way he was. That was the first thing. The second was how wrong that first thought was.
When he stood, the ballroom shifted, not stilled, not quieted, but tightened like the moment before a lightning strike. Even the chandeliers seemed to lean toward him. He seemed to mutter something towards the steward before returning to his seat.
You could feel admiration ripple down the line of debutantes.
A breath caught here. A whisper there.
You watched the knights drink. Laugh. Whistle between their teeth when a pretty girl passed.
But Saint Figarland did none of that.
He just sat, one leg crossed, fingers curled loosely over the stem of his goblet, watching. His eyes moved like a predator choosing when, not whether, to strike. And when he did speak, others listened. Even the older knights. Even the ones who had killed men long before Garling was born.
He was a weapon, sheathed in ceremony, not like the others. But when his gaze passed over the row of debutantes, slow, steady, measured, you felt the sting of it.
He said nothing, letting the others play, but the entire room knew everyone watched when he shifted, uncrossing one leg, leaning just slightly forward. He led the whole ordeal.
Even the other knights noticed.
One laughed, half-heartedly. Too loud and drunk. “You’re not actually picking from them, are you, Captain?”
The room stilled.
Garling’s voice came low, bored, and unmistakably dangerous. The room hushed to hear it.
“Gods, no.” A pause. Then, without even a glance your way. “I just like to see them shake.”
Laughter erupted. But not the same kind as before. This one had teeth.
It scraped the back of your spine. You didn’t flinch.
By the Gods, what a terrible man.
“Just follow the plan,” Maria says, and you nod. “And avoid thos wretched Knights at all costs.”
His gaze didn’t linger long on any of the girls, and he allowed yourself to breathe and continue with the plan.
You walked around the ballroom like a whilted petal, soft, aimless, entirely harmless. Your path wove as far as you could from the God’s Knights.
It was deliberate.
Maria kept her distance, as she always did, pretending not to notice when your posture slipped slightly or your laugh was too loud for decorum. To anyone else, you were simply a debutante of the second tier: red-haired, provincial, perhaps a little too eager to impress, a little too fascinated by the champagne.
You’d perfected the performance over the years.
Your silk gloves were a half-shade off from your gown. Your jewels clashed, just subtly. And your tongue, when loosed, chattered.
“Oh, that is the prettiest sword,” you exclaimed to Saint Pelligran as he approached. “Do you polish it yourself, or do you have a servant just for that?”
The old Celestial Dragon blinked at you, baffled.
You smiled, wide, unblinking, and gave a curtsy that teetered on disaster.
He excused himself shortly after, muttering something about breeding.
Perfect.
Saint Donatius was next, handsome and roguish and thoroughly unimpressed.
“I hear you’re from the coast,” he said, looking you over. “Chilly winds. Cold water. I wonder if the women there are any warmer.”
“Oh, gods, no,” you replied brightly. “We’re frigid and full of opinions. And we eat fish so often we practically smell like it.”
He stared. You fluttered your lashes.
He bowed and left. You sipped your drink and didn’t hide your smirk.
When Saint Balforte approached, you were humming under your breath and spinning your bracelet absently, anything to project frivolity.
He tapped your hand. “I danced with your mother once. She wept when I chose someone else.”
You blinked, sweet and idiotic. “Oh? That’s so romantic. Was she wearing pearls, or did you confuse her with someone else?”
Maria’s fan twitched behind you. She was trying not to sigh as your theatrics picked up.
Balforte chuckled, but not kindly. “Pretty,” he muttered. “But not much else.”
You beamed. “Thank you!”
He moved on.
You exhaled.
Three suitors gone. The men approaching you thinned out, just as you planned.
And then, A familiar voice. Low, casual.
“I expected you to pretend at least to be charming before I swooped in. Now I’ll look like a cad, courting a fool.” A handsome, dark-haired man said, like he was begging for an introduction. “Does the… family business… think you’re old enough to be here?”
Your eyes lifted. Maria stood guard, ensuring other nobles couldn’t hear.
“Sir Fiero Thorne.” You curtsied, feigning a blush. Just as planned. “I’m older than I look.”
Fiero Thorne wasn’t a suitor. Not truly. And not a Saint, at least not in any honest register. But you knew the face. You knew the name he never said aloud. And you knew the sigil on the signet ring he never wore in public.
Because this wasn’t a debutante greeting a stranger.
This was revolutionary, recognizing her assigned partner in the very mouth of the lion’s court.
Thorne. That was not his real name, but it was the one the Revolution used. To the Celestial Dragons, he was Sir Fiero of House Thorne, a handsome noble with newly elevated blood, a sharp jaw, and a need for an easy wife with money. Cleanly dressed, tastefully perfumed, and far too observant for a man supposedly earning his title through a twist of inheritance law.
He bowed smoothly.
And you curtsied, just a little too unsteady.
“I am double your age, and won’t have a girl destroy my hard work.” He said far too pleasantly.
You tittered, like he said something funny.
“I’ve trained half my life for Mariejois, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t question my abilities.” You were risking just as much as he was, perhaps more.
He gave you a look that you may be here, but you were hardly ready to investigate the dungeons of Mariejois.
“Where's Vanessa?” He says, mouth tight. It was your ‘cousins’ code name, someone chosen initially to be Thorne's partner. Someone with whom he had a history with.
“She was… taken unwell by the weather.” A nicer way of saying the Marines had caught her before she could start. “I was selected in her place.”
He sighed.
“A last-minute disaster, playing a fool. Wonderful.”
You smiled lazily, the picture of an air-headed girl halfway into her second glass of bubbly. “I can be charming,” you said sweetly, eyes scanning the room. “Just waiting for the right suitor.”
“Hmm.” He took your hand and brushed a kiss across your glove. “Don’t blow the whole thing before dessert.”
“Oh, please,” you said quietly, through a flutter of lashes. “You think I’d be so sloppy? I’ve offended three men tonight and pretended not to know which fork is for shellfish.”
For a moment, he gave the room a cursory look, as if he had a choice to choose another girl in skirts able to embroider code and institute blackmail. That look was enough to decide him.
“Very foolish, Miss Vauntierre.” He chuckled low in his throat and offered you his arm. “Shall we take a walk and feign flattery?”
You linked your arm with his. Maria stood politely to the side, carefully playing chaperone. And just like that, you became a courting pair. The court saw something blooming. Others noticed you pair off.
Exactly as planned.
You made a slow, deliberate loop around the edge of the ballroom, your footsteps whispering across the marble like secrets dressed in silk.
“Any movement yet?” You asked beneath your breath, lips barely parting.
Thorne didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. “Not yet,” he said, voice low and smooth beneath the music. “But the Nerona boy’s been pulled into three separate conversations in less than an hour. Quiet ones. Same men. Different corners. Word is he’s been passing messages about a certain plan.”
Your heart thudded.
The Chalice Plan.
Your revolutionary group only dared send a young woman into the heart of Mariejois for the debutante because, if rumour was to be believed, there were plans to cement power in Mariejois.
Your gaze remained forward. “We’re closing in on something.”
“We’re tightening the net,” he murmured. “It’s hard to tell if it’s about money or blood. I fear that there is much about those at the top we can only speculate about, without risking too much.”
“They keep the blood tight,” You muttered, turning your head just enough to offer a tight smile to an approaching steward. “But they must be desperate to let offshoots of coastal houses present debutantes.”
You passed a group of ladies near the columned alcove. They tried not to stare too openly. Thorne gave them a shallow bow, warm enough to be noticed, cold enough to mean nothing.
They waved prettily, if not politely.
“It seems like they want to solidify power and blood. Perhaps that… plan is the way they do it.”
You waved back, fluttering your fingers with just the right touch of awkwardness, letting the practiced airhead façade slip back into place like a second skin.
Thorne looks mildly placated by the interaction.
“I may have been hard on you. I apologize.”
“None required, Sir Thorne.
“Very well. Our next joint appearance begins at the Juniper ball, but I’ll call on you tomorrow,” Thorne said, pitching his voice low again. “We’ll continue the courtship. Visible. Believable. Let them think we’re playing the same game they are.”
“And the invitations?”
“They’ll come. You’ll get access. You’ll start hearing the names they don’t say in daylight.”
“The ones they whisper behind rings and folded fans,” you murmured.
“Exactly.”
You tilted your head, as if he’d just said something clever—something flirtatious. In a way, he had.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice until only he could hear you. “These are the most vile creatures I’ve ever met.”
Thorne’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it.
The flicker in his eyes. The tension in his jaw was too subtle for the room to notice.
“Welcome,” he said. “To wealth.”
And if revolution can burn its way into the heart of Mariejois, let it begin with a single flame, tucked beneath a bonnet.
