The training yard was loud with the sound of blades clashing, though only one fighter remained. Aimes swung his sword in fluid arcs, his red hair damp with sweat and crimson eyes focused on every movement. He looked like he belonged to the battlefield, not the quiet courtyard of a Duke's estate.
Anwen gripped the tray in her hands, her heart thudding. On it sat a glass of cranberry juice, cool and red like garnet. Laia had whispered to her earlier, "It's his favorite." So she decided to bring him one.
She walked closer, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he finally lowered his sword, she took a shaky breath. "Um…Young Master Aimes?"
He glanced at her, his gaze sharp and unreadable. "What."
"I thought you might be thirsty after training." She held out the glass with both hands, trying to steady her trembling fingers. "So…I brought you this."
Aimes looked at the juice as though it were poisoned. "Do you think this will make me forgive you for causing trouble in the market?"
Anwen's cheeks burned. "N-no! It's not that. I just wanted to do something nice for you…"
He narrowed his eyes. "I don't need your pity."
Her little fists tightened around the tray. "It's not pity! I…I want us to get along."
"Get along?" His voice was calm but cold. "You think you can walk into this family, into this house, and act like my sister? Just because the Duke picked you up?"
Anwen's chest squeezed painfully. She wanted to shout yes, yes I do! but the words tangled. "I'm not pretending," she whispered instead. "I just… wanted you to like me."
Silence stretched. Aimes' gaze lingered on her, unreadable, before he turned away and lifted his sword again. "You should stop wasting your time."
Her lip wobbled. She set the tray down sharply on the stone bench. "Fine then! I won't bother you anymore!" She spun on her heel, stomping off with tiny, furious steps.
Anwen curled up in the hallway later, chin on her knees, muttering angrily. "He hates me. He'll always hate me. Nothing I do works."
Laia appeared, folding her arms with a sly smile. "Funny. I saw him drink half of that juice after you left."
Anwen's head snapped up. "W-what? He drank it?"
"Half the glass." Laia winked. "Didn't look disgusted, either."
Her mouth fell open, then closed again, then opened once more like a fish gasping. "He…he drank it. That means…he doesn't hate it! That means he doesn't hate me!"
Suddenly she was bouncing on her feet, excitement fizzing in her veins. "I knew it! I knew he wasn't all cold and scary. Okay, okay—I need more ideas. What if I leave him a little note? Or make him something? Or—or maybe I can learn to cook? Or—"
Laia laughed, gently tugging her toward her room. "Calm down, little schemer. Save your plotting for later. The Duke is back, remember?"
Anwen froze mid-step. "Dorian…? He's back already?"
"Yes. And he'll expect to see you." Laia set her on the stool and began brushing her hair, tying ribbons with careful hands.
Anwen's thoughts spun wildly—half of them still racing with ways to win Aimes' heart, the other half knotted with nerves about Dorian's return. She wanted to belong here. She wanted to be loved. But what if he saw through her? What if he realized she wasn't just a girl?
Laia smoothed the last ribbon, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself."
She nodded, her little hands clutching her skirt. Be myself…but maybe a little braver too.
Anwen fidgeted with her hair ribbons after Laia left. Her dressing table was a battlefield of colors—silks, satins, laces, bows shaped like butterflies, roses, even a ribbon shaped like a tiny crown. The drawer barely closed anymore, stuffed with every style imaginable.
She picked up a pale lavender ribbon, then swapped it for a deep burgundy one, then tied a golden bow before untying it again. Nothing looked right. "Ugh! Why do I have so many?!" she groaned, burying her face in the pile.
Knock, knock.
Her head shot up. "C-come in!"
The door opened to reveal Aimes. He was freshly washed, hair combed neatly back and wearing the uniform of an heir: a crisp black coat with silver embroidery, boots polished to a shine. He looked every inch like the ducal successor, composed and untouchable.
And then Anwen realized with a start: her own gown, chosen by Laia, was trimmed with silver ribbons and a sash of midnight black silk. They looked like they had coordinated on purpose.
Her cheeks flushed. "Young Master, we're matching colours!"
Aimes gave her a flat look, clearly unimpressed. "Don't overthink it."
He didn't step inside, only leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Father summoned us for Dinner. Let's go"
Anwen scrambled to tidy her mess of ribbons before following him. She fumbled, trying to shove a handful back into the drawer, but one slipped and fluttered to the floor at Aimes's feet.
He bent down, picked it up, and examined it—a deep blue ribbon with silver thread along the edges. Without a word, he held it out to her.
Anwen blinked. "You…think this one's better?"
Aimes gave a short nod, as if the matter was obvious.
Her little hands clutched the ribbon to her chest, and before she could stop herself, she shoved it back to him "Then…could you tie it for me?"
The question hung in the air. For a moment, she thought he might actually do it. But Aimes's eyes narrowed slightly, and he handed the ribbon back instead.
"No."
Anwen's lips parted in surprise, then puffed out in a pout. "Why not?"
"You have hands," he said dryly, already turning towards the door.
She huffed, muttering under her breath as she tied the ribbon into her hair herself. Still, when she glanced at the mirror and saw how the blue ribbon shimmered against her pale hair, she couldn't help but smile.
Clutching that tiny victory close to her heart, she hurried after him into the hall.
She stole sideway glances at him as they walked, her lips twitching like she was holding back a secret. But the words bubbled out anyway.
"You drank the juice," she blurted.
Aimes didn't even turn his head. "I was thirsty."
Her eyes widened. "So it wasn't because you liked it?"
"No." His answer was clipped and dismissive.
But instead of being discouraged, Anwen's mouth curved into a tiny, mischievous smile. "Then I'll bring it every day after training. You'll need it."
That finally made him look at her. His crimson eyes flicked down to her, cool and unreadable, before he shrugged. "Do whatever you want."
To anyone else, it might have sounded like rejection. But to Anwen, her heart nearly soared out of her chest. She practically skipped the last steps toward the dining hall, whispering to herself, "That's a yes. It's totally a yes."
Aimes sighed faintly under his breath, but for a fleeting second, the corner of his mouth almost ticked upward. Almost.