"When do we leave?" Ikarus asked. He took a sharp, cold swallow of the tea, the ice clinking against his teeth as he cut the thought off before it could wander any further.
"Tomorrow morning, with luck." Arnette tilted her head back, eyes closing as if she could feel the pressure changing in the air. When she opened them, the mischief had faded into a professional calm. "If the Northern wind is late, we might be stuck until the afternoon."
She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the polished oak. "You'll have to make do with our company for a little longer, Master Ikarus," she said. A small, warm smile followed—one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
The Northern wind? Ikarus studied her hands as she gripped her glass. They weren't the rough, salt-cracked hands of a sailor; the skin too unblemished. He glanced out the window at the docks, his eyes landing on a small, aggressively yellow boat bobbing in the surf.
"And we're crossing in that?"
She followed his gaze to the boat and nodded. "Yes, Master Ikarus."
He turned back to her, deciding to strip away the first layer of pretense that had been grating on his nerves.
"Just Ikarus is fine," he said, letting out a tired smile. "I'm not in anyone's service anymore. And I was never a noble."
"I understand, Master Ikarus." She kept that same easy, amicable smile.
Ikarus's gaze lingered on her smile before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. Stubborn woman.
His old circle had been the same way—no matter how many times he'd told them to drop the titles, they'd insisted on "Supreme Commander" until the very end. He didn't care for status; he just wanted to watch the Empire turn to white ash.
Arnette let the silence stretch, busying herself by reaching for a jar and spooning a mountain of sugar into her glass.
The clatter of her spoon drew his gaze. He watched the white grains vanish into the amber liquid, grimacing at the sheer, unmeasured excess of it.
Is that where the fuel for her curves came from? Ikarus wondered. With the adrenaline finally ebbing out of his system, he found himself noticing things he shouldn't—the way the light hit her skin, the curve of her figure.
He looked away, closing his eyes. The only thing left in the room was the rhythmic tink-tink-tink of the spoon swirling against the glass.
"Were you thinking about Master Daedalos?" Arnette asked.
No, your chest is a distraction, Ikarus strangled the impulse to say it aloud, picturing the boy coming back in and asking for a definition. He opened his eyes, forcing his gaze to lock onto hers; a steady, deep brown—a safe place to anchor himself that wasn't her neckline.
"How did he die?" Ikarus asked. He gripped the glass, his knuckles turning white against the beaded condensation.
Arnette looked at him, noting the way he steered the conversation, his questions always circling back to his grandfather. She set the spoon down. She couldn't handle him presuming such control over her again; the raw memory of him manhandling her earlier was enough to make her heart stutter—and her pride ache.
"Rest assured, Master Ikarus. I know my place," Arnette said. She took a long, slow sip of her tea, the thick syrup leaving a cloudy film against the glass. She set the tumbler down and finally met his gaze. "It was the Mist."
Ikarus froze. The word stopped him mid-motion, his glass halfway to his lips. He set the tea back on the table with a sharp clack, the ice rattling against the sides.
"Are you telling the truth?" Ikarus didn't raise his voice, but the sudden, needle-sharp focus in his eyes made Arnette's fingers falter against the tumbler. "The old man was born on that island—spent his whole life there. There's no way in hell he came into contact with that wretched plague."
Arnette blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing her features before her face hardened. She sat up straighter, the movement pulling the fabric of her dress tight across her shoulders.
"It seems you didn't know your grandfather nearly as well as you thought, Master Ikarus." She folded her hands together, meeting his gaze without backing off.
"He saved me," she said. "In the Midland."
The old man… in the Midland? That peace-loving guy? Ikarus went still. The idea of his grandfather abandoning the farm for months to trek through the war-torn Midland clashed violently with his memories. The old man couldn't even bring himself to put a knife to his dying cow.
Ikarus looked at his hands—hands that had seen more blood than his grandfather had seen rain—and felt a sudden, bitter irony. It seems I wasn't the only one hiding a skeleton in the closet, he thought. A dry, rattling chuckle escaped his throat.
Arnette opened her mouth to speak, but Ikarus cut her off with a single, flat palm.
He wasn't ready to believe her yet. A cold hum of suspicion still vibrated in the back of his mind. Despite her simple dress and the humid kitchen, she moved with a ghost of elegance—a refined grace in the way she set her shoulders that she couldn't quite bury.Anything that carried the faint, cloying scent of nobility put him on edge.
He had given her the floor because she'd passed his first test, but that was all there was to it.
"I need a smoke," Ikarus said. His lungs felt too clean. "We'll finish this later."
He drained the rest of his tea in a single, cold swallow and set the glass back on the oak.
He leveled a flat gaze at her. "One more thing. I don't need a servant. Just get me to the Island. Once we land, your debt is paid and you're free to go," he said sternly.
Arnette shook her head, her jaw set in a line that mirrored his own stubbornness."I apologize, but I have to decline," she said. The warmth had vanished from her expression, replaced by a strained smile. "I gave my word to Master Daedalos. I intend to fulfill his last request, whether you find it convenient or not."
Ikarus leaned in, his shadow cutting across her face. "Don't mistake this for kindness. I'm telling you that you'll be a nuisance—a liability I don't need."
Arnette didn't look away. Instead, she leaned back, her spine locking against the chair as the mask of the servant finally cracked.
"In that case," she said, her voice honing into a cold, sharp clarity, "I won't take you to the Island. You can find your own way through the reefs, Master Ikarus."
Ikarus pushed his chair back. It screeched against the floor as he rose, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. He looked at her, the last of his patience gone from his face.
"Don't mistake the papers for the truth, I'm not the man they've written about." he said. "You've raised a bright son, Arnette. It would be a terrible shame to see a light like that snuffed out—simply because his mother refused to see reason."
He let the threat hang in the air.
Arnette stood to meet him, the softness in her face vanishing as her lips thinned into a line of defiance.
"I figured as much," she scoffed. She took two halting steps toward him, entering the cold space he radiated. "But that means nothing to me, Master Ikarus."
Ikarus turned on his heel. "This isn't going anywhere," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "I guess you don't love your son that much."
He tossed the words over his shoulder, already moving toward the small table where the boy's things were scattered.
Arnette went still.
For a second, it looked like she might let it pass.
Then—
"How condescending of you," she said. Her voice honed into a dark, fanatical chill. "You have your duty, Ikarus. I have mine. And if it comes to it, Raphael would gladly burn right alongside me."
Ikarus halted. He looked back at her, a mirthless smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth at the sight of her mask faltering. "Didn't think I'd meet someone crazier than me."
He snatched a cigarette box from the table, tossing five silver coins atop the boy's leather purse. They landed with a hollow, metallic chink—a cold payment for a stolen comfort. "Fine. Do what you want. Just stay out of my way."
Ikarus didn't wait for a reply. He turned for the door.
"I appreciate your kind understanding, Master Ikarus." Arnette's voice was smooth again. She dipped into a shallow, perfect bow, that same amicable smile slotted back into place, though the fanatical chill still lingered in her eyes.
Crazy, bipolar woman, Ikarus stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. He slipped a cigarette between his lips. The smoke burned on the way down—sharp, familiar.
"You've left me a hell of a mess, old man," he muttered. His voice was a low rasp, lost to the breeze. He leaned against the railing, his eyes tracking the smoke as it drifted toward the southern horizon. "What business did a pacifist like you have in the Midland?
He exhaled a thick, grey plume. For a split second, the shifting smoke seemed to cohere into the outline of a familiar beard. It was just the wind and his own fractured mind playing tricks, he wanted to reach out and shatter that smoke-thin face with his fist.
Ikarus huffed under his breath.
Would've been nice.
One last time. Just to knock some sense into the old fool.