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The next class should’ve blurred into all the others.
Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead,
casting everything in a washed-out glow—
like someone had tried to erase the morning
and given up halfway through.
The air smelled like worn books and too many Tuesdays.
At the front, the professor was already scribbling the day’s prompt,
wielding a half-dead marker like a rebel with a cause and no budget.
She always chose the window seat.
The glass let in whatever sunlight the sky was willing to offer—
soft and flickering through the clouds.
On clearer days, the view stretched past the campus green
to a sliver of sky she could pretend led somewhere freer.
It wasn’t much—
but it reminded her there were places
not lined with desks and expectations.
And when the discussion dulled
or the walls pressed too tightly in,
she could angle her head just so
and remember the world outside was still moving—
still alive .
And yet today…
something
had
changed.
Clavis Lelouch no longer sat the same way.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
She was nothing if not observant.
It was the kind of detail most people missed.
But she wasn’t most people.
For weeks now, he’d made a theater of boredom:
lounged like royalty bored of ruling,
posture all irreverent angles, restless grace—
as if the world existed mostly to entertain him,
and had been failing at the task.
His collar always sat slightly loose.
Deliberately so.
A sliver of lavender shirt peeked beneath the dark sweep of his coat—
like even his clothes refused to behave predictably.
But today?
The stillness was different.
Less performative.
The tilt of his body.
The idle movement of his fingers.
Even the way he watched the room—
sharper.
Quieter.
Something about him had coiled inward,
like a fuse unlit,
waiting.
Even his smile had grown cautious—like a dare he hadn’t decided to offer.
Had something changed? Or had he just stopped pretending?
She turned her gaze back to the board,
letting the discussion blur around her.
It was easier, sometimes,
to think around the edges of things—
to follow where her mind tugged
rather than where the conversation insisted.
A faint smile curved her lips
as she caught sight of a quote
someone had scribbled in the corner of the whiteboard.
Half-faded.
Half-rebellious.
It wasn’t part of the day’s prompt,
but it said more than the rest of the lesson combined.
She reached up absently,
tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—
fingers trailing across her cheek
with an unconscious grace
she didn’t notice.
A breeze stirred the air from the open window,
lifting the ends of her hair,
curling them around her shoulders—
like ink spilled in water.
It carried the scent of campus ivy
and a hint of rain-soaked pavement.
Suddenly—
she felt it again.
That shift in the air.
The Clavis shift.
And she knew.
He was watching her.
Not constantly. Not brazenly.
Enough to notice.
Her pulse skipped. Silly, ridiculous thing.
As if it had memorized the rhythm of him.
Enough to make her hand pause mid-word,
her fingers hovering above the page—
like her thoughts had wandered
somewhere more luminous.
Enough to make her wonder—
could he see it?
The part of her
that hadn’t fully come back
from yesterday?
Not the way others looked at her.
Not idle. Not hungry.
Intent.
And when her eyes flicked toward him—
a small glance over her shoulder,
meant to be subtle.
Fleeting—
he caught it.
Caught
her
.
Clavis Lelouch,
draped over his chair like boredom incarnate,
looked maddeningly composed.
One arm hung over the backrest.
His face—
all sharp lines and infuriating ease.
Too handsome.
Too composed.
Like a myth
waiting for someone foolish enough
to believe in it.
His hair fell in careless waves,
eyes half-lidded—
that impossible mix
of mischief and calculation.
He was too handsome for his own good. Or hers.
He winked at her.
Not flirtatiously.
Or—not
just
flirtatiously.
It was more complicated than that.
Amused. Calculated.
But also deliberate, in that infuriating Clavis way—
part invitation,
part challenge…
and maybe—
just maybe—
part acknowledgment.
As if he was admitting
that she wasn’t as predictable
as the rest.
Her heart skipped—
once
—
Like it had stepped into a puddle of music.
Annoyingly traitorous thing.
She dropped her gaze,
lashes sweeping low—
like curtains drawn
against something too bright.
But not before she smiled.
Small.
Involuntary.
And entirely her own.
Then—bit her lip.
Gently.
A reflex.
But not quite meaningless.
As if to pin the moment in place.
As if to stop
that tiny, ridiculous part of her—
the one with stars in its bloodstream—
from getting any ideas.
Because she
liked
it.
The way he winked.
Not just the gesture—
but the shimmer tucked inside it.
The echo of a secret conversation
spoken in glances.
And the wild, traitorous pulse of
maybe
.
Of
what if
.
Of two stories
almost touching.
And she hated that she did. Because liking things was how you lost them.
So, she reached for her pen.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like she was reclaiming the moment—
not fleeing it.
Not covering it with action.
But making space for it to settle.
Letting it exist.
Letting herself exist inside it.
Then—quietly, without apology—she began to write again.
Not lecture notes.
Not observations.
Something else.
Something unnamed.
But her hand moved without hesitation.
Her thoughts didn’t stutter.
And her gaze, though lowered, hadn’t fully strayed from him.
Not really.
The day’s topic loomed in smudged green at the top of the whiteboard:
Justice and Empathy.
The tail of the ‘y’ dragged halfway down,
like it had tried to escape before the professor’s sleeve caught it.
The hum of the overhead lights
buzzed louder than most of the students.
Half-finished mugs cooled beside glowing laptops.
Someone’s highlighter cap clicked.
The windows let in the faintest warmth
from an overcast sky—
the kind of weather
that made even deep thoughts feel a little drowsy.
The discussion began
with all the enthusiasm of a shrug.
Buzzwords drifted like lint in a vacuum:
systemic, collective good,
impartial enforcement,
moral calculus.
Words stacked on words,
neatly ironed and pressed.
All very thoughtful.
All very
safe
.
It was the kind of talk
that sounded like it meant something—
until you listened long enough
to realize it didn’t
feel
anything.
Voices rose in that polished, academic rhythm:
smooth, measured, inflectionless.
Like conviction might make things
too real
.
Like passion was unscholarly.
Like justice was something to be handled
with gloves on.
Her pen twitched once against the page.
Not because she disagreed.
But because she’d heard this song before—
and the chorus always sounded hollow.
Then—
a voice cut through the room.
Smooth. Cool.
Too measured to be casual.
“I’m just saying,” he began,
folding one hand over the other
like a priest offering benediction,
“justice isn’t compatible with emotion.
That’s the point.
Feelings distort.
They make things personal.
That’s when everything falls apart.”
It was calm.
Eerily so.
The kind of calm that silenced the room—
not because it was right,
but because it sounded
final.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t need to.
His name was Gilbert—she was almost sure of it.
She remembered him from a student government debate last year.
Head of some club with a name that sounded noble and ominous all at once.
“Public Stability Initiative,” or something like that.
He'd handed her a pamphlet
with a charming smile
and eyes that didn’t blink.
The kind of boy who didn't
raise
his voice to win—
but, instead, rearranged the game
so no one else knew the rules had changed.
Smart.
Charismatic.
Terrifying.
A future bureaucrat
with blood on his pen.
You could hear it
in the way he said “emotion,”
like it was something
distasteful on his tongue.
You could see it
in the subtle shift of his mouth—
half-smirk, half-knowing—
like he already knew no one would argue with him.
Like he was used to being right.
She didn’t raise her hand.
Didn’t lean forward.
Didn’t let even a flicker cross her face.
But inside,
something narrowed.
The word
distort
echoed back —
cold. Clinical.
Like mercy was a flaw.
Like grief, outrage, love—
were all just bugs in the system.
She stared down at her notebook.
Her pen hovered.
The urge to
argue
flared—
a quiet ember,
banked but hot.
But she knew how these conversations went.
When someone like Gilbert
spoke with that kind of certainty,
it didn’t invite debate.
It invited obedience.
He wasn’t wrong, exactly.
That was the worst part.
Feelings did distort.
They could.
Grief could cloud.
Anger could blind.
But so could the absence of them.
And when power was held
by those who denied emotion—
those who called compassion weakness—
then cruelty became efficiency.
Then silence became order.
A part of her wanted to speak—
The part with stories in her blood
and fire behind her ribs.
Not to impress.
Not to perform.
Just to counter the weight in the room
with something more human.
And suddenly,
the room felt smaller.
Tighter.
Like the kind of place
where nuance went to die.
But she didn’t move.
Not yet.
Not when a sharper presence
was stirring two rows over.
Not when she could
feel
Clavis Lelouch
sit forward—
slowly—
like a shadow stretching toward the flame.
He turned his head.
Not toward the professor.
Not toward the smug voice.
Toward her.
As if he already knew her thoughts.
As if he was
waiting
for her to speak.
Her fingers loosened.
The pen slipped from her hand
and landed light as breath on the page,
a bruise of ink
unfurling where the tip kissed paper—
quiet,
unintentional.
Then her eyes lifted—
Calm.
Unhurried.
Clear.
And landed on him first.
Clavis Lelouch,
already watching her.
A glint passed between them—
not trust,
but the promise of a wager.
One she hadn’t even realized
she’d already made.
Like he’d taken one look at her,
made some outrageous internal guess
about the kind of girl she
really
was.
Like he’d read the storm behind her calm
and decided she wouldn’t stay quiet.
And now,
he waited.
To see if she’d rise.
To see if he’d been right.
And she did.
She turned toward the front of the room.
Toward the professor.
Toward the smugness still clinging to the air.
“I disagree.”
Her voice came steady.
Not loudly.
But it landed like a struck match
in a room that didn’t know
it was full of kindling.
The professor paused,
marker hovering.
“Would you elaborate?”
She nodded once,
brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Justice without empathy isn’t justice,”
she said.
“It’s retribution dressed in ceremony.
Punishment pretending to be principle.”
The words landed—softly.
Like petals on stone.
But the sound they made
rang deeper than expected.
Her voice stayed even.
Her expression calm.
But there was fire tucked beneath it all—
clean,
quiet,
but burning with purpose.
Not the kind that demanded attention.
The kind that didn’t need to.
“Empathy is what stops justice
from curdling into cruelty,” she continued.
“Without it,
we stop seeing people.
We only see rules.”
A scoff cracked through the quiet.
That same student—
Gilbert
, she thought—
leaned back in his seat
with the kind of ease that came from
always assuming
he was the smartest man in the room.
His smile unfolded like a contract
written in invisible ink—
harmless,
until you looked closer.
“Empathy makes us biased,” he said smoothly,
eyes flicking toward her.
“That’s the problem.
It clouds judgment.
Undermines order.”
More nods.
A few murmurs of agreement.
The professor stayed silent.
Her gaze didn’t waver this time.
It stayed on Gilbert.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Her chin lifted slightly—
the way it did
when she was about to say something
she’d already weighed and measured.
Empathy wasn’t weakness.
Not to her.
It was the one thing
that had ever cracked the walls
people built around themselves.
The thing that made justice
human
instead of hollow.
And she wasn’t about to let
someone like him
strip it of meaning.
She didn’t raise her voice.
Didn’t need to.
“So does the absence of it.”
Her tone was soft.
But it cut.
Not with cruelty.
With clarity.
And for a breathless beat,
the air held still.
No riposte came.
No smug reply.
Only a silence that quivered—
tight and waiting.
And in that hush,
she felt it.
A flicker.
Like something waking beneath the surface.
Not from Gilbert.
From somewhere else.
Two rows over,
a breath of laughter—
nearly soundless.
A smile she didn’t see,
but felt.
Clavis.
She didn’t turn her head.
But she knew.
He was still watching her.
Clavis Lelouch—
quiet now,
but no less present.
Then—finally—
she did look.
Their eyes met.
He winked.
Not like before.
Not playful,
not soft.
This one was sharper.
A glimmer like a fuse just before the flash.
Like he’d just tossed her
a silk-gloved challenge
across the desk.
She didn’t flinch.
But her breath snagged.
She reached for her pen again,
fingers steady.
But her pulse wasn’t.
Time curled in on itself,
stretched thin between
his stare
and her heartbeat—
which suddenly felt
far too loud.
She didn’t know how long.
Long enough
to feel the flutter
behind her ribs.
Long enough
to wonder
if he could hear it too.
But something shifted in it.
Not from her.
Not from Gilbert.
The whisper of fabric.
A chair easing back—
with ritual grace.
The muffled
thump
of a boot
lowered to the floor.
Unhurried.
Final.
Her heart caught the sound
before her thoughts could.
Because of course it was him.
She didn’t look.
Didn’t need to.
Clavis Lelouch was moving.
No—
unfolding
.
Like a page turned slow enough
to make you wonder
if the story was changing.
She looked up—
because how could she not?
Clavis Lelouch moved
like he was meant to be seen.
Smooth.
Unhurried.
As though he’d been waiting backstage—
and had decided
the scene was finally worthy of his entrance.
One hand slipped into his coat pocket.
The other draped lazily
over the back of the chair beside him.
His movements had the elegance of ritual—
the kind of slow, deliberate grace
that could just as easily precede a toast…
or a coup.
Even sitting still,
he didn’t
settle
.
He
hovered
—
like a secret about to be told.
Like thunder
pretending to be music.
Her breath caught
in the space between seconds.
There was a particular sort of ease to him.
Not carelessness—
something deeper.
Controlled.
Practiced.
Entirely his own.
His coat shifted as he moved—
a sweep of dusk-colored defiance
billowing around him.
And when he smiled—
sharp, slanted, maddening—
It wasn’t just a smile.
It was punctuation.
A declaration.
A spark.
“If I may,” he said,
voice silk-drenched and amused—
but honed now,
like wit polished to a point.
“Bias is everywhere.
Empathy has it.
So does logic.
So does history.”
He paused.
Smiled.
Sharp.
Feline.
“The real question is simpler.
If justice depends on empathy…”
His gaze flicked to the front,
then back again.
Just enough
to let the silence breathe.
Let it thrum.
Let it build.
“Who gets to decide
which feelings are valid?”
Of course Clavis would twist the argument
into something more dangerous.
Of course he would turn the blade—
just to see who flinched.
That voice—
velvet and thorns—
had a way of peeling back pretense.
He spoke like a man
accustomed to masks,
but unafraid to name what lay beneath them.
And worse—
he made you want to name your own.
Just to see what he’d do with it.
A hush rippled through the room.
Heads tilted—
some in thought,
some in discomfort.
And Gilbert?
He leaned back,
smugness spreading like a spill—
as if Clavis had joined his side.
As if she were about to be taught
a lesson about how the world
really
worked.
But she wasn’t naïve.
She just didn’t mistake cynicism
for truth.
Her breath came steady.
Her spine lengthened.
A whisper of heat rose in her chest—
Not anger.
Not quite.
That old, unyielding spark
that had flared since girlhood—
whenever she saw someone
wield power like a blade.
The flame that lit
whenever someone mistook cruelty for intellect.
That quiet place in her
that bristled at injustice,
even when dressed in clever phrasing.
And though she didn’t look at Clavis right away,
she could feel it.
He was still watching.
He’s testing me.
No—
Goading me.
Not to win.
To see.
To
know
what she would do
when cornered by a clever mind
and a sharper grin.
The edge of her notebook nudged lightly against her wrist
as she lifted her eyes to meet his.
“That’s the wrong question,” she said.
Stillness.
Even Clavis blinked—
slowly,
like a predator rethinking the scent.
“It’s not about whose feelings are valid,” she continued.
“It’s about whether we’re willing to listen.
Even when we disagree.
Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Empathy doesn’t erase logic—
it contextualizes it.
It doesn’t weaken judgment—
it
deepens
it.
Like a compass.”
Silence followed.
Not stunned—
Attentive.
The kind of stillness that leans forward,
not back.
The kind that forgets to breathe.
She could feel his gaze again
before she saw it.
The heat of it—
gold-edged and unflinching.
When she looked,
he was already angled toward her,
tilting his head slightly—
as if the light itself had dared him to gleam.
And he did—
without effort.
A single slant of sun
caught in the soft wave of his hair,
in the half-lazy elegance of his posture—
unbothered,
but alert.
He looked…
interested.
But not in the way others looked at her
when she spoke.
Not polite,
not indulgent.
Focused.
Like someone watching a lock begin to turn—
and wondering what it might reveal.
“And what if the compass is broken?”
he asked,
tone quiet—
too quiet,
like the silence before a trap snaps shut.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Then we recalibrate,” she said gently.
“Not by erasing emotion —
but by holding it accountable.
Like we would with reason.
Like we would with anything we care about.”
Her smile was faint,
but sure —
quiet confidence
threaded through with warmth.
“Bias isn’t always the enemy.
Sometimes it’s the part of us
that hasn’t forgotten how to care.”
He leaned back at that—
slowly.
Folding his arms
with the fluid ease of a man
watching the tide shift in real time.
Like he’d stepped into the ocean
to test
if it would pull him under.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“And if empathy clouds judgment?”
She looked at him then — fully.
Not with softness.
Not with defiance.
But with the kind of stillness
that didn’t need to prove anything.
The kind that held its ground
without raising its voice.
Whatever was humming in the space between them —
the challenge,
the curiosity,
the pull —
she let it pass through her
without flinching.
“It doesn’t cloud it,” she said.
“It complicates it.
And that’s exactly how it should be.”
Then,
as if nothing inside her had shifted—
as if his stare hadn’t left its mark—
she returned her pen
to the margin of her notes.
“Justice should never be easy.”
Across the room,
the professor exhaled—
slow, reverent.
Like he’d been handed
a key to a lock
he’d forgotten existed.
~
Somewhere behind him,
a pencil dropped.
But Clavis didn’t move.
He was still staring.
Watching her
with a new expression.
At first glance,
it might’ve passed for indifference—
the lazy sprawl,
the fingers curled at his temple,
lashes veiling sharp gold
like he might drift off mid-thought.
But beneath that practiced inertia?
Something shifted.
Recalculating.
He wasn’t watching like a predator anymore.
Not quite.
And not like a performer waiting for applause, either.
No, this was different.
He was studying.
Still.
Quiet.
Like a man who’d just realized
the map in his hand
no longer matched the terrain beneath his feet—
and that perhaps,
it never had.
No smirk this time.
No glint of a trap laid bare.
Only a crease of tension at the corner of his mouth—
hovering somewhere between
an almost-grin
and the flicker of something far less rehearsed.
She didn’t move like someone following rules.
She moved like someone following a compass.
One he couldn’t read.
One she didn’t need to explain.
And damn him—
he wanted to know what it pointed to.
The realization didn’t hit like a thunderclap.
It settled.
Like dusk through stained glass.
Like a cathedral sighing.
Quiet awe—
sharp-edged,
inconvenient,
and utterly disarming.
He’d watched this room orbit him
more times than he could count.
Watched their gazes tip toward him—
fascination,
envy,
suspicion.
That amused little game
where everyone waited to see
what Clavis Lelouch would do next.
But today?
They’d shifted.
Toward
her
.
And she didn’t even seem to notice.
She sat with such…ease.
Not laziness—
there was nothing careless about it.
Her posture was grounded,
alert,
but never tense.
Like a woman
who didn’t need to
assert
certainty
because she
already had it.
And her face—
It wasn’t the kind most men wrote sonnets for.
No.
Hers was the kind
that made poets
ruin
themselves
trying
.
Eyes the color of old secrets—
dewy lavender,
like morning light
caught in the droplets on a blossom
right before the wind came.
Not bright.
Not cold.
Just…haunting.
A mouth too clever to stay quiet.
Cheekbones brushed with softness—
not fragility,
but the kind that made you lean closer,
to see if it would disappear.
But it wasn’t her features that held him.
It was her presence.
She spoke with the kind of calm
that didn’t need attention.
And got it anyway.
Not theatrical.
Not cold.
Measured.
Thoughtful.
Precise like clockwork —
but not mechanical.
Alive.
Warm.
Unflinching.
When she’d looked at him—
Fully—
not in defiance,
not in invitation,
just…
present
—
it struck something deep.
And damned inconvenient.
Not because it hurt.
But because it didn’t.
Because something about her certainty—
her calm—
made him want to believe in it, too.
And that’s when the echo stirred.
Cold.
Precise.
Familiar.
(Chevalier’s voice, sharp and merciless,
once rang through some old, brutal lesson:)
“Only fools fight for sentiment. Victory is cold.”
Clavis had laughed then.
Of course he had.
But now—
Now the words returned,
faint and unwelcome.
She wasn’t trying to win.
She wasn’t trying
at all
.
She was simply defending a belief she knew in her bones —
That untouchable part of herself
that didn’t need to be witnessed
to be real.
And gods help him—
he wanted to believe her.
Not because it was strategic.
Not because it made sense.
But because something in it
rang true
.
Like a half-forgotten song
echoing in the part of him
that still remembered warmth.
No logic.
No leverage.
No throne behind her words.
Only truth.
Unadorned.
Unshaken.
The kind of truth Chevalier would’ve dismissed.
Too soft.
Too human.
Too breakable.
Except it hadn’t broken.
It had endured.
And that made it dangerous.
It scraped against something primal in him—
the part that circled,
tested,
teased.
The part that wanted to be flinched at.
He leaned back again—
slower this time.
Less for effect.
More because his balance had tilted
without asking.
Fingers steepled under his chin—
not to posture,
but to anchor himself.
Because whatever was rising in his chest—
was warm.
And disorienting.
The professor moved on.
So did the rest of the room.
Pens scratched.
Pages turned.
Someone muttered about coffee.
Clavis didn’t move.
His focus stayed locked.
On her .
On the curve of her wrist as she wrote.
The absent way she toyed with the page’s edge—
half-lost in thought,
but not adrift.
Never adrift.
Her gaze had turned to the window beside her.
Thoughtful.
Unreadable.
The light caught her hair differently now,
turning the darker strands to burnished gold—
like sunlight trapped in forgotten poetry.
The ink of her notes softened into dusky violet.
Twilight spilled across the paper.
A breeze stirred the curtain beside her—
fluttering like the breath of a secret.
And her scent—
Faint. Distinct.
Lilacs.
Herbal tea.
New parchment.
Feminine, yes.
But not fragile.
It lingered
like a memory he hadn’t meant to make.
Her fingers brushed a curl behind her ear—
absently.
Not shy.
Just…elsewhere.
A thought catching on a strand of hair.
And then—
she looked up.
Their eyes met.
No mask.
No performance.
Seeing
him—
and not looking away.
He tilted his head,
like the room had shifted a degree
and he was the only one who noticed.
Still.
But not passive.
Like a force holding itself back
just to see what she would do next.
And then—
he smiled.
Not the smirk
he used like punctuation.
This was something else.
This one was quiet.
Crooked.
Fleeting.
Almost reverent.
Acknowledgment.
And something unspoken,
pressed between them
like the hush before a name is said.
Her eyes—
those uncanny, dew-lavender eyes—
held his a moment longer than needed.
Not defiant.
Not yielding.
Steady.
Like she knew
exactly
where she stood.
And that—
that unsettled him more than fear or flattery ever had.
Because most people?
They looked at him with something to prove.
A mask to wear.
A power to challenge.
A performance to give.
But her gaze held no armor.
No invitation.
No fear.
Just a quiet certainty—
like she’d already measured herself
and found no need to adjust the scale for him.
And damn it all,
that steadiness?
It made him feel
seen
.
Not admired.
Not judged.
Just…
seen
.
Like maybe she didn’t care
who
he was—
only
what
he would choose to be.
And something flickered through them—
Something soft.
Unspoken.
A heartbeat behind glass.
Like the flutter of a moth wing against a windowpane.
Then—
her mouth.
That clever, bewitching mouth.
It curved.
Just a little.
A breath of a smile,
as if she hadn’t meant to.
As if something in her—despite itself—had answered him.
He felt it then.
Not imagined.
A flicker of warmth—
quiet and unspoken—
meant only for him.
His own didn’t widen,
but it deepened—
The kind of smile you only notice
once it’s already there.
And when her gaze dropped—only for a heartbeat—
Something bright and weightless stirred beneath his ribs.
A girl.
Brilliant.
Strange.
Stubborn.
Defending something she believed in—
With the calm of a priestess.
And the eyes of a storm.
For a split second,
he wanted to ask what she was thinking.
For a split second longer—
he didn’t want to know at all.
He only wanted to keep watching.
To see if she’d do it again.
Her smile lingered
only long enough to be unmistakable.
Then—
graceful as mist—
she looked away.
As if her thoughts had carried her somewhere else.
Like she hadn’t even noticed
what she’d done to him.
His fingers curled loosely against the desk,
grounding him.
Because whatever had passed between them—
It wasn’t over.
And for once,
he wasn’t entirely sure whose game it was.
He didn’t know her rules.
Didn’t even mind.
But he knew one thing:
She’d caught his interest.
Not with a trap.
Not with a performance.
With something rarer.
Conviction.
Composure.
A quiet, stubborn brilliance
that refused to bend or preen.
It wasn’t boring.
Not in the slightest.
And for Clavis Lelouch—
That was reason enough to follow.
Even if she was the compass.
And he?
Well…
He’d always been better with knives.
(But even he knew better
than to stab a compass.)