The air was crisp as Verina and Sam walked through the quiet streets, lanterns casting flickering pools of light along the cobblestones. Verina pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, glancing at Sam. He hadn't spoken much, but his eyes—those calculating, sharp eyes—seemed to see everything, and in that gaze, Verina felt something cold and foreign. It made the night feel even darker than it already was.
"You didn't need to walk me home," she said, her voice soft against the silence.
A warm smile played on his lips, but his eyes remained distant and cold. "I insist," he replied. "After everything that happened today, I'd rather be sure you're safe."
She nodded, though the unease in her chest suggested his concern wasn't for her safety. His words carried a weight, an unspoken layer beneath each syllable, as though he had chosen every phrase carefully.
As they reached her modest home, Verina hesitated at the door. Something about his presence—his quiet strength, or perhaps the enigmatic calm he exuded—made her pause. "Would you… like to come in for tea? You've come all this way."
Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised by the offer. He had no genuine need to, of course. Verina's home was nothing remarkable—just a modest building on the edge of town. He hesitated, glancing around as though searching for an excuse to decline. But then he smiled, nodding. "Tea sounds nice."
Inside, the room was small but inviting, bathed in the warm glow of a single candle. Verina busied herself with the kettle, hands moving with practised efficiency. Sam, meanwhile, surveyed the space, his fingers grazing the worn surface of the wooden table. He pulled out a chair, flinching slightly when its leg scraped against the floor, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"Sorry," he muttered, an unfamiliar awkwardness in his voice. He settled, every movement deliberate, as though afraid of breaking something. It was a jarring contrast to his usual poise, and Verina noticed.
"You don't seem very comfortable," she teased, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of him.
He cleared his throat, offering a sheepish grin. "I'm just… not used to places like this. It's been a long time since I've been somewhere so… cosy."
She studied him, head tilted. "You talk like you're from another world, Sam."
He tensed, but masked it with a soft laugh. "Maybe I am."
She let the comment drift into silence, turning her attention to her tea. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable—until his gaze settled on a stack of papers in the corner. One sheet, half hidden beneath a book, caught his attention. The name at the top was unmistakable: Victor Arenthis.
For a heartbeat, Sam froze. Then, with a movement too quick to be casual, he slid the letter free from its place, his fingers brushing over it with a cold precision.
"Sam—" she started, but he was already reading the name aloud.
"Victor Arenthis," he murmured, his voice low.
For a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes hardened, his grip tightening on the paper.
He held her gaze, and for the briefest second, she saw something flash in his eyes—something dark, something that made her gut twist. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he released the letter, setting it down on the table with a deliberate slowness that made her feel like prey being toyed with. "I didn't mean to pry," he said smoothly. "I just… recognised the name."
"You know Victor?" she asked, suspicion in her tone.
He leaned back, expression unreadable. "Arenthis is a noble name," he replied casually, though his words carried an edge. "Not exactly common."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she shook her head, taking the letter from the table. "He's a friend," she said simply. "He's been at war for months now. I… write to him sometimes. To let him know he's not forgotten."
Sam's gaze lingered on her, eyes searching. "Victor Arenthis," he repeated softly. "I didn't expect you to know someone like him."
Her posture stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, the smile returning—cold. "Just that nobles rarely mingle with commoners. It's… surprising."
The tension thickened, Verina's grip on the letter tightening. "Victor isn't like that," she breathed. "He's different."
"Different," he echoed, his voice soft, almost mocking. He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto hers, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. "You trust so easily, Verina. Anyone who offers a kind word, a helping hand… You let them in." His voice dropped, the words a whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "Like me."
The room seemed to shrink around her. The shadows lengthened, deepened. His smile never wavered, but the mask had cracked, and what lay beneath was something else entirely. He wasn't Sam anymore. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by something darker, something predatory.
"Who are you?"
His smile widened, the edges sharp enough to cut. "Careful, Verina," he murmured, his voice silk and steel. "You might not like the answer."
And then, as quickly as it had come, the darkness receded. The mask slid back into place, the cold smile softening into something familiar, almost gentle. He leaned back, his posture relaxed once more, as if nothing had happened.
"Thank you for the tea," he said, his voice light, almost cheerful. "It's getting late."
He stood, the movement smooth. At the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The smile was still there, but the eyes—the eyes hadn't softened.
"And be careful, Verina," he said, his voice low. "The world is much more complicated than you think. And Victor won't be the same person when he comes back, but you already knew that, didn't you?" His smile widened, cold and cruel. "You see... Fairy tales lie. And people like you? They never make it to the end."
And then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving the room colder than it had been before.
Verina stood frozen, the echo of his words reverberating through her mind like a distant storm. Her breath quickened, chest tightening as though the air had turned to iron. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, the letter crumpling slightly in her grasp. What had she just witnessed? Every word, every smile felt like a blade against her skin. And the worst part was… she had no idea what it all meant.
Outside, Sam—no, Darius—smiled as he walked away, steps slow and deliberate. The mask had slipped, but it didn't matter. The game was just beginning.