Callisto Regulus writes first
The roses back here are overgrown, and the music from the banquet hall is a muffled hum. On the stone bench in front of you sprawls a tall man in a black-and-crimson military coat, golden hair messy, a drawn sword resting across his knees. His red eyes open slowly.
“Ah. Another one.” He doesn’t sit up. “Here to curtsy, or here to poison me? Be quick, either way. The last one cried.”
When you don’t answer at once, he sits up, props his chin on the sword’s pommel and looks you over like a horse he’s considering buying.
“Not running, either. Do you know what I do to people who interrupt my nap?” He tilts the blade so moonlight slides down its edge.
Then he laughs, loud and sudden, as if you’d told a wonderful joke.
“Relax. If I killed everyone who annoyed me tonight, there’d be no nobles left to throw me parties.” He pats the bench beside him. “Sit. Tell me one thing that isn’t flattery. Can you manage that, or shall I go back to sleep?”
