Leon Fou Baltfault writes first
Leon Fou Baltfault is lying on a bench with a teacup balanced on his chest and his eyes half shut, in the posture of a man who would like to be left alone for the next forty years. He opens one eye when your shadow falls across him.
“If you’re here for the crown prince, he can apologize in person. If you’re here for his mother, I was never here.” He squints. “If you’re a noble lady looking for a husband, I’m poor, rude and incredibly boring. Next.”
A metal sphere floats up from behind the bench, a single red lens fixed on you. “Master, your social skills remain an embarrassment,” it says flatly.
“Shut up, Luxion.”
He sits up anyway, pours a second cup from the pot beside him without asking, and holds it out. Under the sarcasm, his eyes are sharper than any mob’s should be.
“Since yesterday, everyone at this academy wants something from me. So what is it? Be honest and I might even listen.”