At noon, Sapphire finally decided she needed air—anything to clear the storm in her head. She slipped into a loose-fitting tunic, a kind maid had left for her. It smelled of lavender and soap, soft against her aching skin.
Quietly, she stepped into the corridor. The manor, though not overly grand, held a charm of its own. Walls adorned with aged paintings, faded tapestries, and bronze candle holders that flickered dimly with daylight. She wandered without a destination, ignoring the curious stares from maids and the wary glances of a few stationed guards.
Then she saw it—a miniature painting of a laughing child tucked into a narrow corner between two pillars. The detail was exquisite. The child's curls, the paint-streaked hands, the glint of joy in the eyes—it struck a chord so deep she didn't realize how long she'd been staring.
Her hand reached unconsciously toward the frame, just to feel the edge…
"You there! You thief!"
The shrill accusation shattered her trance. Sapphire turned abruptly, eyes wide, heart suddenly thudding.
She turned to find herself face to face with a boy no older than seven , dressed like a miniature noble. His tunic was pressed to perfection, and a silken sash hugged his waist, paired with knee-high boots far too polished for a child. His semi-truck hair was pulled neatly into a tight knot, and in his small hand, he held an ornate fan—clearly for style, not heat.
But it was his eyes that struck her golden, sharp, and full of suspicion. The kind of eyes that had seen too much for someone his age.
"I'm not a thief," Sapphire said coolly, keeping her voice gentle.
He tilted his head, fanning himself slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"How would I know that? Thieves always say they aren't."
Sapphire gave a soft, tired smile.
"True. But I doubt a thief would stop to admire a painting when there are far better things to steal."
The boy narrowed his eyes, as if measuring her words.
"...You talk funny."
"And you accuse strangers rather boldly," she replied with a raised brow.
He sniffed, clearly unbothered.
"I'm a Lord's son. I'm allowed."
She arched a brow. "A Lord's son, are you?"
The boy straightened, chin lifted with far too much pride for his age. "I am Fletcher, Fool of Lord Waydell," he declared grandly, as though the title meant everything and nothing at once.
Sapphire blinked. "Fool?"
"That's what they call me," he said, unfazed. "But it's only because I see things they don't."
She folded her arms, amused. "Is that so?"
"Yes. And you"—he pointed his folded fan at her—"are a suspicious figure roaming the halls. Possibly a thief."
"I'm not a thief," Sapphire said coolly.
"How would I know?" he challenged, golden eyes narrowing with playful mistrust. "You're skulking around in borrowed clothes, staring at portraits like you want to eat them."
"I was admiring the art," she replied.
"Hmm," he muttered, tilting his head. "You're strange. But I like your eyes. They are sad."
Sapphire's smile faltered slightly.
He took a step forward, bowing with dramatic flair. "Since I've decided you're not dangerous, you may call me Fletcher."
"And you may call me Sapphire," she replied, offering a small curtsy.
"Sapphire," he echoed thoughtfully. "Like the stone. Pretty… but I bet you cut deep when pressed."
She couldn't help but laugh, charmed and unsettled all at once. He was too clever for his own good.
Fletcher grinned. "Come on then. You look like someone who needs a distraction."
And just like that, she found herself trailing after the Fool of Waydell.
As they turned a corner, Fletcher glanced at her sideways, fan now tucked under his arm
"So… what's your relationship with Uncle Ty?" he asked, casually but Sapphire heard the weight in his tone.
She stiffened.
"I…" she began, unsure what to say. "I don't really know. We haven't even had a proper conversation."
Fletcher snorted. "That sounds like him."
She frowned. "And what about you? Why are you here?"
She had heard him call the Lord An uncle where they related?
The boy puffed up proudly. "Uncle Ty and I are pals. Sometimes I stay in his manor when I'm bored. Though"—he eyed her dramatically—"it's a pity you're a bore."
Sapphire let out a breath of disbelief, stifling a laugh. "For a kid, you're incredibly witty."
He sucked his teeth. "I'm no child. Soon, I'll be heir to the Seat of Waydell, once my Father kicks the bucket. That makes me somebody."
She raised a brow. "Ambitious."
"Realistic," he shrugged. "You'd do well not to underestimate me."
Sapphire nodded slowly, her amusement giving way to curiosity. "Noted… Lord Fletcher."
He grinned smugly. "Good. Now, come. I want to show you something before you get swallowed by all that brooding you do."
And with a theatrical spin of his fan, the Fool of Waydell led her deeper into the manor.
"Care for some tea?" he asked lightly as they entered what looked like a cozy dining room—modest, but charming, with high windows and polished oak.
He snapped his fingers once, and a maid appeared almost instantly, giving a slight curtsy.
"Minty and spicy," Fletcher ordered, like a little noble used to being obeyed. "For two."
"None for me, thank you," Sapphire said quickly. She wasn't particularly a fan of tea—especially not in the presence of sharp-eyed children with too many questions.
Fletcher raised a brow. "Come on. You wouldn't leave a poor child to drink alone, would you?"
She sighed, then gave a reluctant nod. "Fine."
He grinned like he'd won a duel. Moments later, the maid returned with a silver tray carrying a steaming teapot and freshly baked biscuits that smelled of cinnamon and honey.
Sapphire took the cup silently, letting the steam hit her face, calming her nerves—until Fletcher tilted his head and asked, all too casually,
"You were married?"
The cup trembled slightly in her hands. Her heart skipped.
"What?" she asked, the word catching in her throat.
"You were married," he repeated, eyes narrowing, studying her face for answers far beyond his age. "Weren't you?"
Fletcher tapped his fingers on the edge of his teacup, golden eyes still fixed on her. "You didn't deny it."
Sapphire leaned back slightly, trying to regain her composure. "And you didn't say how you know Lord Typhon."
He smirked, but this time there was a glint of amusement. "Touché. You're not as slow as you look."
She raised a brow. "And you're not as sweet as you act."
"I never claimed to be sweet," he said, popping another biscuit into his mouth. "I said I was important."
"Important boys know when to mind their business."
He laughed, genuinely this time, the sound light and unbothered. "Fair. But you're interesting—people here aren't."
"And what exactly makes me interesting?"
Fletcher stood from his chair and moved closer, staring her down with all the arrogance of a noble far older than his years. "You walk these halls like a ghost, but your eyes scream pain.You don't dress like us, or talk like us, yet here you are. Uncle Ty doesn't bring people here. Ever."
She held his gaze. "I didn't ask to be here."
"No, but now that you are…" he leaned in slightly, voice low, "try not to die too soon. This place tends to break the fragile."
Sapphire narrowed her eyes. "I'm not fragile."
The room was still humming with quiet conversation between Sapphire and Fletcher when Eugene entered the dining room hastily, his boots thudding against the marble floor.
"Fletcher, it's time to go," he announced curtly, his tone firm but not unkind.
Fletcher's expression shifted immediately. The mischief faded from his eyes, replaced by something far more serious.
"Is he here?" he asked quietly, almost too quietly for Sapphire to catch.
Eugene gave a subtle nod. "Yes"
Fletcher stood up slowly, brushing invisible crumbs from his embroidered tunic. His face attempted a smile, but it didn't reach his golden eyes.
"I won't be gone long, Sapphire. How about lunch on weekends?" he offered, trying to sound casual.
Sapphire raised a brow. "Lunch on weekends? That's rather... formal for someone your age."
Fletcher smirked faintly. "Routine keeps the mind sharp. You'll learn."
As he stepped toward the door, he threw a glance over his shoulder. "Oh—and don't touch the painting in the north hall. It bites."
Before she could ask what on earth that meant, he disappeared through the doorway, Eugene trailing silently behind him , the door shutting gently in their wake.
Sapphire, driven by a mix of curiosity and concern, hastily rose to her feet and followed after Fletcher. Her bare soles barely made a sound on the cool stone floor as she trailed behind them, her tunic swaying gently with each step.
She reached the grand entrance just in time to see Fletcher approaching a carriage parked at the edge of the manor grounds. The sky remained overcast, casting a grey hue over everything.
A footman dressed in crisp livery opened the carriage door with practiced ease. And then she saw him.
A man stepped out. His back was to her, but even from a distance, Sapphire could tell he carried himself with an air of authority. His white hair was neatly packed back , glinting faintly under the muted light, and he wore a long, dark coat with silver embroidery.
He didn't speak. He simply nodded at Fletcher, who obediently climbed into the carriage.
The man lingered for a second longer, then, as if sensing Sapphire's presence, turned ever so slightly—not enough for her to see his face, but enough to feel his awareness of her. Then, without a word, he entered the carriage after the boy.
The footman shut the door, tapped the side twice, and with that, the carriage began to move. the mist swallowing it whole until there was no sign it had ever been there at all.
Sapphire stood there, heart beating a little faster than usual, a strange chill running down her spine. Whoever that man was, he wasn't ordinary..