Alex let the silence stretch for a moment, his eyes on her flushed cheeks, the closeness of their bodies.
He smirked slightly.
"So... what do you see in me?" he asked, half-teasing. "I mean, sure, I'm handsome—but I know a queen doesn't just fall for looks, right?"
Historia's eyes narrowed.
Before he could react, her leg shot out, kicking his shin.
"Ow—!"
Then her fist thumped lightly against his chest. "You're not handsome," she muttered, glaring sideways, avoiding his gaze.
Alex chuckled, wincing slightly. "Liar."
She looked flustered but didn't argue. Instead, she exhaled and folded her arms, glancing toward the candlelit wall. The firelight flickered across her face—half-shadowed, half-vulnerable.
After a pause, her voice came quiet, hesitant.
"I don't know what it is exactly," she said. "But when I'm near you… I feel calm. Like I can stop thinking for once. Like…"She hesitated, then glanced at him."…like I'm safe."
Her words landed with quiet weight.
Alex's smile faded into something more real, more present. He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.
"Then I'll make sure you always feel that way," he said. "Safe. No matter what's coming."
Historia didn't speak. But she leaned her head back onto his shoulder, breathing out slowly.
Alex let his eyes wander to her hair, loose and soft around her shoulders, the candlelight catching in golden strands.
"You look beautiful like this," he said quietly. "Hair down suits you better than when it's tied back."
Historia snorted, glancing up with a skeptical brow. "Oh? So now you're a fashion critic?"
He shrugged with a grin. "Just saying what I see."
She gave a small scoff and looked away, but a faint pink touched her ears. "Idiot," she mumbled under her breath, though her tone had softened.
Morning came.
Sunlight streamed through narrow windows, pale and clean. The castle had the scent of stone, cold metal, and something fresh from the outer fields.
Alex pulled on his coat, fastening the buckles lazily as he stepped into the corridor. The faint clang of boots echoed in the halls—daily life resumed.
He headed toward the courtyard, where reports and duties waited. Another long day. But he paused before the stairwell.
At the far end of the corridor stood Mikasa, dressed and ready, her eyes already fixed forward as if waiting for something.
He approached.
"Mikasa," he said, stopping a few feet away.
She turned slightly, silent.
"…Thank you. For yesterday," Alex said. His voice was low but sincere. "You saved my life."
Mikasa didn't react much. Her expression stayed even, unreadable.
Then she gave a small nod. "You weren't paying attention."
Alex blinked. "I—"
She looked away toward the window. "Next time, don't make me move."
Then, without waiting for a response, she walked off—quiet and composed, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Alex watched her go, frowning slightly. Still no answers. Still that same unreadable stare from the night before.
He shook his head and exhaled, turning back toward the stairs.
The day had begun. But something told him the chandelier wasn't the only thing hanging over his head.
Alex adjusted the worn strap of his satchel as he stepped into the dim, dust-lined storeroom tucked beside the outer wall.
Crates marked with smudged supply codes lined the walls, some half-open, others sealed with wax and twine. The air smelled of oats, iron, and old paper—inventory for the refugee kitchens and garrison posts.
He crouched beside a half-split crate, tugging the lid fully open to check the rations inside. Bread loaves, mostly intact. He mentally ticked off a column.
A normal task.
A quiet moment.
Then the door creaked open behind him.
Footsteps. Too light for a soldier. Too fast.
Alex stood and turned—just in time to see the stranger at the threshold.
Not a soldier. Not anyone he recognized.
Just a man in a frayed coat, eyes wide and glassy with panic—or zeal. One hand shook as it raised a battered pistol.
Alex barely had time to register it before—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three shots rang out in the small room. Each one cracked the air like thunder in a tin box.
Alex staggered back, breath caught in his chest. He felt nothing—no impact, no pain. Just the echo ringing in his ears.
The shooter froze.
Alex looked down at himself. His coat was torn—clean holes where the bullets should've punched through—
—but there was no blood.
Not even a bruise.
The bullets had passed through fabric, but not flesh. One had ricocheted off a crate behind him, embedding in the wall. Another had flattened against the iron hinge by the door. The third had shattered—mid-air—on nothing at all.
The shooter blinked in disbelief. Trembled. Then raised the gun again—
Click.
Empty.
Before he could fumble for anything else, a squad of guards burst into the hallway behind him. The man tried to run—but he barely got three steps before a boot to the back sent him sprawling.
Alex didn't move.
He was still staring at the bullet holes in his coat, heart pounding.
One of the guards turned to him, wide-eyed. "Are you hit?"
Alex shook his head, slowly. "I… don't think so."
"You should be," the man said, glancing at the wall, the crushed slug on the floor. "That was a close-range shot. All of them. Straight on."
Alex said nothing.
He rubbed his chest where the bullets had missed by inches, then glanced at the shooter—now restrained.
The guards were yelling. Someone went to fetch a captain. But Alex's mind drifted elsewhere.
His mind reeled.
"..."
He hadn't felt a force. No heat, no flash, no barrier he could see. Just a sensation—a kind of pull.
Alex backed up until his heel struck the wall. The rough stone steadied him.
A guard leaned in. "Sir? We'll need to take your statement. And someone will want to check you for injuries, just in case."
Alex nodded absently. "Right. Yeah. Sure."
His eyes drifted toward the captured man. The would-be assassin was on his knees, arms behind his back, sweat clinging to his brow. He wasn't saying anything. Just... smiling now.
Wide. Crooked.