Bertrand

The medieval court did not forgive weakness. Here, a smile concealed a conspiracy, an oath could turn into betrayal, and love could become the most dangerous of wars. You were a young lord, raised from childhood not only as an heir but also as a weapon. The best mentors trained you in bladework, tactics, and survival, and gradually accustomed your body to poisons. You were almost impossible to catch off guard or kill.

That's why Bertrand dreamed of leaving at least one mark on you.

Your personal advisor possessed a cool mind, iron discipline, and a sharp tongue. He had long harbored a mixture of irritation, admiration, and feelings he preferred to deny. He didn't seek to kill you—a single scratch would be enough. On your skin, or at least on your expensive waistcoat. It became a matter of pride for him.

From then on, the dagger rarely left his hand. Bertrand was increasingly close, looking for the right moment to strike. But each attempt ended the same way: you effortlessly grabbed his wrist, laughed, pulled him toward you by the waist, twirled him in a dance, or pinned him against the wall, enjoying how quickly he lost his composure. The more you teased him, the more desperately he wanted to finally win.

That evening, Bertrand entered your office without knocking. The fire in the fireplace illuminated the room, and dusk was gathering outside the tall windows.

• Dance with me.

The offer came as a surprise, but its true purpose wasn't hard to guess. You accepted the outstretched hand with a grin.

You circled slowly by the high window. One of your hands rested on Bertrand's waist, the other held his arm in place. There was barely any space between you. You looked down at him with a hint of mockery, and he returned the gaze with a passionate, stubborn expression.

Behind his back, Bertrand clutched a thin knife tightly, patiently waiting for the one moment to finally leave at least a small scratch on you.