“I’ll remember.”
As she heads for the door, I catch myself watching the confident set of her shoulders, the way she seems more sure of herself than when I arrived. Making her feel valued, helping her remember her own worth—it matters more than reading words. More than performance.
The Jester cannot do this.
Only I can.
Chapter Eight
Flavius
The marker squeaks against the board as I draw the letter again. My hand knows the motion now, even when my mind hesitates. Straight line. Curve. Stop.
I am halfway through the next one when I sense her behind me.
Sophia doesn’t speak right away. She never does anymore. She’s learned—or maybe I have—that silence matters. That the pause is where the work happens.
I finish the letter and step back, studying it. Not perfect. But legible.
I still remember the first word she taught me. The way it landed—heavy and impossible and then suddenly mine.
Days have passed since then, but the feeling hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharper now. The strange awareness that something permanent has shifted.
I glance at her reflection in the glass of the board. The way her face lights when she watches me get it right. Like my small victory is hers too.
No one has ever looked at me like that. Like what I accomplish matters to them personally.
When I turn, I finally notice the table.
Papers spread in neat rows. Notes. Questions. Careful stacks she’s arranged and rearranged already.
Today is different.
This means today is a talking day before letters—a day for questions she’s been carrying with her.
But my attention slips anyway. To the way the morning light catches copper in her dark hair. To the way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking.
When did I start noticing these things?
“I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding crowd psychology,” she begins, settling into her chair. Soft green shirt today—soft-looking, thin. When she leans forward, I catch the faint scent of spring petals. “About reading their moods like weather changing.”
I force my attention to her words, pulling it away from her mouth, from her hands—graceful, expressive, always moving—gestures that make me want to hold them still, calm her.
“You want to know how mood of crowd change fight?”
“Exactly. Can you walk me through a specific example?”
A memory rises fast—sharp as a blade—but something about her genuine curiosity makes it easier to speak. I decide not to use the translator. This feels like something I should say myself, even if the words come out rough.
“I remember one fight… early in my time in arena. Crowd came angry that day.”
As I talk, she leans closer without realizing it. When I describe the frightened young fighter, her hand drifts toward mine on the table. She doesn’t touch me, but the nearness sends a spark up my arm.
“And how did that change your strategy?”
“Made everything more dangerous,” I say. “Crowd didn’t want pretty fighting. They wanted fear. Wanted someone broken.”
The memories taste bitter, but she’s listening as if every word matters. “My opponent that day, he was new fighter. First fight. Very scared. Crowd could sense his fear like dogs smell meat.”
