"Creon
One thing: first listen to what I have to say.
Oedipus
One thing: do not pretend you're not a villain."
—From Oedipus the King,
By Sophocles

ALASTAIR HAD NO idea what possessed him to follow the queen from the dining room moments after she had left it and told himself that it was merely for two reasons: first of all so that he could find an opportunity to accomplish his plan. Second of all, he could excuse his actions by saying that all the other guards were too intoxicated with wine and company and good food to properly do their duties—which was true. He had become too good at lying these past fifteen years to not be believed. The best lies, after all, started with the truth.

His footsteps were silent against the shining, cobbled floor as he strode quickly through the familiar halls, a wave of nostalgia crashing into him. The same bare walls he had seen so many times before; the same frigid air he had breathed in for so much of his childhood, cold even in the summer—even though it was the southernmost territory in Mordania. Only, he was alone now: no sister at his side, and his betrothed once more his bitter enemy.

Alastair caught sight of her in that wine-red dress, leaning against one of the white-stone balconies reserved for trysting in this long-unused ballroom, every inch of her body somehow covered and exposed in that gown. It clung to every curve, yet revealed not one inch of skin. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, though he couldn't tell why as he strode across the floor, steps now heavy and thudding to warn her of his presence.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing low when she turned to look at him. The movement hurt, like every inch of his spine, was resisting the genuflecting posture. "I—I am sorry to disturb you, but the Lord Regent asks that you return."

There—a lie, but no doubt truthful. He had seen the way his father looked at her: like he had looked at both of his children, as pawns to be traded for his own gain, chattel to be bought and sold. Not a queen—but a puppet. Lord Ilyas Durand would no doubt take pleasure in having his prize possession returned to him.

She blinked slowly, once, twice, before he saw that her kohl-lined eyes left tiny, black marks on her fair skin. Wet with tears, then, before she turned to face him. "Very well. I suppose he sent you to escort me back? As if I would run--as if he has left any place in this world for me to run to! No, I am a caged creature, not a queen."

He wondered, idly, if she was drunk. He wanted her to be drunk—wanted this outpour of emotions to be false and triggered by alcohol, so that he could still keep the hatred that had coursed like blood through his veins all these years. So that he could see her as an enemy still, and not as a pained, beautiful woman. "If you do not wish to return, Your Majesty, I will tell him you have taken ill and retired to your room."

She laughed and the sound was as rich and dark as the velvet of her dress, as the wine that stained her mouth red. "Lie to your liege lord? No, Captain, I should think not. And... if you are to be his tool, then I feel we will be spending a lot of time together. Call me by my name, Captain."

"I hope you know, then, that I mean no disrespect... Jovana."

As soon as the three syllables left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake.

"Say it again," she murmured. "And--come. Escort me back."

He held out his arm for her to take. "Jovana."

"You are--where are you from, Captain?" Her green eyes flashed with some unspoken emotion as she turned them on him.

"I am from the south, Jovana. I grew up near Hartfall, actually." That was the truth, though with her eyes probing him, he felt as if she might ferret out some lie.

"Interesting." She said nothing more, as they walked across the dusty ballroom arm-in-arm. "Why, then, do you pronounce my name as if you grew up in the capital?"

Jovana was one of the names that betrayed one's accent: yo-vin-ah was the way he had pronounced it. The noble way, what he had called her for as long as they had been acquainted. But the more common way was jo-VAN-ah, spoken in the commoners' tongue, which he should have used. Which he would have, if he hadn't been so very caught off guard. Alastair had thought that by coming here, by following her, by being the one who had the element of surprise—that she would be off her guard. More vulnerable. And she was—but it had been a trap all along. He hadn't really followed her of his own free will; something had tugged at him when she had left the room, had hung onto him like a petulant toddler and refused to let go.

"My father was a minor noble," he lied, producing the falsehood he had invented and perfected over the years. "He has an affair with my mother, a laundress. We lived and worked in his household and I would speak with him from time to time. That is how he pronounced your name."

"Fascinating." One word again. The silence weighed on him like a leaden cloak, trapping him in place. As a child he had thought her bratty, too talkative for her own good. Now he would have given anything for her to speak. "You do bear a remarkable resemblance to Lord Durand. Though his eyes are lighter."

He refused to freeze, refused to let the truth show. If he did, all would be lost. By coming here, being close to her, he had already risked too much. "The Lord Regent? I fear I am not worthy of such an association."

"I see." She halted at the door, at the entrance to the ballroom, the look in her eyes staying the same. Flat, hiding all emotion. "Dance with me, Lambert."

Of all the lines she could have spouted, that was not one he had expected from her. "I—pardon, Your Majesty?"

She laughed again. "So formal again. A dance is much like a battle, Lambert. There are steps to be followed and moves to be made, and you always come out of it knowing your enemy better."

Enemy? Did she see the truth in his eyes? "Do you mean partner, Jovana?"

"Dance with me, and do not make me ask again. It has been far too long since his room has been used for its intended purpose."

He did as she asked, then paused because it was what Carlyle Lambert would have done, not because Alastair Durand would have. Of course, it had been years since he had danced with anybody. He doubted he remembered the waltzes and marches of his childhood. "I do not know your—your noble dances, Jovana."

"I'll teach you," she murmured, adjusting his hands so that one rested on her waist, the other in hers. She held onto his shoulder and clutched his hand tightly; he could feel the calluses on her fingers from training, and wondered how it was that this night had veered so far from the direction he had wanted it to go into. "Follow my lead."

But somewhere along the way, in the dusty, silent room, the steps fell into place as easily as any sequence of sparring moves. And then he was the one leading her, was the one who controlled both their movements until the imaginary song came to an end. His hands were reluctant to detach from her form, and he told himself it was from the cold as he stuffed them into his pockets.

"Now—we have been gone too long, I'm afraid, not to arouse suspicion and perhaps even judgment." Shock flashed in her wary eyes, staring at something behind them. He pivoted, hand going to his side where he kept his sword—but he saw no one and nothing.

"Who is there? Reveal yourself!" He called out anyways—to do otherwise would have made him seem as if he were not doing his due diligence in protecting her. "I don't think anyone is there, Jovana."

Jovana walked to his side. "I'm sure it is nothing. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me, at this time of night, and with all that I drank..."

There—that was yet another change in her. The Jovana he had known as a child would have scoured every inch of the Durand estate in search of a real or false attacker, would not have rested until she discovered the truth. She was more easily swayed, more easily resigning herself and not arguing. Not fighting him to within an inch of her last breath.

He told himself it would be all the more satisfying to break her if she was not already broken and held that thought as he spoke. "If you believe something is out there, Majesty, then by all means we ought to search the perimeters. I could gather a team of men..."

"No," she said coldly. "My word is final."

As they exited, he took one final look at the ballroom, remembering the last time he had been in there...

"What happened to her? Jovana!" Mireille was kneeling on the ground, her hands on the young queen's shoulders. She turned, an accusing look in her eyes, to stare at him. "What did you do?"

"Mireille, ma petite sœur, I didn't do anything..." Alastair hadn't. Or at least, he hadn't wanted to, hadn't set out with the purpose of harming Jovana. It would have been a simple little brawl, the kind that they went through in training all the time. "Please, believe me."

"She's not waking up! Jovana, Jovana, wake up!" Mireille's movements were more frantic now, shaking her.

"Stop! Stop, you're going to hurt her..." Alastair felt his heart clench at the thought, and brushed it away when Jovana's green eyes fluttered open—full of rage and malice.

"You!" And she launched herself on him in a vicious attack, and he reciprocated as always.

Life resumed as usual—and he never thought of that incident again.