Evelia followed quietly behind Arman, indistinguishable from an ordinary maid. Eyes fixed straight ahead, she dutifully remained a step behind her master.
In truth, she used the chance to study Arman’s back as he walked ahead. Gazing at his tall silhouette, Evelia felt a fleeting pang of smallness. Was it her own stature that seemed so slight beside this towering knight? Or was it that—unlike him, standing guiltlessly in the sunlight—she, who had abandoned everything and been ordered to obtain intelligence at any cost, could never stand tall again? Perhaps she was destined to live forever in another’s shadow.
From the moment he entered the manor to introduce himself until stepping out with Evelia, Arman never once set down his sword. Even after removing his coat, leaving only a shirt, the plain black longsword remained firmly at his waist.
If he wanted to live, vigilance was non-negotiable.
Arman knew the Second Prince had long wanted him dead. Using the move as cover, that man might have planted who knows what. Forget spies—he wished he could tear the house down brick by brick. This trip wasn’t just for wine; he’d buy the meals too. No one knew the dinner’s supplier, or what might be hidden inside.
He wanted to live. Yet the one who wanted him dead walked right behind him.
Silent, Evelia’s golden eyes locked onto the man who exposed his back without hesitation. Had her mission been assassination instead of intelligence gathering, she’d have struck already.
“Do you want anything?”
Just as Evelia pondered his weakness, Arman turned—and caught her scrutinizing gaze. Their eyes met. Instinctively, she tensed.
“No.” Less reaction meant less suspicion. She kept her tone flat, unchanged.
“You don’t like shopping?”
“We’re here to buy supplies, not stroll.”
“Buying is buying.” Arman chuckled, slowing to fall into step beside her. “Noble ladies adore sweets. I know a famous shop—why not check it out? Since you came with me, I owe you thanks. Get whatever you like.”
“I don’t care for sweets.”
As a trained assassin, Evelia’s diet was strict. She’d never tasted sweets as a child; now, she felt no interest. She avoided excess meat too—both to keep her body agile and scent-free for stealth missions.
“What about accessories? Gems?”
“I have no use for such things.”
“How unusual. Someone who dislikes treasures?”
“Surely you don’t favor them either, sir.”
Evelia glanced at Arman—utterly unadorned. Anyone else in his position, with his wealth, would wear ornaments to signal status. Even the humblest would. But Arman? He wouldn’t even decorate his sword.
“I’m different. I’m a man. No need for flashy trinkets. Too many jewels just look gaudy.”
“I feel the same way.”
…As if I weren’t a man myself.
“Ha! For someone so young, you act so detached. You look twenty, maybe younger—this is your prime! You should enjoy life while you can.”
“No need to waste time.”
Arman blinked, surprised. Her expressionless face kept rejecting his offers. He’d hoped to learn the preferences of this personal maid who might “cooperate long-term,” but her coldness shut down his plans entirely. In the palace, noble ladies flocked to him—adorning themselves, craving sweets, competing fiercely. He’d thought Evelia might skip the rivalry, but surely she’d like *something*. Yet her indifference ran deep: cool toward others, indifferent even to herself.
“Haa… Don’t you have *any* hobbies?”
“None.” Same detached tone.
“Then—rephrased. Is there something you *want* to do? Everyone needs something to look forward to.”
—Seduce you… then use you to bring down the Crown Prince?
That *was* her true desire. But never speakable.
“For now… the thing I want most is for you to remember my name.”
A calculated shift. To be noticed, she had to be remembered first.
…
Arman blinked, studying her serious eyes beneath that blank face—then laughed, just like before.
“Eve!”
“It’s Evelia, sir.”
“I know, I know—Evelia Crozier, right?”
“…Ah.”
She’d braced for another name battle. Instead, he recalled it perfectly.
—Good heavens. Did fresh air grow him a brain?!
The usually emotionless Evelia had felt multiple sharp emotional shifts in half a day—and, strangely, a surge of accomplishment.
“Let me call you Eve. We ran away together—we’re ‘accomplices’ now, on the same side. So we need a special name. Only I’ll say ‘Eve.’ When you hear it, you’ll know it’s me. Doesn’t that feel like comrade camaraderie? From now on, those two syllables belong only to us. Feels good, right?”
Arman smiled, extending his hand as if sealing a pact.
Evelia knew: if she refused, he wouldn’t push. This nickname—almost tender—was offered freely.
No one had ever done this. Called her by a name meant only for two. As a comrade.
A faint flutter stirred in her chest. For the first time in years, emotions tangled inside her.
How strange…
No—wait.
Flattering him *was* the mission.
She lowered her gaze to his scarred, callused hand.
*Everything… is for the Second Prince’s mission.*
*For this, I will stop at nothing.*
Gently, she clasped his hand.
“Then from now on—please take care of me, Eve!”
“Mm. Likewise, Mr. Arman.”
Hands joined. One face unreadable. One radiant with smiles.
Yet both hearts echoed the same silent vow:
—Start with gaining his favor.
