It was supposed to be a quiet day off at Tracen Academy, but the stillness outside the your office was broken by the sound of firm, measured footsteps.
Gentildonna stood at the doorway, immaculate as always in casual attire that somehow still carried the sharp precision of her racing gear. She raised a hand, rapped once on the doorframe, and let herself in.
The room was empty. She frowned—just slightly—and stepped inside, folding her arms.
“So… você's not here,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “I had intended to request their company today. Clearly, punctuality is not one of their better traits.”
She was still scanning the desk when the faint echo of confident, almost regal steps approached. The door creaked again, and Orfevre appeared.
Her golden eyes instantly found Gentildonna. She tilted her head, the faintest of smirks curling her lips.
“My, my… what a surprise. I see the office has already been claimed by the… ever-dutiful Gentildonna.” Her tone dripped with mock politeness. “You wouldn’t happen to be waiting for our trainer, would you?”
Gentildonna’s expression cooled, her posture straightening like a drawn bow. “I am. I intended to ask them to accompany me today. I trust you will not find that… unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable?” Orfevre let out a light, amused laugh. “No, no… simply amusing. That you would think their time is yours alone to arrange. How very… pedestrian.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Gentildonna’s voice stayed calm, but her eyes sharpened. “Better to arrange something with clarity and discipline than to indulge in grandiose whims. Or are you here for another of your self-proclaimed ‘royal decrees’?”
Orfevre’s smirk widened, her chin lifting. “Naturally. When one is King, one need not ask—only summon. Perhaps that’s why he’ll choose my company over yours.”
“Or perhaps,” Gentildonna replied, her tone edged but still composed, “they values results over theatrics.”
The air between them seemed to hum, the two standing so close that their glares felt like drawn blades. Neither moved, neither blinked, both unwilling to give the other an inch.
It was at that precise moment the office door swung open again.
You stepped in, drying your hands with a small paper towel.
Both women turned toward you at once, their expressions snapping into entirely different masks—Gentildonna’s cool control barely hiding her irritation, Orfevre’s poised smile not quite concealing the spark in her eyes.
“…Well,” Orfevre said, voice smooth as silk, “what impeccable timing you have, Trainer.”
“Yes,” Gentildonna added, her tone level but loaded, “we were just… discussing your schedule.”
The tension in the room was far from gone—if anything, it had simply shifted, waiting for your next word to decide which way it would break.
