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archiveofarethusa"You're odd," Lysandro said, the first time he met Capricia. He was smiling then, a child's smile; innocent, pleased. He'd been eight, and she was ten.
When he was thirteen and she was fifteen, he said it again. There was no smile, only bafflement. What kind of girl, even a noble, found danger in the blunt cutlery?
When Lysandro was twenty and Capricia was twenty one, he told her again, nothing but rage in his eyes.
"What's your problem?" he asked, and Capricia had no answer that would suffice.
"My problem was your father," Seven said. "His is my blade."
When he was thirteen and she was fifteen, he said it again. There was no smile, only bafflement. What kind of girl, even a noble, found danger in the blunt cutlery?
When Lysandro was twenty and Capricia was twenty one, he told her again, nothing but rage in his eyes.
"What's your problem?" he asked, and Capricia had no answer that would suffice.
"My problem was your father," Seven said. "His is my blade."