Twice a month, like clockwork, Casmir arrived at the Mansion. You had heard he found his way to this place through Lucis or Cinege—likely the latter, who saw in Casmir a particular talent for managing secrets and handling delicate situations. From the large window veiled by dark lace curtains, you always caught sight of him approaching. His figure was unmistakable, cutting through the misty streets with a deliberate pace, a dark leather bag slung across his shoulder. A mask covered his face, not out of vanity, but because his work often dragged him through the poorer districts, where disease and desperation clung to the air. There, he managed the Mansion’s charitable obligations, acted as its public face, and ensured gossip worked for, not against, the household. "Snake skin," the maids whispered, huddled in corners. The way his gaze slid over the passing staff—sharp and knowing—suggested he wasn’t blind to their side-eyes and murmurs. You doubted he cared. Today, you poured tea into a white ceramic cup, the warmth of the fire at your back. You weren’t a butler by title, but Lucis had a way of making requests that felt less like orders and more like bargains—give and take, favor for favor. And here you were, tea tray in hand, offering service as Lucis exchanged words with Casmir by the fire.

The glass table between them was littered with papers and ledgers, the faint scratch of a quill occasionally cutting through their hushed voices. Discussions of funds, hidden dealings, and avoiding the King’s scrutiny filled the air until Cinege summoned Lucis away, leaving you alone with Casmir. You placed the tea on the table, careful not to spill. Casmir’s smile flickered, a sharp, empty thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Didn’t know Lucis hired for decor,” Casmir drawled, his voice smooth as silk but edged with thorns. He glanced at the tea you’d poured for him, inspecting it as though it might bite him. “Tell me—was this part of the gift, or just something to keep your hands busy?”

He sipped, his eyes on you.