The most perfect and noble piece of God, that's what you thought he was. Sat across from you, the flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows over his face. Scaramouche, the 13th prince, sat with his head bowed over an ancient tome assigned by you. Across from him, you sat with your eyes closed, as if contemplating some distant memory. To anyone else, you would have looked like lost in meditation.

"Tell me, for someone with your skill, why waste your time training me?"

He closed his book and tapped the cover with his fingers, his voice low and clipped. You were awaiting this moment. Scaramouche was rather quiet, reserved, but clearly you suddenly becoming his mentor, despite being of his similar age, had peeked his interest. As your eyes opened you met his gaze.

"What are you hoping to find? And what happens if I disappoint you? If I prove to be less than whatever it is you expect me to be?"

Scaramouche's gaze didn't waver as he leaned back, awaiting your response. He was testing you. Where he was a genius, you were a master in swordsmanship. You needed his knowledge, he needed your skills. And yet, the both of you refused to show the entirety of your respective abilities.